Finally............the wait is over.

The prints have arrived.

The above portrait, from a previous blog posting,"Yuh Know Mi?" is now available for sale as a high-quality, archival print. Printed on HP Aquarella Art Paper, 14.4 mil, 93% opacity,this warm-white paper captures the vivid colors of the original with a matte, textured surface, giving the print the feel and appearance of an actual watercolor painting. The colors are rich and true to the original and should retain their vivid hues for generations.

And at an affordable price.

Prices currently range from $30 for the smaller prints (9"x12" image on 12"x15" sheet) up to $55 for the largest prints (12"x15.5" on a 20"x16" sheet), plus shipping.

Among the paintings immediately available are these shown below (note, these are low-resolution images and NOT to scale):
















The print has a two-inch border, making it ready for framing, and each is individually signed by me.

For more details about each print, purchase price and shipping details, please visit my Etsy shop as I am not going to be offering them through the blog. I am currently adding the details for each item and should have all available prints listed by the end of today.

So many of my regular readers have written to me about obtaining prints and I'm so happy to finally have this option available.

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Mr. Big

I gently lowered the large ceramic pot, filled with steaming-hot chicken curry, into a heavyweight shopping bag and headed for the subway.

It was time for that annual back-to-school tradition at our downtown elementary school, the parents' potluck dinner. A chance for parents to meet one another, meet the new teacher outside of the classroom and avoid talking too much about your own child in the process. Good food, the wine would flow and it would no doubt be held in some airy, well-appointed loft in Tribeca.

Not a bad way to spend an evening.

My husband did the daily drop-off and pick-up of our children every day at school and quickly got to know the other parents or babysitters or nannies, as they congregated in the school yard each morning and afternoon. I, on the other hand, had to be at my office the same time that the school bell rang. So we all left the house together each morning, Dads hopping on the downtown train with the girls to head to school while I got on the uptown train to go to work. I never got the chance to mingle with the other parents in the schoolyard.

Having attended half a dozen of these for our older daughter's classes already, my husband bowed out of this particular night, this year's kindergarten class get-together. Someone had to stay home with the girls, and baby sitters are pretty pricey in NYC, so he offered to whip up a massive amount of his specialty and send me off with his regrets. Tonight, he'd draw the girls bath, do the bed-time story thing - yes, they'd have to endure another patois-accented mangling of Green Eggs and Ham - while I munched on fussy appetizers and sipped chardonnay, and return home late with my full report.

I took the downtown R train and headed for Chambers Street. I was looking forward to a night out solo; and with a downtown Tribeca crowd in attendance, it was bound to be an interesting party. Although our kids attend public school, this particular crowd ranked fairly high on the big-shot meter. A hugely-popular public school, many dowtown parents, regardless of their resources, enrolled their kids here before shipping them off to private school after 5th grade. You never know who you're going to bump into at the PTA.

For starters, our hosts for the evening were an Assistant United States Attorney, lauded for his high-profile prosecutions of violent mob and gang activity, and his lovely wife, a Deputy District Attorney in the Special Victims Unit in Manhattan. Our youngest daughter had immediately bonded with their twin girls during the first few weeks of kindergarten. Likewise, the Editor-in-Chief of a major publishing house and her writer husband were there -- she immediately asked for Peter when I came in the door, which made me smile. Let's just say that reading isn't one of my husband's past times, yet this publishing powerhouse was looking forward to shooting the breeze with him.

Around me were heavyweights of all sorts -- an art gallery representative for a well-known German artist, the star of an HBO drama series, a fashion model, several architects and more lawyers than one would ever hope to convene outside a courthouse. As a couple, I suppose you could call us the poor, country cousins from the East Village; no six-figure income for us. But what we lacked in economic status, we more than made up for with our artsy-international vibe. I was glad to meet some of these moms and dads for the first time, after hearing so much about their children from my daughter and my husband and, it turns out, many were curious to see just who WAS Haille's mommy.

