The Flight Attendant

"The view of the sea is simply beautiful," she said, "Where are we again?"

Negril. Jamaica.

"Oh, right. Just beautiful, the turquoise sea and the white powder beach. Calm, peaceful, warm. Just a wonderful way to begin each morning, a view like this."

Eleanor had criss-crossed the United States more times than she could count, spent short turn-around visits in Copenhagen, Paris, Madrid, throwing her body clock into a tailspin. But she had never been to the Caribbean and it took a while to adjust to the slow pace. No, wait, she'd been to Puerto Rico a while back -- does that count? Not sure, but certainly never to Jamaica before now.

"So, tell me," I said, "Coffee, tea or me? Is that really the life of a flight attendant?"

She just smiled and shook her head, a little embarrassed. "No," she said, "my job is to calm passengers, make certain they are comfortable during their flight, particularly the first-time flyers. Be a calm, soothing presence, and assist in the event of an emergency." She glanced over at her husband and turned back to me. "No, no passenger could ever distract me from the man I chose." She smiled again.

But she wasn't typical of the sort of flight attendant I'd gotten used to over the years. You know the type -- the career airline employee, a bit irritated that the public saw them as glorified waitresses or waiters who tended to our request for a pillow or a gin and tonic. They gave you the impression that you were 20th on the list of more important obligations but yes, they would take care of you. They struck me as no-nonsense gophers with a chip on their shoulder. Their training is not in the finer points of serving cocktails but in managing a hoard of anxious travelers in the event of an emergency.

A task that they are, thankfully, rarely called upon to do.

It must be frustrating for the most important aspect of your job to occur only in the event of a disaster, no? Eleanor saw even the more benign responsibilities to be a pleasure. She liked patting the hand of a fretful flyer, steadying others through the stomach-churning bouts of turbulence, giving her passengers a warm, genuine and reassuring smile.

It was as if she were from a by-gone era.

Eleanor and her husband would sleep late each day in Negril, eat breakfast at a beach-front table and then relax on the chaise lounges. Occasionally she would play a game of solitaire while her husband would read an action-adventure novel at her side. He would chide her when she cheated -- "NO, you can't shuffle the cards each time before turning them over, Eleanor" -- but, seriously, it's not as if this were Las Vegas. She'd glance at me with a questioning look -- I'd smile back at her, and whisper, go ahead and shuffle. Who cares if you win or lose, cheat or not? It's called Solitaire, after all, not Couple-a-Taire.

Win if you want to win. You're on vacation. She'd turn towards me and quietly shuffle the cards.

One afternoon Eleanor sat alone on a bench at the water's edge. It was an old varnished wooden bench that used to occupy a space in the beach front bar. The staff had dragged it out to the water's edge, under a sagging old palm tree, to sit atop some chunks of concrete in the sand. With the bench in place, no one would stumble or hurt themselves on the half-buried concrete and it provided a nice shady spot to sit under the palm while the sea lapped at your toes. Eleanor watched as her son splashed around in the sea.

A young shirtless Jamaican dreadlock approached Eleanor at the bench and began his lyrics. A bit of local small talk. Eleanor, of course, was polite and smiled. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a long, thick dried "bud" of local produce and handed it to Eleanor, a "gift for milady". Not quite sure what to do with it, Eleanor tucked it into the top of her swimsuit, said thank you, and looked back out to her son in the sea.

The young dreadlock then began his sales pitch, demanding money from Eleanor for his "gift."

"A high-grade bud, milady, yuh haffi give me a munny fi dat. Gimme a grand nuh," he demanded.

Eleanor was confused. It appeared to her that this young man had handed her a dried-out old plant and then wanted "a thousand dollars" in exchange. "What? What do you mean?" she stammered. "I, I don't have any money. I don't understand..." Her smile faded. She became anxious and scanned the beach behind her for her husband.

The dread became more aggressive, more demanding and raised his voice. He wanted his money. Eleanor's son came to her rescue.

Her son, David, now in his 40s, knew that bringing his aging mother to Jamaica would be both a gift to her but also a labor of love. Her short-term memory had almost completely evaporated. Each day she asked, "where are we again?" She greeted me each morning with a warm smile but never remembered my name. She could never remember the rules of solitaire.

David spoke quietly but firmly to the dread, warning him that if he ever approached his mother again, he would "drop him to the sand". How dare he try to take advantage of an 80-year-old woman whose mind was failing? Were their no limits to the Jamaican beach hustle?

Eleanor smiled at David as the dread quickly skipped up the beach, the uncomfortable encounter already forgotten.

"The view is so lovely, David. Where are we again?"

"Negril, mom. Negril, Jamaica."


The Flight Attendant's Palm
Ink and watercolor on paper
Print available here.

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Monday Morning Mashup #7

"It's totally paradise, dude. Awesome."

One People?
10"x14" Mixed Media Collage

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Wine and Cheese Under the Palm Trees

If you happen to be in Negril today, please stop by Whistling Bird on the beach at 5pm for a Wine and Cheese Art Opening Reception.

My art work will be on display and I look forward to meeting and speaking with those of you who can attend........

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The party's over........

The Party's Over
Ink and watercolor on paper
Prints available here.


I was going to write a story about the wild Emancipation Day weekend celebrations here in Jamaica as an accompaniment to this painting. Sort of a morning after, ode to the debauchery of the night.

