I have a miserable cold, worked on a painting that just didn't come out right and then had trouble with the next one started. Then yesterday we lost power, which just came back. It's going to be extremely windy for the next two days so the electricity may go off again any moment now. We had a tree fall down and take out a tree that our son had planted two years ago and was growing wonderfully. Bah, humbug, I'm not sure when the next "painting a day" will be. Now the house is getting warmer...we'll see.

Sorry, I didn't make it for today's painting. Hopefully things will go better next week. Until Monday...

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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Well, there is no painting today, just didn't get it finished. Until tomorrow...

"Dancing Petals''

I love sunflowers. It’s amazing to plant a little seed in the spring and have a huge, tree-like plant topped with a mammoth yellow flower by fall. Our friend Pete lives in New Hampshire. He grew up here and he and his wife spend their summers on the Sacandaga. Before he leaves New England each year he discretely plants sunflower seeds here and there throughout his town. When he is far away, the big plants emerge in unexpected places to greet all passers by.
When I was young my older brother had an Exacto set, a wonderful little wooden box filled with tools to cut wood. There was a handle to hold all types of razor-like knives. I never was allowed to use the sharp blades but was fascinated by them. I knew I could create great things with some wood and that set of tools. When our youngest son showed interest in working creatively with his hands I knew he should have an Exacto set of his own. I patiently waited for him to get old enough. When he turned fourteen I knew he was ready and told Gino, my husband, that’s what we should get him for his birthday. The reply was, “If you really want an Exacto set, get one for yourself, but not for our son. He’ll cut his finger off”. For goodness sake, people had been using those blades for years and our son would be just fine. Gino finally gave in, as long as I knew it was under protest. He didn’t want our baby to loose a digit. So I found a nice box of Exacto knives plus some soft balsa wood for carving. Just before handing over the money Gino again asked, “Are you sure?” When I said yes he repeated, “He’ll cut his finger off!” Undaunted, I bought the set, wrapped it and gave it to our maturing son. When he opened the wonderful gift he was pleased, and imagined carving something wonderful from the balsa wood. Unfortunately an hour later we were at the clinic getting stitches in the birthday boy’s thumb. He managed, even after careful instruction and his mother’s complete confidence, to drive a chisel point through his thumb. The blade was good and sharp and made a nice crescent shaped hole through his flesh. Gino didn’t say anything, but I could feel the “I told you so!” coming through loud and clear. I never made a gift decision completely on my own again.
So a few years later when this same son bought a very large and sharp machete I felt a little more than uneasy. If he could do that much damage with a little chisel, what would happen with something so much bigger? Had he forgotten the Exacto incident completely? I also didn’t quite get the need for such a weapon. It was especially puzzling when this was the same boy who had explained in great detail, to a neighbor hailing from New Jersey, why milkweed plants shouldn’t be harmed. The man apparently had no idea about monarch butterflies. I finally chalked up the giant knife purchase to being a “guy thing”. Now we finally come around to the sunflowers… We had planted a good-sized patch of the delightful plants, enjoyed them while they had bloomed, and watched the birds consume the seeds. It was late fall and they needed to be on the compost heap. Our son knew just how to take care of them. He sharpened the machete and with thoughts of making his way through the treacherous jungle, made little pieces of the giant stalks. They were easily thrown into the compost heap, and he didn’t cut off any of his limbs. The machete did turn out to be useful cutting greenbrier in "tent city" near the rafting company in West Virginia, but we haven’t grown sunflowers for a long time. Maybe we should again this year.

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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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Sorry, I didn't get today's painting finished, and have some stuff to get done in the gallery during the day. I'll have to wait until tomorrow. Things are a little crazy here. Our little house has five people and two dogs at the moment, and one of the canines is a 130 pound Newfie. Until the morrow...

"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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Looks like I'm going to have to make this a "painting a weekday". I thought I could do the little canvases and have time to work on the large but the daily paintings are taking up every waking hour. So... there will be a new one here Monday through Friday, and I'll take the weekends off to actually make progress on my "works in progress".

Gas Pump and Milkweed"

After working on this one little canvas for three days one would think it might be something more profound, but this is it, just a lowly gas pump. We found this and another in North Creek near the railroad station. As the restoration of the site continued, these pumps disappeared. This one was actually surrounded by milkweed, just as I painted it. My brothers could probably tell what company it's from or the years it might have been used, but I don't know. I was thinking, as I read the price per gallon, that people could be dated by how much they paid for gasoline when they first started driving, almost like the rings on a cut tree. I could pump my own for my '64 Chevy Biscayne, when "self serve" first was available, for a mere 29.9 cents, almost unimaginable today. That makes me pretty darned old, I guess. This pump is set at 49.9.