The dining room table was set up buffet-style, full of plates of the usual potluck fare -- pastas, elaborate salads, crudites, cheese and crackers. Much of the food, although appealing, appeared to have been prepared and purchased at a local Food Emporium or Whole Foods. Good stuff, not inexpensive, but not home-made. A statuesque, dark-haired woman with wire-framed glasses stood across the table from me, perusing the choices. She looked up and smiled, introducing herself as "Suzanne, Elizabeth's mom." She wore a formal business suit, clearly having come to the party straight from work. I introduced myself and agreed that everything "looked so tasty." I put down my shopping bag and lifted out the ceramic pot and heaved it up onto the table.

"Well, here's another tasty addition, Suzanne. Authentic, home-made Jamaican curried chicken." I lifted the lid and she took a peek inside.

"Woooow," she said. "That smells SO good. Did your Nanny make it?"

Damn.

She didn't really ask me that. Yes. She did.

I blinked at her, uncertain what to say for a few seconds. It was the harsh reminder of the world I was now moving in, a world where nearly every couple held two high-powered jobs, working long hours to pay for their enormous loft apartment and the vacation house in the country, and the Lexus SUV. And kept a Nanny or part-time babysitter on staff to chauffeur their children to and/or from school, feed them their dinner and put them to bed.

Damn.

"No," I smiled, "my husband made it. He's Jamaican and an excellent cook."

Now it was Suzanne's turn to blink, speechless. Her cheeks reddened and she sputtered, "Oh, well, I can't wait to try it," and she heaped a few spoonfuls of the saffron-colored chicken chunks onto her plate. And quickly backed away from the table, nodding and smiling.

No, I had not married your typical downtown big shot. Not a lawyer nor an investment banker, not a gallery owner nor a film producer. I married a down-to-earth country man, from rural Jamaica. He had little formal education nor worldly experience. He was old school, rootsman skanking. No three-piece suits nor flashy sports cars, no summers in the Hamptons nor winters at Vail. We could never afford a nanny.

Nor would we ever want to have one.

That was the compromise we made.We'd live off of my salary, sufficient but not hefty, and my husband agreed to be the stay-at-home parent and work a menial part-time job. We struggle, but we survive and we both spend more hours with our kids than most of the couples I met at that party. Combined. Not a judgment, but a choice.

The rest of the party was a blur. I met many other parents, some of whom would turn out to be long-lasting friends. Before too long, the wine was gone, the chicken curry pot was scraped clean right to the bottom and it was time to call it a night.

I headed for the subway, lugging the shopping bag with the now-empty curry pot, and got on the train back uptown to the East Village. It was late for a week night, past 10pm, and the train was pretty empty.

A tall, well-built, dark-haired man followed me onto the train and sat on the bench directly opposite me. I glanced up at him briefly and then did a double take. He smiled at me briefly, one of those closed-mouth quick flashes of a smile and then he looked away. He knew I'd recognized him despite the five-o-clock shadow and the forgettable, comfortable clothes. He was dressed down, just khakis, a tee shirt and a worn-out pair of Converse. I knew instantly, unmistakably, that it was him.

It was Big.

Yes, it was. It was Mr. Big. You know who I mean. And if you don't, you've been living under a rock for the past 10 years.

He was the bigshot who epitomized the zeitgeist of our generation in New York City in the mid 2000s. He was Carrie's dream man. And her disappointment. He was smart and sexy, ambitious and cynical, wealthy and powerful. And kept letting her down. You had to love, and hate, Mr. Big. We had hoped he and Carrie would work it out in the end, but the exquisite pain of the journey was, indeed, what gripped us. Would they or wouldn't they?

And there he was, sitting just a few feet across from me and my empty pot of chicken curry on the uptown R train. Without the HBO-issued Prada suits nor Cohiba cigars, he didn't cut quite the same figure but, still. It WAS Big. God damn Mr. Big.

How many single women who tuned in each week, were looking for love and longed for their own Mr. Big? Or, at least, a Mr. Big who would commit and settle down and make all their dreams come true? They'd have the enormous loft in Tribeca or the Junior 4 on Park Avenue, the country house in Bridgehampton, the Beemer or Benz, the beautiful Polo-ad kids. And the Nanny.