There were tales of choked traffic on the normally sparse Norman Manley Boulevard, cars and motorcycles riding 3 or sometimes even 4 abreast the two-lane road. Young women in varying stages of dress or undress, beach wear was de rigeur even after 11pm. Especially after 11pm. We saw thong-wearing ladies riding on the backs of Ninja's,deliberately grabbing their own bottoms and shaking their exposed cheeks to the cheers of onlooking vehicles.

Or as my youngest daughter said, "Mommy, wherever you look tonight, you see something really silly. Or just plain stupid."

Hmmm. I'm rather glad to hear that coming from a 10-year old. Not necessarily an appreciation of her culture, to be sure, but more on that later. Remind me of her very first introduction to her cousin's "dancing" on a DVD, shot in the bowels of a late-night Montego Bay dancehall party spot.

But that's another story.

Tonight, is about the wait for Hurricane Dean.

We've bought our 5-litre jugs of bottled water, several packages of candles and matches, scores of biscuits and crackers and root vegetables, pounds of rice and dried peas, and even secured a brand new coal pot with a bulging, 4-foot tall sack of coal. We did most of our shopping yesterday at the Hi Lo in Negril, which was still relatively calm, no crowds, shelves full.

Today we returned to the Hi Lo to with draw cash from the ATM, but had to wait for the Brinks truck to re-fill the stacks of jays. The line grew long. We then sped off to Sav, which was more than bustling. It was boiling and bubbling with activity.

"Kang-el,kang-el, kang-el - tree pack fuh one hundred dollah," bellowed the tall, slim man, walking between the cars on St. George's street, clutching his red and white cardboard boxes of slim white candles.

The vegetable market was bursting with food and folk. We bought naseberries, plantains, carrots, irish potato, and two bags of chopped callaloo. We went on a search for cooler in the hopes we could forestall doing with out ice for at least a few more hours after the electricity goes. We found an average coleman-style imitation cooler for sale, the usual size for a family picnic, but the price was over 60 bucks. A bit steep for what would probably prove to be just a few more hours of ice cubes. We passed on the cooler.

We're now back in Negril,darkness has fallen, and the tree frogs have begun to gleep as usual. I am spread out in the darkness, on crisp white sheets of a freshly made bed, a ceiling fan blowing above me, and my face lit by the blue glow of my laptop.

I am struck by the sheer comfort and delight of this moment. Peaceful, calm, clean and crisp....it may be a while before I have such a gift again.

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Love Birds

This is a wooden carving which sits at the base of a seagrape tree on the beach front of Whistling Bird, two carved birds.

I'm afraid I don't have a good love story to go with this painting -- but give me a few more weeks, there may be one yet.

On second thought, I may have to wait until next year to tell it. If at all...........that's the way love goes.

Love Birds
Ink and watercolor on paper
Print available here.

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John Chewit, Nanny and the Out House

John Chewit
Ink and watercolor on paper
Print available here.

I assumed he was a figure in Jamaican history. John Chewit, it sounded like a proper English "genkle-man". We'd stayed in the cottage bearing this name countless times over the past several summers at Whistling Bird and are again this summer. This is the view of our verandah, as we turn down the path from the main gate. I never gave the cottage names much thought and was actually most happy not to have a complete understanding of the world around me.

For a change.

As I've noted previously, I often don't really have a clue, when I'm in Jamaica. A complete fish out of water when it comes to figuring out the finer points. At home I read the newspapers and news magazines obsessively, watch the news, read blogs online, try to keep up with current fiction and so forth.

But in Jamaica, I am almost relieved to just give it all up. Throw up my hands and surrender to incomprehensison. It IS calming not to have to know what's going on at all times. Ignorance IS bliss.

In my defense, I am quite adept at understanding patois, tho' pretending to be quite ignorant of such. Very helpful. And I did quickly figure out that "lend me a nanny" literally meant "give me 500 Jamaican dollars" because the 500 dollar note had an image of Nanny Of the Maroons, treasured national heroine, imprinted upon it (read more about her here: http://www.moec.gov.jm/heroes/nanny.htm). It is often MOST beneficial to understand what you can, obviously, but feign ignorance, lest one be completely lead astray.

I'm not one eediot, of course.

So back to John Chewit.

When our firstborn was just a toddler, we stayed out in the yard in Sav-La-Mar, rather than stay at Whistling Bird, or any other place in Negril. We had our own one-room, little board house at our disposal. We had a single bare lightbulb, no indoor plumbing, of course, and we had to hastily nail some loose boards across the opening to the front door just so our little one wouldn't stumble out and drop the 2 feet or so to the ground below.

We had to walk to the very back of the yard to use the outdoor shower, which was really just 3 pieces of barely vertical zinc, surrounding a rather meager shower head atop a skimpy pipe. Likewise, for the outhouse, which was a frightful destination after dark. I once approached it in the pitch of night, flashlight in hand, only to find it surrounded by belching bullfrogs. I tiptoed amongst them, pried open the squeaky wooden door only to find several more INSIDE the actual house, including a very bold fellow aggressively belching from his position upon the seat itself.

A determined stamp of my foot didn't shoo the bulging, slimy frog off his perch. Rather, it only caused him to leap directly INTO the hole of the pit itself, right through the seat, waiting for me to continue on my mission. I never used the outhouse after dark again. I'd rather squat behind the house in the bushes.