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"Cananda Mayflowers"


I still didn't complete the painting I didn't finish yesterday so instead of skipping another day decided to paint some wild lily of the valley. These fragrant little flowers, often overlooked, carpet the forest floor with their shiny leaves in the spring. Sometimes when they are bathed in sunshine the leaves reflect the light like hundreds of little mirrors.


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Well, it looks like I didn't make it for a "painting a day" this morning. The canvas I'm working on is just taking too much time. If I skip today, hopefully I'll catch up and not miss any more for a while...but I am getting in the mood to work on the bigger stuff...but there are so many little ones left to do! 'Til tomorrow.

“Doctor Mary’s Iris”

Dr. Mary’s house is next door to our gallery. It’s a classic white house with black shutters and a wooden picket fence along the sidewalk. One summer there was a young boy whitewashing the fence, reminiscent of Tom Sawyer’s buddies. There are all sorts of flowers planted around the yard for every one to enjoy. Dr. Mary became a physician when women were not welcomed in the field, but despite the hurdles she must have faced she had a practice in the old white house for many years. Her name brings smiles to some of the older residents, not necessarily because of warm and fuzzy memories but thoughts of a strong willed, independent woman who let everyone know what she was thinking. There are a lot of stories…here are a couple if I can remember the details…

When our neighbor, Larry, was a child his uncle Willis would load up the back of his truck with youngsters for a weekend night trip to town to the movie house that used to be on Bridge Street. While the gang of kids lost themselves in the movie on the big screen, Willis would visit with his buddy, Speed Weber around the corner on Main. (Speedy, strangely enough, was my school bus driver in Corinth for a few years – a great guy) Willis would leave the truck parked there and when the movie was over they would all meet and go home. One night Willis and Speed must have been in an important conversation because the young people had to wait for a while in the back of the truck. As things go, they started rough housing and getting rowdy, when suddenly they looked up and there was ol’ Dr. Mary marching down the street in her nightclothes. They all immediately knew they were in deep trouble and became silent as she stomped up to them and bellowed, “What the HELL is going on here?!” I guess they received a short lecture on being considerate when others may be sleeping. She turned around and marched back around the corner to the sanctuary of her house. Larry said there wasn’t a peep to be heard from the wide-eyed bunch of formerly rambunctious youngsters.

A summer visitor, I don’t even remember who it was now, was in our gallery when Dr. Mary’s name came up. The woman laughed and said one time she was here and had a terribly sore throat. Since she was far away from her regular physician in the city she went to Mary. The doctor looked at her painful throat, then directly at her with piercing eyes and bluntly asked, “Do you drink?” The woman was mortified and thought, ‘Does she think I’m an alcoholic?’ When she got her composure she whispered, “Yes, sometimes.” Dr. Mary seemed pleased and said, “Good! Go home and fix yourself a good strong drink, put your feet up and let that family of yours take care of themselves for a while!”

Our town no longer has a resident physician, Dr. Mary has passed away, and the wooden picket fence has been replaced with a taller, less friendly looking vinyl barrier. But every year her flowers return. The snow has just melted off the south facing lawn and the bright colors of crocus and hyacinth will be peeking out of the ground any time now. They are always the first flowers to see every spring. Then later in the year the iris will bloom. There always seems to be one, like the flower in today’s painting, that peeks outside the fence instead of staying neatly contained with the others. Kind of reminds me of the independent individual who planted it many years ago.

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"On the Chase"

We were crewing for a hot air balloon, one I've painted many times before, when it flew over this classic old house. I like all the small windows on the second floor, and how the building is partially hidden by the trees. The only thing I changed was the balloon. This beautiful aircraft flew at the Adirondack Festival last year, and seemed perfect for the scene.

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"Indian Pipes"

I used to think Indian Pipes were some sort of mushrooms but they are actually flowers, with seeds and all. They live off decayed plants in the soil and produce no chlorophyll. Some years we can't find any of these flowers or their cousins the Pine Saps, but last year they seemed to be everywhere. This painting still needs to be signed and has a tiny bit of work left but I wanted to get it here this morning. We have a busy day planned.

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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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