They would have hit it Big alright.

But would Big know how to give the babies a bath if you weren't home? Or prepare a bush-tea concoction from scratch to calm an upset infant's belly? Or have a huge pot of curried chicken waiting for you on the stove, after your long, hard day at work? Probably not.

So, goodnight, Mr. Big, nice seeing you but this is my stop. I got off the train and looked over my shoulder as Mr. Big continued on uptown. My rootsman skanking, top-ranking, was waiting for me and I had a full evening's story to tell.

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Road Trip

On the road, no paper nor paint, just the phone painting app.......not too shabby. Can even post to the blog via phone. Keepin' it short.........couple new stories on the way.

Keep driving, king.

Waaaayyyy outta here.

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Pretty Garbage

While walking home yesterday, I spotted a young couple cramming junk and debris into pink and black polka-dotted garbage bags in front of the BBQ on St. Mark's Place and 2nd Avenue. I didn't think much of it and kept walking. It's the East Village and after 20+ years of living here, nothing surprises me anymore, certainly not all kinds of garbage on the sidewalk.

But when I spotted, so to speak, another pink polka-dotted garbage bag at the townhouse next door, I knew something was up. I snapped a pic with my phone and moved along. I could see more pink blobs in the distance and kept my phone at the ready. Sure enough, the enitre block of St. Mark's place was littered, so to speak once more, with these artful garbage bags. The bags were primarily pink with black spots or metallic gold spots but some bags were white with similar polka dots. It brightened up the trash a bit, I have to admit.



















So, whassup with that? Read all about it here. It is a self-described "vivid art intervention for urban beautification and environmental awareness." Hmm, maybe so.

You're welcome.

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Driving While Black. Or How Granny Meg Got Car-jacked in The Bronx and Lived to Tell the Tale

It's been a wild ride from jump street for this little old lady from Connecticut.

From the moment she stepped off the plane in Jamaica 16 years ago, and a slim, dreadlocked and smiling man embraced her as if he'd known her all his life -- "Welcome to Jamaica, Mommy" -- right up to her granddaughter's warm embrace during Grandparent's Weekend at an elite boarding school in New England a few weeks ago, Granny Meg has had son-in-law stories unlike any of the other ladies in her bridge club.

I have to give her credit, she can roll like no other Granny I know. She and my husband have butted heads on occasion, usually in her kitchen, squabbling over the best way to keep it tidy. He has annoyed her with his surreptitious plantings in the geranium pots on her deck. She, in turn, has resisted learning patois and will turn to me, ignoring his rapid-fire response to her question about making him a sandwich. "So, what did he say, is he hungry nor not?" she drawls, arms folded across her chest.

But they have also bonded in a charming, albeit irritating, manner. They revel in their shared annoyance at my shortcomings, for example. "She lazy in de kitchen, Granny Meg, she nah like fi clean up after herself." "Oh, she's ALWAYS been that way, Peter. I don't know where she gets it from." Then they smile smugly at me. They also smile at their shared absolute adoration of our children. They enjoy taking an afternoon stroll together through Costco, loading up their shopping cart, buying big.

They cut quite a picture when they are together. He is black, about 5'10", not including his high pile of dreads on top of his head, thin but muscular, with an easy gait. Petite and fair, Granny Meg used to be 5'6" but age has shrunken her by a couple of inches. She weighs in at about 95 lbs., soaking wet, and wears her silvery-white hair cut quite short. She is the Sparrow to his Raven, birds of a-slightly-different-hued feather, they both love to shop together.

And let's not forget their shared enthusiasm for a good party. It's 5 o'clock, eh, Granny Meg? And they have a laugh while busting open the liquor cabinet and exchanging thoughts on their preferences for the evening to come.

And it was just such a party, or at least the promise of such, that turned on our derring duo and gave them yet another opportunity to bond without me.

Granny Meg just can not stand to drive into Manhattan.So her dutiful son-in-law makes the long Metro North train ride to her nearest station where she meets him with her car. He'll slide behind the wheel and drive them both back into Manhattan. After her visit, he'll do the whole trip in reverse, driving her back to Connecticut and then hopping back on the train to come home.