And when we had our second child, I succumbed to the lure of finer accommoodations in Negril. I just didn't feel like camping out anymore. It was fine when it was me alone, but for the few weeks I had to travel each year, presumably on VACATION, I decided I really didn't want to rough it with two small children.

So it was back to the beach, and a cottage at Whistling Bird. The property is lovely, lush and naturally landscaped. Not covered with concrete and manicured grass. It is almost a quiet, small jungle. We all squeezed into a one-room cottage that first year, sharing a bed with one child and setting up the other in a portable crib. The cottage was called Banana Quit.

To me, it sounded like the name of a luscious tropical dessert. I'll have one thin slice of Banana Quit, please, with coffee, hmmm?

For several years after that we stayed in Nightengale, which had two rooms and was more comfortable. It was after several years in Nightengale, the girls grew bigger and ours stays grew longer, before we moved up to the much larger cottage of John Chewit. We had much larger rooms, a screened-in porch off to the side, and a kitchenette of sorts with a mini-fridge and countertop with a sink on the verandah. We pack a couple of hot plates and haul a coal pot out from the country and we're good to go, cooking up a storm or just making a morning pot of bush tea at breakfast.

And after 16 years, I still wasn't hip to the pattern. Clueless, as usual.

The cottage names struck me as so very odd and eccentric. In addition to those I mentioned - John Chewit, Banana Quit and Nightengale -- there were also Night Heron, Cling-Cling, Parrot, Aunty Katy, Petchary, Tananger, Parakeet, Doctor Bird and Jacana. Seeing them all in a list, perhaps, makes it so easy.

The sharper tacks among you will now see that John Chewit is, of course, hardly a proper English genkle-man. He is, rather, a simple bird, as are the rest of the characters proudly adorning the name plates of the cottages at the W.B. -- it is the Whistling Bird, after all.

Don't think I'll be ordering a slice of Banana Quit any time soon...........

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Here's Another Interesting Progression

I've drawn dozens of pen-and-ink line portraits this year and have slowly begun to push them further along with watercolor. I've shared just a couple here already (Shara, Tasha, Jube) and have some more today.

I find it a a real eye-opener to take the black and white line drawing into a different place. The addition of color is not always successful and it often exaggerates what may have been slightly "off" in the original drawing. Then again, it can also give a rather simple sketch some real punch. Never knowing where I'm going to end up is both exciting and terrifying -- I'm constantly in fear that I'm going to "wreck" something that was perfectly acceptable in its original state.

But risk taking has its own rewards.

I drew two different line drawings of the same subject, the first was done with a rapidograph ink pen which has a very controlled flow to the ink:

So I laid down a preliminary wash on this one -- it was looking ok:

And then I kept on glazing and laying down colors. And I'm afraid I may have totally overworked it. I don't know if I can salvage it. I may have to do the old run-it-under-the-faucet routine and see what happens. It's just too overworked at this point BUT there are portions of it that I like:

So I put it aside for a while, just to have a fresh start with something else. And I took up the second drawing I'd made of the same subject.The second was done with a bamboo pen dipped in ink and the result is much greater variety in the line, it narrows and thickens and even disappears in places:

I tried to take a much lighter hand to this one, having learned something from the first version. This one is much more pleasing, tho I still have a few areas to work on:

Much more fresh, no? So totally screwing up a painting was worth it, because it freed me up to try something different with the next.

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I Heard It Through The SeaGrape Vine

"Yuh lookin fi Peter, right?"

I stopped dead in my tracks and stared at him. His face looked familiar but how could it be, really? I'd been to Jamaica just once before, a month earlier, and didn't recall meeting him. He was tall and thickly built, his skin an inky black, and his sun-bleached dreads gathered high up at the back of his head. I had no idea who he was. But he knew me.

I nodded, yes, I was hoping to find Peter.

"Yuh jess miss him, gwan and check pon di beach, check fi him at Club Kokua."

I stared at him. He smiled slowly and said, "Yuh nah remembah mi?" Nope. But there was something kind and gentle in his face, I knew he was just trying to help me out. I thanked him, and walked out of Xtabi on the cliffs, and hailed a taxi back to the beach. I was mystified.

I'd spent only one week in Jamaica on my first visit and let Peter know I was coming back, we planned to link up. I wasn't sure where I would be staying and so counted on the small-town nature of Negril to make sure our paths crossed. These were the days before every Negrilian carried a cell phone in their pocket, these were the days when nobody needed a phone to get a message out or to find a friend. And these were the days when everybody knew everybody's business -- or at least thought they did.

It was many years later, after Peter and I were married, our eldest daughter was two years old and we were expecting our second child, that I re-told this story to Cleveland. We'd become good friends over the years and he always spent time with us when we returned to the island. He smiled and nodded, yes, he remembered seeing me step onto the terrace at Xtabi and searching the crowd. He remembered me and knew Peter was looking for me, too.

That day was one of many that made me realize what a small town Negril could be and how closely people pay attention to who you are and how you move and how very tough it can be to slink below the radar.

