I've been busy in the studio creating sculptures. These are so much fun to create! I've just completed two new ones; Tinkerbell the pot bellied pig, and French Bulldog the Ballerina. I'm happy to report that both are going to their new home in Florida this week! Pictured left to right: Frenchie Ballerina, Tinkerbell the pot bellied pig, Hilerie the Great Dane, and Paris, the French Bulldog. If you are interested in having a commissioned one of a kind sculpture, don't hesitate to email me.

The view from the front porch has been sticky hot during the daytime. 100+ temperatures are even a bit much for a summer lover like myself. But then, late night summer evenings are the best times for porch sitting anyway. Who needs television or the computer when the front porch is calling with the lure of a soft breeze. Back in the town were I was born, almost every home has a front porch. Some of them have two or three porches. The New River, really the second oldest river in the world, runs below the town. I have wished many times that I had been raised there. But the parents had to find work to support the family, so it was necessary for them to strike out and leave the Appalachians behind. That took a hell of a lot of courage for a young couple with two kids to do. While I was growing up, we made many trips to those ancient hills to see the grandparents, aunts, uncles, and old friends. My Dad would talk about his growing up on the river, and how he would swim across it. He was an admitted river rat. Across from my Aunt's house (which had three porches) was an island in the river. It had a sandy beach, just like the ones along the North Carolina coast. Summer trips back to Hinton would always require Dad borrowing a rowboat for the sojourn across to The Island for a picnic. I was given the important job of being the lookout, sitting in the prow of the boat, watching for the huge rocks that would have surely caused grief if the boat hit one. Once we had arrived on The Island and secured the boat, Mom would set out our picnic of sandwiches, watermelon, tomatoes, and iced tea on a quilt. There was a huge tree that leaned out over the water. Some limber and athletic soul had climbed it and secured a thick, strong rope to the upper part of the trunk. My Dad and brother would hold onto the rope, run, and then swing out over the river, where they would loudly splash down into the water with a rebel yell. Afterward, Dad would float serenely on his back in the water like a happy river otter.

Those days are shimmering jewels encased forever in the amber of my mind and heart. Summer evenings on the porch I find myself taking each memory out of safekeeping to savor it moment by shining moment. The Island, which back then was owned by the Hinton's, the founders of the town, was eventually purchased from them for a measly sum and a cabin built upon it. But in my memory, it remains the place of pristine beauty and precious memories. And I can see Dad laughing and swimming across the New, forever young. (Painting by ©LynHamerCook, Welsh Corgi, No Gurls Club.)

Yesterday, I was saddened to read that Lonesome George of the Galapagos Islands has died. George was only 100+ years old. He had to potential to live to 200. He was of a subspecies of Tortoise, the Pinta Island giant tortoise, and the only one left of his kind. I've always had an affection for turtles. Here in North Carolina, especially after a rain shower, one would often see them usually crossing a road. I have stopped many times to rescue an Eastern Box Turtle from being squashed. One day as I was on the approach to a highway, I saw two large Box Turtles in extreme danger in the road. I stopped and saved them, and kept them in my bathtub for a few days until I could drive down to the Uwharrie National Forest to release them. I still have the painting studies I did of their shells, which I bet are as individual to turtles as fingerprints are to humans. One time as I was driving my VW convertible on a winding road out in the country, I spied a small turtle on the roadway, apparently in no hurry. I quickly pulled over and managed a rescue. The little fella didn't particularly like being in the floorboard of my car and was scurrying around. Turtles are not always the slow critters depicted in the cartoons. They can get some speed on them. Unlike the beautiful, agreeable, and genteel Eastern Box Turtles I had saved from the road, this little guy was not particularly pleasant to be around. He lacked any markings on his plain brown shell, and he had a disagreeable odor; in other words, he stunk to high Heaven! After I described his appearance to friends, someone said he was likely a mud turtle. Since mud turtles are semi-aquatic, it is a good thing I let him go at a little creek. Hopefully, eventually he found a pond somewhere nearby, because today, the area where I found him has more housing developments than you can shake a stick at. Back then, the area was considered 'out in the country.' Now, it's just another example of humans penchant for sprawling, controlling, and obliterating the natural beauty of the land. I tend to like tangled bunches of blackberry bushes, wild roses, and meadows than the paved over civilization man creates. It is becoming more difficult to find those little Edens. Along with the scarcity of the little Edens, these days one rarely sees a turtle after a rain shower. Where have they all gone? One day will the native turtles in America be extinct like Lonesome George? It is heartening and sad at the same time, to read that there were people who tried to save George's species by introducing a bevy of girlfriends to him in hopes they would produce little George's. Sadly, George was not interested in reproduction and was happiest in his enclosure munching away on whatever it is giant tortoises munch on. Adios Lonesome George! I have sculpted a few turtles in the past. This little one pictured is a hatchling, just breaking out of his shell. This one is on ebay currently. To find my ebay listings, search for ebay seller i.d. wally_doodle. The second image is of a sculpture I created of a Corgi puppy riding on a turtle. (sold)