And so it came to pass that my husband took the train out of Grand Central Station not too long ago with a rasta bredren from the Bahamas in tow, to go fetch Granny Meg. He and Harry, aka "Harry Pottah", arrived at the country train station right on schedule. Granny Meg waved to them from across the parking lot and they all piled into her car. Peter slid in behind the driver's seat, while Granny Meg rode shotgun, of course. Harry Pottah climbed into the back seat.

Picture it. Ray Charles could see where this story is going.

Much of the ride was uneventful. Except, of course, for Granny Meg telling Peter , "slow down, you are driving MUCH too fast." When she said it loudly enough, he would laugh softly and drop his speed. As they approached the towering high-rises of Co-op City in the Bronx, the traffic thickened, and Peter changed lanes quickly, swerving to avoid a slower vehicle.

According to Granny Meg, "That's when all hell broke loose."

The wail of a police siren grew louder as it approached them from behind. Looking in the rear view passenger-side mirror, Granny Meg saw a NY State Police cruiser pull up closely behind them, lights flashing.

“Are they after us?” she asked, worried.

“I think so, Granny Meg.” The cruiser signaled them to pull way over to the shoulder on the right.

One of the cops approached the driver's side of the car and asked Peter for his license, which he duly surrendered. What Granny Meg didn't realize was that Peter does not have a valid NY State driver's license. He still carries his Jamaican license, even after 15 years of living in the states. We don't own a car here so it hasn't been much of an issue. Car rental companies, accustomed to foreign visitors, tend to look the other way.

But the police officer took one look at the Jamaican license, took another long look at the driver, the little silver-haired white lady in the front seat and the quietly brooding dread in the backseat -- and paused for a moment.

"Please step out of the car sir, and come with me." Peter smiled and casually strode across the pavement to the cruiser parked behind them. This was certainly not the first time he'd been pulled over by the po-po. Hell, it was probably more like the one-hundredth time.

Granny Meg, on the other hand, has never been stopped by the police in her entire life. She and Harry Pottah had no choice but to sit quietly while the cops grilled her son-in-law. For nearly 45 minutes. According to Granny Meg, "Naturally, Peter looked as relaxed as ever, leaning against a fence with one foot up against the police car."

It seems the cops spent most of that time accessing their criminal database searching for the undoubtedly-extensive rap sheet of their suspect. Except, of course, that he doesn't have an extensive rap sheet. He has no criminal record at all. Unconvinced, and certain that they had intercepted a car-jacking in progress, one officer strode back to the car, approaching Granny Meg's window. The Bad Cop stayed with the suspect, the Good Cop would handle the old lady.

"Do you know this man, ma'am?" he asked, gesturing to Peter.

“Of course I do," she said, indignant but nervous. "He’s my son in law.” Seriously.

Clearly believing that she'd been intimidated or threatened not to reveal the truth about the criminal enterprise that was clearly underway, he responded, "Well then, ma'am, can you tell me his name?"

And so she did. The officer raised his eyebrows slightly at her answer.

What she also did not realize was that Peter had obtained his Jamaican driver's license through a typically sketchy island fashion; and it was issued using his middle name, Antony. There was no mention of "Peter" on the license.

"So, you claim that he's your son-in-law. Well, do you know his address, ma'am?"

By this time, Granny Meg was so worried and frazzled, she gave the the address but switched the street number with our building number. It was all ass-backwards. She stammered, "No, wait, I gave that to you wrong. You have gotten me SO nervous I can't think straight." He told her not to be nervous, but that he wanted some more information about "Peter." She calmed down and collected herself, provided his age and also remembered his birthday, which is April 20th.

The Good Cop went back to his cruiser and, according to Granny Meg, "Suddenly Peter was at my window saying the police wanted my registration for the car and my license." She handed Peter the registration but while the two of them searched inside her wallet, tugging back and forth, for the license, they tipped the wallet upside down. Granny Meg had gone to the bank that morning, in anticipation of her trip, and gasped as the $400 in small bills she had withdrawn from the bank were now blowing across Interstate 95.