Cleveland motioned me to follow him as he stepped off the verandah, away from the crowd that always gathered at our cottage. He walked slowly across the grass and stopped, pulling his wallet out from his back pocket. He pulled two, slightly worn color photographs from deep within it's folds and handed them to me. One was of a dark-haired, smiling girl with coffe-color skin. She looked to be about 4 or 5, and the other was a very young baby, clearly the other's sister, with a shock of black hair on a tiny wizened face.

"These are my dawtas," smiled Cleveland. I was stunned.

"What?? I had NO idea you had kids, Cleveland. They are beautiful. Peter never told me you had kids."

Cleveland kissed his teeth -- "He nu know 'bout dem." Stunned again. Peter, one of his closest friends, didn't know Cleveland had kids? How could that be?

"Their mom live in the States, mi know her lang time, he know she. But mi no tell everybody 'bout mi bizness." He then permitted me to share the pictures with everyone else and happily soaked up the delighted responses and smiles they elicited from the group.

So, I wondered, why tell me? And why now? He'd sure manged to guard that secret for a long time and from a lot of people. The SeaGrapevine never picked up that scrap of news.

I think because we were so happily returning to Jamaica with our daughter, who brought such joy and laughter wherever we went, and with a second child on the way, it gave Cleveland pause.

He'd mastered the art of subverting Negril's CIA-like informers, the SeagGrapevine that carried everybody's stories up and down the beach. But at what cost? Thankfully, he'd paid the price long enough and finally found the pleasure of sharing his secrets.

Well, maybe at least one of them.........

I Heard It Through The Sea Grape Vine
Ink and watercolor on paper
Print available here.

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Alphonso and the Coconut

She was a little firecracker, that Maxine, ready to party before the plane even touched down in Mobay. She left her husband at home in their small midwestern town, said Jamaica just wasn't his thing, he wouldn't be comfortable.

And she did behave herself.

She had a husky voice for such a petite woman, a testament to too many smokes. And a laugh that burst out of her like it was shot from a cannon. I enjoyed her company during the day, sharing cocktails in the afternoon, but I always begged exhaustion when she tried to coax me out after dark. The beach night scene just doesn't appeal to me. I'd rather sit on the verandah with a book, listening to the gleep gleep of the tree frogs and dodging the smoke of the "destroyer" I had to place at my feet. Party on.

One afternoon, Maxine was sitting out at the beach front of the Whistling Bird, chatting with Alphonso. Well, actually, Maxine was doing most of the chatting. Alphonso was quietly nodding and handing her pieces of his jewelery for her to examine. Alphonso is an elder dread and a master craftsman. He works primarily in tortoise shell and black coral, but also often adds in pieces of silver, gold and occasionally slivers of bright scarlet or turquoise corals.

Earrings and bangles, pendants and combs, guitar picks and rings, his inventory is always changing. The work is exquisitely crafted by hand. He carries them all wrapped up in a bright white towel, tucked into his backpack. He won't sell his wares to just anyone, the vibe has to be right, he doesn't walk the beach and unroll the towel at every place he visits. His work is a part of him, he once told me, his art is his life. He'd rather not sell a piece than let the wrong person haggle him down to a price that disrespects his craft and his sensibility.

He'd rather go hungry.

By the time I reached the table and sat down, Maxine was wearing a pair of tortoise shell hoop hearings, a thick black coral bangle bracelet on her left hand, a slender tortoise shell bangle on her right, and the showstopper around her neck -- a luscious globe of lignum vitae, or ironwood, carved into the shape of a voluptuous coconut and wrapped with a tortoise shell coil at the crown, threaded through a black leather thong. Lignum vitae is such a slow-growing, hard and dense wood it will sink in water. I don't know how Alphonso managed to carve it into such a beautifully curved orb.

It made me drool.

I always tried to purchase something of Alphonso's each summer and I was envious of Maxine getting to that piece first. But it looked perfect on her. The creamy caramel color of the wood, its slightly oval shape, nestled in Maxine's cleavage - it oozed femininity, fertility.

Alphonso stepped away from the table, letting Maxine just sit with a mirror and admire herself with his wares. Alphonso never gives anyone the hard sell. It is almost as if he'd prefer you didn't buy anything, as if he's reluctantly parting with his children. Maxine whispered to me that she really wanted to buy them all, but he was asking for about $500 for the lot -- the earrings, the two bangles, and the coconut pendant. She ticked off the individual prices he'd quoted, which came to slightly higher than that amount. He was willing to trim the total since she'd buy all four items.

Maxine winced. "Do you think he'll knock off another fifty bucks?", she whispered. Alphonso stood well away from us, gazing up the beach.

"I dunno," I said, "that's a pretty good price," knowing how Alphonso felt about hagglers. "Maxine, he does have a whole buncha kids," I said. "If you can afford it, I wouldn't try to get him to go even lower." She looked back in the mirror, softly caressing the coconut.

"Couldn't you just DIE for this piece?" she asked, her eyes widening.

"Yeah," I sighed. "It's just beautiful. You gotta buy it, Max." Maxine called Alphonso over to the table. He slowly ambled over to where we were sitting.

"Wha' chew think, Maxine?" he said, softly.

"I just LOVE them ALL," she gushed. "I'm just not sure."

Now Alphonso may have scruples but he's also a wise businessman, he's practiced in the art of the soft sell.