I've been getting more and more behind as I clean my studio and computer room. It would be nice to have a clone who could paint at the easel while I clean. The alternative is to get rich and famous so I could hire someone to do the cleaning and cooking. That would be ideal, but methinks that shipped sailed many eons ago. I am selling a stack of Great Dane magazines on eBay. I have enjoyed them for a while, perusing the pages, looking at the gorgeous Great Danes, from pups to veterans. It's funny how a dog breed will grab you heart and soul. I can recognize the bark of a Great Dane before even seeing the dog. Great Dane puppies are the most adorable little beings. They stay little for what seems like a few days before they start the growing spurts. When they are 8 weeks old, they are squishy, wrinkly, endearingly clumsy little characters, with sparkling eyes. Oh and the softest most velvety ears! I've had a lot of dogs over the years, but the Great Dane has been my real love. Sadly, with the years have come the more noticeable pains associated with having 140+ pounds of pure canine; the stepped on toes, being pulled down and having bruised ribs. I recall back in the day with my Moose, who I lost at age 13 to old age in 2007... we were playing and stupidly I had my head poised over his when he decided to launch, and my tooth went thru my bottom lip. OUCH! With my first Great Dane, Alyce, she decided to do a zoomie (Dane people know this term!) just as I was bending over to pick flowers in a field. She hit me upside the head and almost knocked me out. It took a few days for the grapefruit sized swelling to subside. That was then and this is now. Bruising lasts longer these days, so I am uncertain about having another Great Dane in the future. I may have to downsize due to my small stature and encroaching years! Thus, the magazines went onto the auction block. I used to have danedreams of showing my Danes and starting a line. Don't we all at some point? And then reality sets in; how could I do that on an artist's meager income? why would I even really want to do that? could I take back a puppy if necessary? nope, it's not for me. I've come to terms with that lost dream. I will instead enjoy my dogs for who they are and not what they are. Sometimes it is best to stop with the danedreams so you can just enjoy the dog. And that's what I'm doing now. I remember the first Great Dane I ever met, and I will leave that story for another day. Time is short and I have to get this cleaning crap over with. Wally, my Aussie mix dog has a horrible case of allergies, digging at himself, itching, scratching, and he is on Frontline Plus. It seems to work for about 3 weeks now instead of 4 weeks. I bathed him this morning, among all the other cleaning, and will apply a new batch of FL Plus as soon as he's dry. I hope everyone has a good day.

The books have an inch thick layer of dust on them. These forlorn books are located in the impractical unreachable bookcase behind my main computer monitor. I must teeter totter on top of the desk to do the dusting. I bravely pressed on today and broke out the rags and dust stuff. After planting my dust cloth flag on the upper reaches of Mt. Everest Bookcase, I ran across something I had written shortly after we had moved to a "real" house; a house with things called walls, real plumbing, and hot water! Prior to 1991, we had been living in the green studio. It was located across the street from the University, and catty corner from Yum Yum the hot dog and ice cream place. Funny thing is we rarely ate at Yum Yum when it was crowded with University students and families. We enjoyed Yum Yum on Sundays, when the establishment was closed. In the warm months, We would carry our Sunday morning meal over to their outdoor terrace tables and spread out. We got a kick out of drinking our coffee and reading the big Sunday paper, and having carloads of people stopping by thinking Yum Yum was open. Most times we would continue enjoying our hearty breakfast while the people would try the Yum Yum door. Then they would skulk back to their cars, wondering who the heck we were eating breakfast there. :) Yum Yum's is still there, but sadly the green studio is gone, a victim of the University's voracious appetite for land. An undignified parking lot now paves over what I affectionately called the Studio: La Bateau Lavoir (as a nod to Picasso et al). While cleaning out the bookcase today, I happened across something I had written about the La Bateau Lavoir. The year was 1992: The Studio was a dear yet poor friend without possessions, but one I could live with, breathe with. The Studio breathed. When the wind blew, the plastic covering the ceiling moved, in and out with its breath. It was alive, that old place. It as a place one could talk to and it listened attentively. Other creatures sought it out for their habitats also; like rats, roaches, and the occasional squirrel, but we all lived there in its realm of knowing. It was a wise old building, more at one with nature than any other place I have lived. We lived with the heat in the summer, the cold in the winter, and watched the seasons change through the overhead skylight. The place had a wry sense of humor. You felt it when you entered and if you stayed a while, it became contagious. We thought we had outgrown the old place; business clients would be offended by its peeling paint and dusty concrete floors. We were growing financially and needed a real house to live in, a better car to drive.. so we got a regular car and a real house, the kind that regular people live in. We were moving up in the world, or were we? Somewhere moving up the ladder of success, we began to lose our spirit of living. Perhaps it was left in that old building; that old A & P store built at the turn of the 20th Century. Perhaps it held the secrets of our happiness. Maybe I just hate housekeeping! The La Bateau Lavoir did not require mopping and sweeping. It simply was. Eric Fromme, the author and philosopher, wrote about the contrast between intrinsic and instrumental values. La Bateau Lavoir was embrued with intrinsic goodness and humor.