Seeing fifties and twenties swirling in the air, Harry Pottah quickly came to life. He clambered out of the back seat and chased after the fluttering bills, dodging traffic. Passersby even stopped to help - a strange car stopped on the opposite shoulder and a woman stepped out, picked up a bill and quickly made her way across to Granny Meg in her car. "Here," she said handing Granny Meg a fifty. "I think this must be yours."

Surprisingly, Granny Meg was able to recover almost all of her cash but her stress level had taken another shot into the upper stratosphere. The Good Cop approached Granny Meg again and summoned her over to the cruiser where her son-in-law stood. Now The Bad Cop spoke.

Addressing Peter, he said, "First, you don’t have a valid New York State Driver's license. And you have lied to us repeatedly."

"Oh, no, Peter would not have lied to you. Never," interrupted Granny Meg. The Bad Cop silenced her with a glare.

The Bad Cop went on to cite the discrepancy regarding the name on his license and the name his "alleged mother-in-law" had supplied. Likewise with the birth date, apparently. You see, when they asked Peter to provide his birthday, he pronounced the words "April twentieth" but it comes out sounding like "April twenty-ate." It's all in the accent, no t-h sound. But not to the cops -- Bingo, another lie, they say. And presumably Granny Meg's mangling of his home address was seen as yet another deception.

It all looked very suspicious to both Good Cop and Bad Cop. They simply could not fathom why this trio could be up to anything other than trouble. And they hadn't even yet begun a search for information on Harry Pottah.

"How come, if you've been in Ameica for 15 years, you don't have any record in our system, huh?" Bad Cop asked Peter. As if it were unbelievable that he could actually be a law-abiding citizen. Or law-abiding green-card holder, in this case.

Peter just shrugged and laughed, "Because mi nah commit no crime, chief. Yuh nah go fine mi name inna dat system. Seemple."

"He is NOT a criminal. He is my son-in-law and we just want to get to Manhattan and see my daughter and my grandchildren." Now that she had recovered some of her nerve, Granny Meg was getting angry.

The Bad Cop turned to her again, annoyed at this little sparrow and whose role in this whole scenario clearly troubled him. She may as well have been Ma Barker, at this point, as far as he could tell. He was mystified. "Well he DID make an illegal lane change and we're giving him a ticket for that," he said, with some satisfaction. He turned back to Peter, "And you don't have a New York State license which is required after becoming a New York resident. And you were over the speed limit." He handed Peter the three tickets.

He then turned to Granny Meg for a final comment. "Get in the driver's side of the car, ma'am." She was taken aback.

"You want ME to drive”?

“YOU drive the car or you will be towed.”

She sputtered and complained that she was an older woman in her 80s, that she had never driven into Manhattan in her life and didn't want to start now. But he would have none of it.

“Lady, you drive, or your car will be towed.” It was clear they would monitor their departure, even follow them for several miles if necessary, to make certain she did the driving.

She spoke very quietly and said, “You know, you are not really being very kind.” Yeah, she really put him in his place, no? So much for Ma Barker.

They filed back to the car. Granny Meg reluctantly got behind the wheel and Peter guided her the rest of the way into Manhattan. Harry Pottah muttered to himself in the backseat, about New York cops always "going after the little guys." They rolled onto our block 2 hours later than expected.

All in all, given the enormous cost of the 3 tickets, we would have been better served arranging for a limo to take Granny Meg to and from New York for the party. But her adventure gave her yet one more priceless son-in-law story to share with her bridge group back in Connecticut.

And now this tiny, old white lady from Connecticut has experienced D.W.B. first hand. Another wild ride with the man she no longer considers her son-in-law.

No. She considers him her son.

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"When I've painted a woman's bottom so that I want to touch it, then the painting is finished."

Renoir, 1841-1919

Never knew that old goat was so hilarious.

And I thought it applied to this latest version of coconuts. They looked ready to touch, ready to pull off the tree.