"You don't have to decide right now," he told her. And he started to pack up the rest of his pieces. "Wear them for a bit. I'll check back with you tomorrow." Smart move. He let her keep all the pieces, no money exchanged hands, and he offered to meet her there again the next day when she could purchase what she chose or return them all.

Maxine was delighted. She had accessories for her evening ahead. Alphonso knew that after "owning" those pieces for 24 hours, Maxine would be less likely to give them up. But, he later told me, he never considers a sale a sale until he's got cash in his hand. It's always a gamble.

I didn't see Maxine that night or the next day. I caught up with Alphonso at the Whistling Bird bar the next evening.

"Hey," I said, "did you see Maxine today? Did she come through for you?" He gave me one of those quick chin-up gestures, and looked at me sideways. "She give them all back to me," he smiled, "said she couldn't come up with that much cash, she only have credit cyard. She nuh buy nuttin. So it go."

"Wait a minute," I said, "she could always get a cash advance on her credit card, or use the ATM over by the Hi-Lo. And I KNOW she could afford it." He shrugged.

"She's just not the right person for my pieces, that's all."

Damn straight, I thought.

"Hey, 'phonso, lemme see that carved coconut pendant." He smiled. He opened up his back pack, and unfurled the white towel, letting all of his pieces spill out onto the table top in front of me. He plucked the pendant from the center of the mass of tangled pieces and handed it to me.

"How much you want for this one, 'phonso?"

"One-seventy-five," he said, and he started to explain how he caved the lignum vitae and how he softened the tortoise shell into a coil.

I stopped him, shaking my head. "Two hundred," I said, "and not a penny less."

He nodded slowly and smiled. "I guess dat's the piece for you."

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The Mango Doesn't Fall too Far from the Tree

It wasn't an expensive ring. Not at all. Just right for a ten-year old girl, a small silver band with the carved figure of a turtle at its center. I don't even know if it was real silver.

But that's not the point. The point is it was a gift to my daughter from a classmate. A classmate who was leaving New York City for good, much to her dismay, and gave her two closest friends matching rings for all of them to wear. That's the kind of thing girls do.

My daughter treasured this ring. And she took great care to place it on the bedside table each day when she got ready to take a swim. She wasn't taking any chances of it slipping off her fingers and drifting away in the caribbean sea.

So it was more than disconcerting when she noticed the ring on Natalie's finger.

We'd known Natalie and her little brother Simon for years. Their father, Donald, worked in Negril, and she and Simon were frequent playmates of our girls during our long summer stays. Like many Jamaican families, I'm sure life was a struggle, but their father worked hard and provided for his children.

Still, they were happy to join us for a meal at a beach-side restaurant, Simon was excited to receive a real soccer jersey from the girls' soccer league in NYC, and they both graciously accepted our offers to "take charge of" our beach toys at the end of our summer. We knew the toys might be gone by next year, but that wasn't the point. Why haul them back home to sit in a closet in New York City for nearly a year when these two kids could continue to use them everyday? It was just the right thing to do.

So, you get the picture. We didn't shower these kids with gifts, but we liked them and shared what we could, just like you would with any of your children's playmates.

And when the rain fell, as it often did during midday in the summer,all the kids ran to our cottage to escape and find something else to do to pass the time.We always brought down rainy-day activities just for that purpose - art supplies, dolls, the occasional craft project, that sort of thing. Ours was a good place to hang out when the rain put a halt to swimming.

But when my daughter saw Natalie wearing her ring, it gave her pause. She first made certain that it was indeed her own ring (it was) and she asked Natalie to please remove it and put it back on the table. Natalie obliged, just saying that she thought it was pretty and wanted to see how it looked on her own finger.

Sure, ok. And they continued to play in the cottage until the rain passed. When the sun finally returned, they ran for the beach and jumped back into the sea for a swim. My daughter noticed that Natalie again had possession of her ring. This time it was threaded through the shoulder strap of her bathing suit, bobbing in the water as she swam. Alarmed, my daughter asked Natalie to please give her the ring back. Surprised, as if she'd forgotten she'd even picked up the ring, nevermind taken such pains to thread it through her suit strap, Natalie again obliged, returning the ring. My daughter brought it back up to our cottage for safe keeping and shared with me her concern about Natalie's obvious attraction for it.

It wasn't until the end of the day, when it was time for Natalie and Simon to go home, that the ring finally made it's last appearance. Or, better said, disappearance. Natalie had gone to our cottage to change out of her swimsuit. Alone. My husband let her in, she retreated to the girls' bedroom to change, and quickly ran out, making hasty "good-byes". It wasn't until she and Simon had gone home with their father that we learned the ring had apparently gone with her.

Crestfallen, my daughter recounted to her dad the events of the day, and her certainty that Natalie had finally successfully absconded with her precious momento.

"Hmm, a one likkle teef, eeenh?" mused my husband."Mi talk to her fadda tomorrow." The question was, just what would he say to Donald in the morning? We agreed that the best thing to do was not to accuse Natalie of outright theft. The following morning, my husband spoke with Donald and said only that Natalie had "forgotten" to return a ring that she'd been "permitted" to try on that day and could he please get it back from her?

"Donald a gwan a BEAT 'im, if 'im teenk she one teef," chuckled my husband. Many Jamaican children are raised with an iron fist, physical punishment can be swift and brutal. My husband thought Donald would certainly beat the daylights out of Natalie if he thought she'd stolen something. Best to imply that it was simply an oversight and let Natalie explain herself to her father.

