THE SECOND TIME

The Second Time acrylic 24x36

For 4 days I struggled with this canvas, working on a painting that simply would not work. It was one of those times when the original concept and composition was flawed, and all the re-working was for naught. Two days ago, at the end of the day and after the umpteenth effort salvage the piece, I picked up a palette knife, open several jars of paint and covered the entire canvas. Yesterday I completed this painting, a totally different image from the underlying painting.

GOING HOME

The dinner dishes were done, Patience and whippets were upstairs, and I was sitting at the kitchen counter with a glass of wine listening to Pavarotti and Boccelli videos on You Tube. Although I could not understand a word of what they were singing, the music and the sound of the language seemed to grab hold of me and pull me back to a long time ago, a time when my world knew wrinkled, white haired old ladies in black dresses and shoes, old men in baggy trousers and tired sweaters with drooping mustaches and smelly old stogies held in place by yellow teeth. To one another they spoke words I did not know, to others in a heavily broken English.

For whatever reason, the music, the language, or both, I wanted to go back, I wanted to burrow deep into my past, to reach back and touch all that went before me, our home, my family, and especially my parents. The experience of that evening was simply an exclamation point on a process that has been steadily building in importance over the past few years, my growing desire to reconnect with the world of my childhood, a world rich in ethnicity that I took for granted. This world of immigrants and first generation Italian-Americans that molded my parents is no more, and the older I get the more I realize how much that world has defined me. It was both Italian and American, but of course the Italian element would be almost gone by the time I left home for college, and for so many years I never gave it much thought. But now, as I close in on my 70th birthday, it continues to grow in importance to me, and I wonder, how will I react when I arrive, for the first time, in Italy this fall. That is where it all began.

THE CHICKS

Every February we would receive a batch of newly hatched chicks which were placed in the freshly cleaned-and I mean scrubbed cleaned- coop. It is worth taking the time to describe that cleaning process.

The first order of business was to remove all the chickens and chicken shit in the coop. It was simple mindless labor. The truck was backed up to one of the doors and the CS was shoveled onto the truck bed. The first half of the job was relatively easy because the CS in the body of the coop was loose and dry. But once cleared, we had to clean out under the wire racks where the slept, and here everything was wet, heavy and packed, in addition to being further away from the doors to the truck. It was also home for numerous rats, so our little rat terrier had a grand old time. The dust was awful, and we didn’t know enough then to wear protective masks. I was not surprise some 40 years later when my chest xray showed signs of old histoplasmosis.

After the last bit of manure was removed, the coop was washed down with soap and water, removing all remnants of manure and dirt in preparation for the final stage of cleaning. In the 40s and 50s creosote was not considered hazardous, and was readily available for my father to use to “disinfect” the coop. In typical fashion, he had a special contraption made to complete this task. A large galvanized trash can was fitted with wheels and handles so it could easily be moved about like a wheelbarrow. Within the can was a hand pump and sprayer, and when filled with the nasty creosote, it was possible to spray the entire interior of the coop. As I remember, I did most of the pumping and my father handled the sprayer. It did not take long for us to recognize an obvious problem with creosote, it burned the skin, and thereafter we covered all exposed skin with a heavy application of noxzema which proved to be only partially effective. I’m not sure just what “germs” my father hoped to eliminate with the creosote, but I can’t imagine anything surviving after our “treatment”.

With the coop all cleaned (sterilized?), the next step was setting up the stoves to keep the newly hatched chicks warm. For a few years we used small coal burning potbellied stoves with a large round galvanized hood, but later replaced them with special heat producing lamps. Around the stove and extending out about 24 inches from the edge of the hood a bedding of Staysdry was spread over the concrete floor. (a thick straw and fine wood chip combination that I don’t believe is available any longer.) The bedding was contained by a twelve inch high metal ring with a diameter of about six feet encircling the entire area. We usually had six to nine of these “nurseries” set up, always in the same coop.

With the heat on, the young chicks were literally dumped out of their boxes into their nurseries where they immediately gathered all together beneath the hoods producing a carpet of yellow fuzz. They quickly discovered where the feed and water containers were placed and would venture away from their self imposed cluster long enough to fill their tiny gullets.

Of all my memories from the farm, nothing compares to the the pure joy of going into that coop on a bitter cold February day and experiencing the combination of the warmth and the sweet smell of the chicks, enhanced by the sound of their peeping and the touch of their fuzzy feathers as they clamored around the hands that provided their feed and water. It was easy to wish you could climb in there with them and lie down under the cozy hood.

LEARNING TO WORK

One of my father’s oft repeated admonition to me was, ”learn to work” by which he really meant learn how to work, and on our farm that meant knowing what to do and when to do it. It was also important to understand why the work had to be done, and the consequences of not doing it and/or not doing it right.

I’m not sure how old I was when I was officially expected to perform certain chores, as well as being available to my father to help with the constant demands of the farm. I would guess about 9-10 years old. During the school year I was expected to perform after school chores, usually lasting about one and a half hours, as well as Saturdays and occasionally Sunday mornings. The amount of work varied with the time of year-less in the winter and more in the summer. During summer vacations my father asked that I be available to him for a half a day, so I could usually have part of each day to myself. Looking back I can appreciate how he balanced my need to accept responsibility with my need for childhood freedom.

The usual daily chores consisted of collecting eggs after school and on weekends, feeding the chickens (I’ll have more to say about the chickens later), and milking the cow. I loved milking the cow, especially in the winter when I could lay my head against her flank and feel the heat of her body as she warmed the barn. I still believe a barn and its animal during the cold winter days is just about the coziest place one could be. There were always cats and kittens around, and I enjoyed squirting them with the milk to watch them lick each other clean. Another routine chore was helping my mother grade and pack the eggs, something that had to be done daily.

On weekends and during summer vacations there were numerous jobs and projects that demanded attention in addition to the routine chores. But that’s another story.

HARD BOILED EGGS

The eggs were routinely collected in the mornings and again about 3-4 o’clock in the afternoon. Wire baskets-later with a protective rubber coating on the wires were used, each holding about 4-6 dozen eggs. Before they were weighed and packed they had to be washed. This was easy enough...a basket would be suspended in a bath of heated water containing a special detergent and gently agitated from below. One of my chores was to collect the eggs in each of the five coops and take them into our cellar and wash them. Not very difficult, however on one occasion I inadvertedly set the temperature gauge too high (I don’t know why or how that happened) and while the first basket was being washed I noticed a change in the sound of the eggs as they gently bumped against one another in the bath. It was heavier and “clunkier”, and I knew imediately what I had accomplished. I also knew, correctly, that my father was not going to be pleased.

As was often the case, my mother came to my rescue. She called all the neighbors who routinely bought “cracked eggs” from us and quickly sold off all the hardboiled eggs.

IT'S ALL ABOUT RED

One down and one to go. Yesterday I completed one of the works in progess, and I am rather pleased with the results. I must confess, it was unabashedly based on a similar but smaller painting done a few months ago.


All about red acrylic 24x36 $1800

Here is the first painting...


Splendor on Rt 45 acrylic 16x20 sold

WORK IN PROGRESS II

I cannot begin to describe how good it feels to be back to work. I spent all day yesterday moving between two works in progress and look forward to another afternoon of the same today.

I've made it this far with the landscape...



and on the market scene...