Being creative does not guarantee being able to decorate with any sort of flair. Indeed, while I find it natural to paint and sculpt, I lack the decorating gene. My sister was fortunate to have received that talent in spades. Decorating her home in Country style, in shades of blue and beige, she has created a comfortable and relaxing environment. My home is decorated loosely in vintage 'Side of the Road style. It is comprised of inherited pieces, pieces found literally on the side of the road, and one old red leather sofa that looks as if it could be a prop in a Victorian movie. I tend to think of these pieces, or most of them, as old forlorn friends. The Hoosier cabinet I got from a Great Aunt hasn't seen a lick of paint in decades, and is keeper of my favorite dishes; Blue Ridge Pottery bowls, plates, platters. I have found a few pieces in antique shops, a few at auctions, but most of them I bought on eBay. I love these pieces for their individuality and vivid colors. There were many patterns on the Blue Ridge china. The ones I like best were hand painted by women employees of Blue Ridge Pottery who lived in the surrounding Appalachian Mountains. The time span was back around the Great Depression. The 5000 plus patterns they produced have charming names such as Grandmother's Garden, Fairmede Fruits, Rapsody, etc. If interested in seeing more, I highly recommend this link to view some of the patterns that were produced. So, today is Saturday again. Seems to come around each week around this time. It's time to get into the studio and figure out what to create next. I'll be sketching ideas and playing with paperclay! yay! love this fun medium! In the meanwhile, I'll leave you with images of two of my summery paintings that have been sold.

It's Friday! In the past that meant a lot of things; primarily PAYDAY! it also meant date night number one. If I had a date that is. Many times I would accept a date and then use the excuse that I had to wash my hair to get out of it. One time I actually told the guy I had to wash my dog that night. Tsk Tsk! Friday's do not hold the same meaning these days. They have not for a long time. Being able to spend time in my home studio is a blessing. Having my dogs nearby has been a joy. I can take breaks when I want to; like sitting on the front porch and eating watermelon in the middle of a summer afternoon. Bliss! But on Friday's I still get that twinge sometimes of NO PAY. No regular paycheck. Even though I have not worked a real job in many years, I still miss the ritual of going to the bank each Friday and cashing that check. Not that being a clerical worker paid very much, but it was steady. For 13 years I worked in the same job, in the same office, with the same people. We became like a family of zombies. We did what we had to do, but there was no creativity involved. The reward was Friday and payday. I scrounge around a lot these days to pay this bill or that bill; juggling finances, robbing from Peter to pay Paul. But I must say there is a deep satisfaction in making something from nothing and getting paid for it. Getting paid for something I created with my heart and mind is having that person say they want it, that it is meaningful to them. That's better than Payday. Although, it would be nice to be able to go to the grocery store without having to itemize each little thing and then worrying at check out if I'll have to put something back. That's the dregs, but it's reality I've come to terms with. I won't find fame or fortune working in the studio, creating paintings and sculptures, but as Ray Bradbury said, "do what you love and love what you do." I'm doing it Ray. And now for the image of the little creation I've been working on for a few days and have listed on ebay. It's a 5" tall x 1.5" at the base Italian Greyhound I sculpted out of paperclay and painted in acrylic paint. He's got his little blue footed pj's on and is holding two stuffed bunny toys. He's ready for his forever home. Yeah, paychecks are good, Fridays are good, but making something out of a blob of clay is good too. In memory of Ray Bradbury, 1920 - 2012