Later that evening, Donald sought out my husband and spoke quietly to him. Yes, he said, Natalie did have the ring. So far so good.

Then Donald smiled and whispered, "So, mi bredda, give me five U.S. dollahs an' you can haff back da ring."

My husband just looked at him. He paused and shook his head.

"Fuh get it, mon," he told Donald. "Keep it." He turned and walked away.

The girls don't play with Natalie and Simon any more..................

The Mango Doesn't Fall Too Far From the Tree
Ink and Watercolor on paper

Purchase a print of this painting here.

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Shades of Grey

"Mi cyan't find mi sista cell phone. A wheh it deh?"

We were driving back to Negril after spending the day in Sav La Mar. I had no idea where the cell phone could be. I had no use for it myself. This was the first year cell phones began to pop up all over Jamaica and I hadn't quite gotten used to the idea that you could actually reach someone without resorting to the rural grapevine. Which was, incidentally, a remarkably reliable method of contacting folks.

Frighteningly reliable, now that I think about it.

But cell phones had arrived. We'd actually brought this particular cell phone down for Felicia just so that we could stay in touch with the family directly, rather than depend upon the sole neighbor who owned an actual land-line phone. A cell phone became THE prized luxury accessory of the season, better than a gold chain. Even if you had no battery charger to keep it functioning, hell, even if it had no battery aTALL, wearing a cell phone prominently clipped to your pants waist was even better than a new pair of Clarks.

And ours was missing.

"I dunno," I said, "are you sure you left it in the car?"

"Yeah, mi leff it dehsoh," my husband said, pointing to the well behind the gearshift box, between the seats. "An mi mine tell me," he said, tapping his finger against his temple, "NAH let Sticks inn a mi cyarr -- { sound of kissing teeth} - but mi let him a move it, mi let him put di cyarr inna de shade," {more kissing of teeth} "mon, mi know 'im a tek mi phone outta mi cyar."

"Sticks? But I thought he's one of your friends? He wouldn't take your phone." I was a little puzzled by this conclusion.

"Yeah, mon, mi know Sticks lahng time, he a grow up amongst we, mi know him since we a likkle yewt. And he's a teef. He always been one likkle teef."

We drove silently for a few minutes.

"Mi guess he the man who tek the cigarette lightah fram the cyar, too." We'd noticed that the car's cigarette lighter was gone after our last trip to the country. " Mi nah know what he cyan do wid dat lightah, it cyan't werk pon it's own, not widout de cyar," he chuckled.

"Well," I said, "perhaps he'll steal a car to go with it." I rolled my eyes.

I was still trying to digest the fact that my husband was so matter-of-factly accepting the notion that his friend stole from him. It annoyed him, but didn't seem to surprise nor upset him much.

"But we just spent the better part of the day with Sticks", I said. "We fed him and the other guys, and we all sat on the verandah eating a meal together, and now you're telling me he's a thief? But he's your friend? He's a thief AND he's your friend?"

Although my husband knew better than to call me "one eeediot", he shot me a look that said essentially the same thing.

"Mon, sometimes you look like yuh jess nah know wha-gwan," my husband said -- {more kissing of teeth, which is the equivalent of a new yorker rolling her eyes}.

I had to admit that, frankly, he was right. When in Jamaica, I just never really DID understand what was going on, particularly when it came to the rather fluid boundaries of friendship.

"Next time, jess nah let Sticks inna de house, seen?". Next time? So we were still friends with Sticks, but with necessary precautions. Alright.

Sometimes I just wished the good guys would wear white hats and the bad guys would wear black, just like in those old politically-incorrect westerns. That's me all over, I'm afraid. I've been told I tend to see things in strictly black and white terms, but Jamaica, contrary to it's turquoise waters and emerald hills, is really just a whole heapah shades of grey.

Shades of Grey
Ink and watercolor on paper.

Purchase a print of this painting here.

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The Colonel

Or is he The Kernel? Perhaps reflecting yet another opportunity for me to completely misunderstand The Big Picture.

Despite a preference for cammouflage fashion, this gentleman "farmer" is hardly the stuff of military bearing. Gentle and humble, I don't think I've heard him utter more than a few words each time we've met over the years.Excruciatingly polite. Though he does strike me as someone who could easily conduct guerrilla-style warfare if push came to shove.

He is typically not at home when we come a callin'. If anyone is in the one-room board house, they often nod up to the dense grove of palms, mango trees, avocado, and overall dense tangle of foliage, saying. "he gone a bush."

Much "hailing up" in that direction typically results in a call-and-response barrage of patois. We hear him long before we see him. Finally, the Colonel emerges from the thick greenery and descends goat-like down the last few rocky steps of the steep hillside behind his house.

A true country man of the 21st century, the Colonel wears a tattered marina slung low over his knee-length cargo shorts, casually steps barefoot over the sharp rock-stone, carrying a machete in one hand and talking into his cell phone with the other.

The Big Picture, indeed.

The Colonel
Ink and watercolor on paper.

Purchase a print of this painting here.

