"Rockwell Falls at High Water"

How quickly things change! This is how Rockwell looked on April 29th from the overlook behind the library. The big water transformed the falls into a giant wave. Now it has all run to the Atlantic Ocean and the falls are back to normal again. Our sons, who were here to guide rafts on the Moose and the Upper Hudson during the spring flush have left for the rivers in West Virginia and Montana. During the past couple weeks the two guys, one girlfriend, two dogs (one a Newfie) and even our old, worn out favorite pick up truck have left. Now it’s back to just Gino and I until next spring when the snow melts and the rains come. Gone are the numerous wet rafting clothes hanging on the old chin-up bar in my studio door, river booties and gloves on the heaters, late night parties with rowdy raft guides, and a heavy raft and a shredder atop the chest freezer. Now there are leftovers to eat a couple of times a week. Why is it we still miss them?

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"Split Rail Patterns"

I think I’ve figured out what to do for the month of May. I’ll spend at least an hour on the little canvasses every day and they’ll get finished whenever they get finished. That way I can still work on the other stuff and not be pressured to get the little guys done on time. Hopefully there will be a one or two a week. Today’s isn't signed, but it’s almost ready.
Sunday seemed on the cool side and it had been raining, but in the late afternoon the sun came out. The two visiting canines, Marlee and Felix, were pretty discouraged by this time on the lack of their daily walk. Marlee is a hundred and thirty-pound ursine Newfoundland with long black hair and a wish to love and drool on anyone he meets. Felix, whose father was “Brown Dog”, is a mix of breeds from West Virginia. He is bright and friendly and can run all day long seemingly without tiring. Gino had stuff to do at the house and the boys were off on the river so I decided to take the four-legged creatures on a walk by myself. I thought I’d do that another day when our oldest son saw me leash up the two unruly dogs and said, “I’ll go with you.” But I’ve been watching the “Dog Whisperer” and figured I could keep them in line on the road to the woods. It did work out well, both Felix and Marlee let me think that I was pack leader and in complete control. Luckily no other people or dogs were out as the guys are easily distracted. We made it to the forest where they no longer needed their leashes and they both took off with the excitement of running free.
Whenever I step into the forest it seems like a safe sanctuary from the rest of the world. We walk on the horse and snowmobile trails, so there are many choices of paths to take. The ice and snow has finally retreated from the trails but the wildflowers are waiting for warmer days. Sunday was warm but I could still feel the coolness of the newly thawed earth under my feet. Every once in a while a step on solid looking ground would sink six inches into mud, not good for formerly white sneakers. I went to find the early hepatica protected by the tree to find no sign of them. But about a foot away there were two fragile looking blossoms a day from opening. It’s always exciting to see the woodland flowers after a long cold winter. On the way back the March-like wind came up and the sky darkened and threatened rain. Just before coming out of the woods I heard a “peeper” singing solo. Every year I love to hear those little amphibians peeping their little hearts out to announce that spring has arrived. A few years back my brother visited Uncle Bill who in his nineties was in a nursing home. Bill was a strong, extremely interesting Adirondack man who was lovingly known as “Uncle Bill” to many people, related or not. The years had taken their toll and in the nursing home he spent a lot of time in silence. But that day he looked out of the window and asked, “Are the peepers singing? I miss hearing them.” Makes me want to listen really hard whenever I hear their cheerful spring chorus.
When we left the woods there were a pair of Canada Geese in the pasture. One of them was honking up a storm at the sight of us. I didn’t think we seemed all that alarming. Maybe it was the Newfie. Gino came out to meet us and today’s painting is the scene we both saw. Beech Mountain was in the sun with a backdrop of dark clouded skies. Time always gets away from us but we shouldn’t let any day pass without a walk in the forest.

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A Wonderful Surprise"

Gino and I have been hiking since before we were married, and have explored most of the trails near our house. Our sons started out in baby backpacks and have enjoyed being in the mountains ever since. They also enjoy "bouldering", finding their way up rocks using no equipment, gripping with fingers and feet on the tiny cracks and outcroppings of boulders. A fall is "broken" by a big, somewhat cushioned mattress called a "crash pad" -kind of self explanatory.
Many days when traveling a road near our house we have seen one or two autos parked on the shoulder. With woods on either side, we always wondered what the mysterious attraction was. One day I saw two slender college aged men coming out of the woods carrying a familiar looking crash pad. Ah hah! There must be ledges for climbing. I mentioned what I saw to our sons, which piqued their interest. One evening I was getting dinner ready, hurried and late as usual when the guys decided to check out the area. It was a nice evening and they weren't going to be gone long, so I invited myself to go with them. Gino had been to dialysis that day so was not feeling up to it. I threw partly prepared meal into the frig and ran out with the kids with the familiar, "We'll be right back".
We entered the woods and spread out, looking for the ledges. The guys started climbing but were having no luck when I noticed a huge erratic boulder just sitting in the woods, not far from the road. I walked around it to find telltale marks from chalk covered fingers clinging tenaciously to the side of the rock. When I yelled to the guys that I found it, they answered from a distance up the small mountain. Our youngest had veered from his original quest and was getting excited about a possible view. He yelled for me to follow them. It was a slippery steep climb and I started thinking about Gino and dinner and said I'd come back another time. By then our son had made it to a lookout and said we had to go up there then, "It's beautiful tonight and you don't want to miss it!" We scrambled toward his voice and were greeted with a wonderful panorama of mountains in deep shadows and a marshy stream. It was hard to believe this had been here all the time and we didn't know about it. We looked around and realized that we weren't the first ones to stand on that spot, there seemed to be a trail from the other direction. We followed it to some large unfriendly "keep out" signs but found a marked horse trail that turned to the left. We followed it to find a pleasant path through hardwoods that took us back to a road a distance from our car. I showed the guys the boulder, and except for a late dinner and worried dad we were excited about the new discovery.
Gino climbed to the lookout a couple days later, and today's painting is from a hike with some friends on a cool fall day. The overlook is lower than the top of the mountain and is protected from the wind. We were able to spend a long afternoon talking, enjoying the view and basking in the October sun, far from the worries of the world but at the same time close to home.

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Winslow’s Barn"

This barn sits a distance off the highway just south of Corinth, so it is difficult to see the details from the road. It belonged to the Winslows who always had a large lush summertime garden with vegetables in neat rows and no weeds in sight. After passing the farm more times than we could keep track of, Gino and I pulled in to ask permission to take some photos from the field. Even though Mr. Winslow is a distant relative, I didn’t know him, and wasn’t sure he would want strangers around his barn. When I knocked at the door, a friendly elderly man greeted me. I asked him if I could take a photo and he immediately said yes, and graciously added that we should feel free to walk around to get pictures of any angle. I still felt a little uneasy about poking around but didn’t want to miss the opportunity. We circled the structure, shooting from different points, admiring the beautiful lines of the different sections. But most striking was the wooden silo.
Mr. Winslow has passed away and the farm is in the hands of a new family who seems to appreciate the time and people who came before them. They are running a bed and breakfast and when they expanded the house they designed it in the same style as the original. I saw them at an art show when I had a painting of their barn. They told me they had purchased the material to shore up the leaning silo and were ready to restore it when the years caught up and it fell to the ground. It was terribly sad to loose such a beautiful reminder of days gone by. But the house still has the same spirit as before, there is a lush green garden nearby, and this classic barn is standing majestically, guarding the field, a distance from the road.

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"Potash and Pussy Willows"

This was Potash Mountain, again, last week. There was another snowstorm coming in and we could see low hanging clouds on the mountain as we drove up 9N. We decided it would be worth a peek from Gailey Hill. This spot is right across the road from where Richie Hall, a friend of my dad’s used to live. The old farmhouse and barns I remember from my childhood are still there. The other day we were greeted with this view and the added bonus of some pussy willows near the road.
This is the third "painting a day" of Potash from different angles. I should explain the strange name. Potash, made from ashes of trees, was used in local soap making. From some vantage points the mountain looks like an upside down kettle for potash. So it was first called Potash Kettle Mountain, then was shortened. Before that the Native Americans called it, "Se-non-go-wah," meaning, "The Great Upturned Pot." I was fascinated by it during our trips to my grandmother’s when I was young and guess I still am. Every evening it leads us from the gallery toward home.

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At Lake Placid Station"

The Adirondacks are dotted with rural railroad stations, quaint buildings quietly serving their purpose and extremely pleasing to view. Each town's is unique, with a sign proudly stating the location. When trains were replaced by automobiles, these beautiful structures fell into neglect. Luckily many have been rediscovered and new tourists trains are again stopping at their platforms. We visited this Lake Placid station years ago and noticed the wonderful light poles. One can only imagine steaming into the village on a cool evening and being welcomed by the graceful lights. We went back a couple of years ago to see a train stopped there, the station restored and turned into a delightful museum. But I forgot to look for the lights, I'm not sure if they are still there.
We have some cross country skiing friends who moved from Glens Falls to Lake Placid, and a while back we were invited to a little dinner party of three couples. We threw our skis in the car just in case. There wasn't a great deal of time for skiing so the three guys and I decided to take a little stretch around a field where a new, monstrous house was being constructed. The skiing didn't take a long time and the roofless house seemed to grab our attention. Who isn't fascinated by lumber slowing turning into a building? Since our host knew the people he asked if we would like to go take a look. We removed our skis which leaves Nordic ski boots on our feet. These are hard plastic on the bottom with extensions protruding at the toe, quite unfit for walking on hard surfaces. We climbed the steps and started exploring the framed-out rooms making loud stomping sounds with our rigid heals on the flooring, enhanced by the empty basement below. I tried to walk softly but the sound reverberated through the frigid north country air. My husband, Gino, in the meantime left the group and decided to see what the cavernous basement looked like. His foot just hit the top step, when he noticed too late that the entire flight was covered with a thin layer of ice. The next thing we all heard was deafening sound of the cross country skier tumbling down into the darken hole, groaning in pain as he went. Then there was only silence. We all hesitated, listening for signs of life and then took off running to the other wing, drowning out Gino's pleas not to come, he was alright. We sounded like a frightening herd of Clydesdales galloping across the plywood. He knew our host, a giant of a man, and a doctor, would be the first to arrive, hit the top step and crush into a little puddle of flesh, fleece and nylon. Not inventorying for broken bones Gino managed to get to his feet and stop the rescuers from sharing his fate. Luckily he was just bruised and crawled back up the steps to safety. We managed to get back to the warm house with a roof and haven't explored any construction sites since, at least not basements.