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Merlene and the Machete

Bamboo grows so quickly, I've been told, you can almost see it pushing up through the sand. Or dirt. Or just about wherever you choose to plant it. And with a two-month stay at Jamaica's Whistling Bird stretching out before us, we thought we'd see the clump of new stumpy bamboo stalks sprouting along the path from our cottage to the beach, soon stretch way above our heads.

Our three-year old was the perfect height to measure a stalk of new bamboo. At Jim's suggestion, we lined her back-to-back with a recent sprout, which was just about ear-height. Snap a few photos now, he'd advised, and then at the end of our stay take another and compare the miracle of tropical flora. There were several looming tree-like bamboo stalks already swaying high up in the ocean breeze, and just a handful of new growth bursting forth to join them.

Line up, 'farii. Kick off your sandals, back up to the stalk and smile at the camera. We snapped away. Of course this was a pre-digital-camera journey, so we would have to wait for the film to be developed at home to witness our natural miracle. Each day we'd give the stalk a glance and do a mental review of where it may have been and how much it might have grown. We thought we might just take a new photo every week, we couldn't wait two months. How cool to watch it spurt up every 7 days, presuming of course that our daughter's summer growth would lag considerably behind?

But Merlene had other plans.

This is the face of the sweet, quiet, demure and always-just-barely-smiling Merlene. Dancing eyes, she has. Quiet, she would walk up behind you and rest one hand gently on your shoulder while casually placing a handful of ginneps or a fresh mango into your lap with the other. Then she'd just smile, gliding off, barely speaking.

And Merlene wields a machete with the same aplomb as your average American woman wields her lipstick.

Yes. You see where I am going this this, no?

We took our usual walk along the path to the beach one morning and were stunned to see all the new stumpy bamboo stalks, including our precious Summer Growing Friend, all laying in tattered bright green shreds. Just the grown-up bamboo, no infants to be found.

Unaware of our rather dorky Tourist Science Project, Merlene had just been doing her job. Keeping the place tidy. "Yuh mus hole dung de bush, seen?" For the "bush" unchopped on a regular basis, is the "bush" run amok.

Merlene and the Machete became our summer story, rather the Miracle of Mother Nature.

It's a better story.

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Runaway Dread

And sometimes you find the right path despite the roadblocks put up in your way.

Losing parents, moving in with distant relatives, running away from home before the age of ten, finding a new family in the embrace of unsavory Dons.

You know what I mean by "Dons", don't you? A Jamaican ting, dat.

And still growing up to be a good man, a kind and Conscious Dread. A man who will sweep out his yard at daybreak, cook up one nice pot of coconut rice and peas, and will have your back in any seetch-yoo-ay-shun, seen?

But you knew that just by looking at his face, no?

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Crack Cocaine and the Vicissitudes of Real Estate Taxes

I'm not going to tell you his name. It doesn't really matter.

But you should know that I thought he was one of the "bredren," a good egg, as my parents might say. An "ital" rasta man, as the natty dreadlocks would agree. Righteous, seen?

After all, he was welcomed, told to "siddung nuh", as a half dozen of us sat in a cluster of beach chaises and watched the horizon swallow up the sun one warm July "eve-ling" in Westmoreland. He was a slight man, his khakis hung loosely on his frame, and his natty dreadlocks nearly touched the sand as he padded up the beach toward us.

Yah, suh. All the genkle-men present nodded, we know 'im laaang time, whatta gwan, Natty?

Much patois-rich reminiscing, a remembrance of times past jamaican-style. Ganja smoke is their madeleine. I drifted off.......

So when I was alone on the beach and saw him again, I hailed him up. "Yes, I-yah, can I buy you one cold drink?" I asked. Natty dreadlocks headed straight to the bar and asked for "one cold Heineken. Tenks, miss." Sure, mon, no problem. While it was still half-full and cold in his hand, he asked if I would buy him "one next one, miss?" Now, I know the runnings. And often those who most deserve a round of drinks are those who never ask so I told him I had an errand to do with the children and I'd "soon come back." If he was still around when I returned, sure, no problem, one next Heineken coming right up.

So guess who was still clutching the by-now empty bottle, waiting for my return one full hour later? I dutifully bought Natty one more cold Heineken. Then he pulled me close. He whispered in my ear, "Wha mi really wan is sum money fi pay mi real estate taxes. Mi need $150 Jays, miss, cyaann yuh help mi nuh?"

For those of you who don't know, $150 Jamaican dollars at that time was the equivalent of about U.S. $2.50. Yes, that's right. About two U.S. dollars and fifty cents.

For his "real estate taxes" he says.

When I shared this story with my husband and his friends, they all laughed softly, but with sadness. "The Rock hole 'im dung, mon. Nuh give 'im nuttin more," and they shook their heads.

"Toxes, eeenh? Natty nah own nuttin fi tox. A crack-cocaine a 'im biggest tox. He muss pay it......"

Crack Cocaine and the Vicissitudes of Real Estate Taxes
Ink and watercolor on paper

A print of this painting is available for purchase here.

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Did Jesus have a fondness for animal prints?

From the moment I saw Miss Ricketts in this hat, well.....words escape me.

I was drawn to the "I (heart) JESUS" sentiment that was emblazoned across the front: lemon-yellow embroidery on a tomato red corduroy. That alone captured my attention, I like a lady in a power hat.

But it was the faux-leopard skin brim that set Miss Ricketts apart from your typical Jamaican church lady. She's rockin' it, no?