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"The Beautiful Boreas"

Route 28 looks like a big reversed question mark on the map and makes a long arc though the Adirondacks. It is a beautiful road to travel. I even saw a book one time just on New York 28. But in North Creek a section, 28N, breaks off to take another less traveled path. It winds through miles of sparsely populated forests past ever changing mountain scenery. It is the road traveled in the frantic midnight ride of Teddy Roosevelt just before he was sworn in as President when McKinley was assassinated. Aiden Lair, a wonderfully constructed wooden building sits as a deteriorating old recluse, with a sign commemorating Roosevelt's visits there. There are tiny hamlets, places where the winding road seems like a tunnel going through the trees, expansive mountain views, and a wide open space with a pristine lake bordered by the steep cliffs of it's protecting mountain. But my favorite place is on a tiny almost unnoticeable bridge over the Boreas River. Whenever we travel this way I stop, and the ever changing scene never disappoints. Today's painting is during high water from melting snow and spring rain, the time our sons anticipate for rafting. They once explored the breath-taking scenery and white-water above the bridge but return, the few times in the spring when the water is high enough, for the stretch down river where the rapids run non-stop to the Hudson.
Our sons have mentioned that when they are on the Boreas River the whole area seems frigid, more like the far north. A while back I was doing a cross word puzzle and the clue was "god of the north wind". I had no idea of the answer. I looked it up, the ancient Greeks called him "Boreas".

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"Winter View from Beech"

This little mountain near our house has been a favorite hike the thirty years we’ve lived here. It looks over Lakes Forest and Allure and Potash Mountain. Hadley Mountain is the long flat ridge at the horizon on the left. I’ve been up Beech a couple times this winter, once on snowshoes. Since the trail is close to our house it’s great anytime we feel the need to hike to a summit. We’ve watched sunsets, picnicked, and marveled as a swarm of dragonflies swooped in and gobbled up all the mosquitoes that were chewing on us. Through the years we have made the hike up Beech Mountain as a part of birthday parties, to help use up some of the energy of fired-up children. That worked perfectly except for one year…

Our oldest was in third grade and we told him ahead of time he could have a birthday party that year. Before we picked up any invitations he had invited around eighteen of the wildest kids in his grade. We never did figure out if he did that for self-preservation or because he thought he needed a little more excitement in his life. Maybe making friends with the little felons-to-be would be better than having them as enemies. It seemed like a good idea to have the dreaded party on a Friday right after school, leaving our weekend free. That day we watched in horror as the mad pack of monsters rocketed off the bus and into our yard, punching and wrestling as they came. One mom, a teacher at the school, dropped off her more mellow child. She surveyed the group and skeptically asked, “Did you know you have the biggest trouble makers in the class here?” I mumbled something about how we were getting the picture. She quietly continued, “Did you know they will be at their hyped-up worst on Friday after school?” I just hung my head and hoped we would have the same number of live children at the end of the four hours. We tried to have one of our nature walks up the beautiful little mountain but the uncontrolled mob just ran ahead at break neck speed. When Gino and I came huffing and puffing to the summit they had been there a while, some hanging ape-like from the dwarfed oaks. We were highly encouraged that no one had been pushed off the cliff when one little blond-haired devil walked over to another resting boy, hauled off and punched him in the face, hard. They all were quiet for a moment as I chastised him and tried to figure out why he felt the urge to assault someone at that moment.

We had a fast trip back down the trail and were getting the food together when there was another commotion in the yard. For some unknown reason, a younger boy from a few houses down the road decided to ride his bike up to antagonize the unruly gang with insults, which united them all into a single force. They chased him away and to everyone’s disbelief the misguided youth came back with tomatoes as ammo. Needless to say, they were on him like a pack of hyenas before he could escape, or we could get out to the road for a rescue. When we pulled the predators off him he was sweaty, wide eyed and covered with tomato pulp. The best thing we could think of was to invite him to the party. The rest of the time seems like a blur and remarkably we were able to safely hand off each child to his parents as they arrived. It was many years before we offered to have another birthday celebration. It’s been over twenty years now, since the memorable party and our hikes up Beech are a lot more relaxing and pleasant these days. Sometimes I wonder about the party guests, where are they now?


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Farr’s Smokehouse"

As far as we know the house I grew up in, built by the Comstock family, was the third constructed in Corinth, New York. Our neighbor’s, the Farrs, was the first. We had a smoke house like the one in today’s painting, but I don’t have any photos of it. Meat was no longer smoked at home so the little buildings fell into disrepair. I can remember warnings to steer clear of ours, as it might collapse. One day, as we watched from a safe distance, my dad gave it a push from the side and the quaint little structure became a pile of bricks, soon forgotten. Luckily I took a photo of Farr’s smoke house sometime along the way. It’s probably gone now too, as it was deteriorating many years ago.
Mr. and Mrs. Farr, (were they Irving and Irene?), had gentle spirits and were good friends of the family, people we were happy to see anytime. I remember the color of her skin being close to the same as her white hair. She spoke softly, and gently reared her children, cooked and baked, and made quilts in the winter. He wore suspenders and blue shirts and pants, worked the farm, and always had a smile readily available. They were grandparents to my friend Debbie, and she called him "Grandpa Farr". Since he was special to me, but I didn’t feel that I could call him Grandpa, I started calling him "Uncle Farr". He didn’t seem to mind.
I still have fond memories of times spent there playing with Debbie and bracing for the over zealous greeting of her Newfoundland dog; of trying to ride the old draft horse, and being gently scraped off by a low hanging apple tree branch; and jumping off a high wooden beam into the hayloft at a sleepover birthday party in the spacious barn. But best of all was sledding.
The Farr’s land bordered ours on the other side of our woods, a nice walk through conifers and hardwoods. We spent many hours on the trails in the forest looking for wildflowers and berries or building "teepees" of sticks covered with layers of earthy smelling pine needles. In the winter the trail took us to Farr’s field, a wonderful steep hill for sledding. A few times through my childhood the rains fell on a deep layer of snow and froze, creating a magical world covered with ice. I’m sure it was a hardship for the "grown-ups" having to carry on with their lives but was wonderful for kids, getting time off from school and waiting to go sliding. We each had Flexible Flyers, sleek wooden sleds with metal runners that flew down Farr’s hill with exhilarating speed. Since it was almost impossible to get back up the ice-covered incline, some of the big guys helped us get some traction by making slight indentations, stomping their heels down on the crust. My siblings and neighbors, without adults, spent hours enjoying the rides on cold winter days. The bottom of the "perfect" hill was a little on the tricky side. We had to come to an abrupt stop just before slamming into a stone wall and pine trees. Luckily there was an extremely short incline just before the wall to help. When there was enough snow to cover the rocks, my younger brother was really impressive as he perfected going over the wall, grabbing his sled and standing up before smashing into the trees. Practicing that maneuver did prove a little painful. We also had to be very careful not to go off to the left into rocks and an open spring filled with water. With all these hazards there were no protests from the Farrs, no worry about liability. They just seemed happy knowing we were all having a great time. They are gone now, the features of their faces are blurred in my memory, but I will always remember this kind Adirondack couple and crisp cold winter days flying down the field with wings on my sled.

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"Across the Hudson"


This is from Hadley's beautiful walking trail along the Hudson . It is not very far from the gallery, so Gino and I can take turns watching the shop and and enjoying a walk on the little loop near the water and through the woods. The hamlet of Lake Luzerne is just across the river where there is a little glimpse of a historic house, Papa's ice cream parlor, and the classic country Methodist church. We are lucky to have this trail so close. I checked it out yesterday but would still need snowshoes to enjoy it. Soon we'll be able to go there and see woodland flowers decorating the path.

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"Winter Sun"

As I stepped out of my mom's house, this scene greeted me. I liked the way the filtered sun came softly through the branches of the maple tree. Even though we are officially in spring now, it was one degree below zero last night. That's unusually cold for March, but the Weather Channel says warmer weather is on it's way.

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"Potash Mt. from Grandma's"

My Grandmother lived on Hadley Hill where my family went to see her almost every Sunday after church. I have fond memories of those visits with all the Aunts, Uncles, and cousins. Grandma's gone now and the homestead is occupied by strangers, but Potash Mountain, one of my favorites, is unchanging. This view always brings back warm memories of those Sunday afternoons so long ago.

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