And Miss Ricketts deserves our "Are-Eee-Ess-Pee-Eee-See-Tee". We would see her a couple of times a week, carrying her two overstuffed tote bags to the beach front of Whistling Bird. She dutifully pinned dozens of hand-made articles of clothing to a couple of clotheslines strung between the palms and seagrape trees, hoping to catch the eye of tourist passers by.

When the tastes of most beach-going shoppers began to lean heavily in the direction of Indonesian-batiked sarongs, rather than tailored men's short-sleeved shirts with palm trees, Miss Ricketts incorporated sarongs into her inventory. She was flexible. She had her finger on the consumer's pulse, even if she wouldn't be caught dead in a sarong.

Who needs a flimsy rayon wrap, when you can roll with Jesus and the prince of the jungle.........?

Did Jesus Have a Fondness for Animal Prints?

Ink and watercolor on paper.

Purchase a print of this painting here.

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G is for Gentle

I am embarrassed to say that I do not even know this lady's first name. Or her last, for that matter.

Yet I have known her for years.

For weeks at a time, Miss G takes care of us, in a manner of speaking. Calm and cool, never ruffled, tending to her job with a quick nod of her head, efficient and matter-of-fact. Shy smiles will skate quickly across her face and when you get a laugh or a giggle out of Miss G, it just about makes your day.

If you see her, ask her about the noni plant and it's cure-all juice. Or to tell you about the long-legged bird that hunts down the land crabs dem - she does a wicked impression of their stalking gait. Or ask her to put on "the Miss G Mix" on the sound system, pull up a chair and relax alongside her as the sun goes down.

A truly gentle way to end your day.........

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Before we lost track of Poochie -

We took her to the sea.

Poochie was cast out by her mudda an' fadda and sent to live with Miss Una out inna country. Montego Bay was no place for a 5-year-old whose mother had no time fi she. The ghettos of Mobay were ruff enuff and one more unwanted likkle girl was bound to find a better life out in the rural yards of the parish of Westmoreland than the streets of the city.

Seen?

Poochie was soon under the stern watch of Miss Una out in the wide open hinterlands of Savanna La Mar, some 20 miles west of Negril, along the south coast of Jamaica. Miss Una was the aunty of a cousin of Poochie's mudda or half-sista of a cousin of an aunty or a half-sista of her cousin or, well, it doesn't really matter.

Miss Una took Poochie in without a second thought. Even tho' Miss Una was finally finished raising her own pickney.

Miss Una and her youngest daughter, Felecia, shared a bed in her two-room house. One more likkle girl squeezed in under the covers didn't put anybody out. So Poochie stayed. And stayed. And stayed.

Miss Una is my mother-in-law. And my two little daughters, her grandaughters, loved Poochie. Poochie was as foreign and as mysterious as a jackfruit, a soursop, a plate of ackee. And she was a girl who knew how to climb a ginnep tree in a flash and deliver a bunch of ripe juicy fruit, fearlessly shoo away the loose grazing goats and knew which little shop on the lane had the coldest boxed drinks. Poochie could run up an' dung pon da gravel barefoot, while my girls didn't dare take off their sandals for fear of piercing their soft city-girl feet.

And when we visited Jamaica, we'd always take Poochie and a handful of other pickney to the sea. We'd buy her one fresh bath suit and take her to the ocean for a swim, followed by platefuls of jerk chicken and endless bottles of Pepsi or Kola Champagne. The exotic seaside was a place she saw once a year, when friends or family fram farrin would load up a car with all the little yard pickney an' tek dem a beach.

But one year Poochie was no longer in the yard with Miss Una. Something bad had happened to Poochie.

As if enuff bad tings had not happened to Poochie already.

A lonely, old coot of a man on the lane had taken to asking for Poochie's help to collect limes way out inna bush, several mornings a week. Poochie was permitted to go as her share of limes would contribute to the family funds.

Unitl it became clear that very few limes, if any, were being collected.

Long hot hours of walks way out inna bush often resulted in just an empty bucket. And a Poochie who grew despondent, angry and withdrawn.

Poochie was barely 12 when she was sent back to Montego Bay. After all, no one could send the Old Coot off the lane. So the little girl, who had already been cast out once for her own good, was returned-to-sender for the same reason.

We don't know what has become of Poochie....

Before We Lost Track of Poochie
Ink and watercolor on paper

Purchase a print of this painting here.

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It's really about the sarong

But I often get caught up in the face instead... go figure.

There was some debate in the household this evening about putting up the painting I completed for today. I wanted to try something different, sticking to real skin tones, but still going with a rich vibrant palette. The model in question, however, disputed the nature of her jaw line, her sour expression, the odd sun dappled shadows on her face.

Everyone's a critic.

Still, I'm going to post it, in keeping with the spirit of this exercise. I'll share what I've come up with even if I'm experimenting and not so sure if what I came up with is what I'd intended. I'm crazy about the colors, if not her countenance. Said model enjoyed the brilliant firey color of her hair and the brilliant blue of the sarong tied halter-style around her neck.

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Miss Tanya No. 1

Simplfy, simplify, simplify. Loose brushstrokes and a restrained use of color -- allowing the intensity of her gaze to shine through.

"Miss Tanya No. 1" 
Ink and watercolor on paper
Print available here.

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