I kept glazing, trying to come up with a completely different palette of colors than the first effort at this bunch. It's different, but not radically so.

Here's the previous version, just as a comparison:




Hmmm. May have to lock off certain colors (which I'm always drawn to) in order to do an entirely new version.

Soon come.

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Picasso and Alice Neel and Art on a Dashboard

Art-full weekend. Saw the Picasso exhibit at Gagosian and Alice Neel (personal favorite) at Zwirner, both in Chelsea. Go go go.

Just a brief thanks to SOOOO many commenters who have responded to the posts this week. Really appreciate all the feedback and have published all under each post.

Went to Utrecht and then to Pearl Paint today for supplies. While at Utrecht (4th Avenue and 11th St.) I saw this at the end of the paper aisle. At first I thought it was a cigarette machine, which totally threw me, didn't think they still even made cigarette machines:



But, of course, when you look at it closely, not only is it NO LONGER a cigarette machine, it is filled with art for sale. This notice was posted above the coin/bill slot:


I fished into my wallet but didn't have a five -- art is not free but it IS cheaper than a pack of cigarettes -- maybe next time. I'll definitely buy a package this week. A few dozen choices:


Finally, on the way back home, I spotted this car on 10th street. Someone has turned the inside of their car into a conceptual art piece. Looked kinda trashy but compelling:




An inspiring day -- did a lot of painting. Lots of story refining -- hee-larious. Car-jacking or rentadread, which comes first? Hmmmm -- stay tuned.

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iphone art

Finally caught up the with trends and got an iphone on Mother's Day, as I mentioned in an earlier story. Big up, to the king - LOVE him, LOVE it, it has simplified my life.

I immediately downloaded some apps to allow me to sketch and paint on the go. It's tough to get used to the very tiny screen but the app does allow you to zoom way in and work on small areas at a time ........



You literally sketch with your finger tip on the screen, choosing colors and opacity as well as brush size, with pop up palettes. These aren't exactly my best works but are done from memory/imagination so, not too shabby as a first start.......





Back to paper and paint next time.

Also, have a nice Renta-dread story in the wings -- have had a few requests for another juicy story, so what could be juicier?





Hail up the king -- loving it.

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The Wild Bunch

"Paradise Palm #3", 12"x15.5" ink and watercolor on paper $350



Hmm, the title sounds as if I should have a good story to go along with it.....but not today. Working on a series of close ups of palms/coconuts and will post another shortly.

'Til then, the king and I are off to Brooklyn....the kids are away so mom and dad can finally play.

Enjoy the weekend.

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The artist formerly known as PRINTS

Apologies to those who have expressed dismay at the interruption of stories -- more soon come.

The Big News to which I've been alluding has been the introduction of high-quality giclee prints of my original watercolors, collages, and drawings to be offered for sale. I'm presently still working with printers to fine-tune the process of scanning and reproducing my work to fully capture the original color and clarity of each piece but at a more affordable price than the original.

Here's an example of an initial trial -- can you tell which is which? One is a scan of the original ink and watercolor painting and and the other is a scan of the reproduction, printed on heavy-weight watercolor paper.



When I am satisfied that we have achieved the highest quality accurate reproduction, I will be offering a full array of pieces for sale as prints. These ink and watercolor paintings will all be reproduced on a substantial weight, watercolor paper, with an appropriately wide border, each individually signed and dated by me, suitable for framing.

Thank you for your patience and the continued reading by so many hundreds of followers.

Look for another story this week .................

Note: the above painting is a portrait of Alphonso, our dear friend, rasta elder and supreme jewelery craftsman of Negril, who passed away this past winter. I've had many requests for prints of his portrait which will be available shortly. The original, no longer for sale, is on the left, the print is on the right.

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The fambly that plays to-geddah, stays to-geddah.

No painting to post today -- the littlest empress in the house had a plan for this holiday and the latest work has been put on hold. Instead, a family outing, bike ride round downtown Manhattan, was the order of the day.

Stopped in Hudson River Park for wine and cheese and root beer and just spend time to chill. Be back tomorrow with more paintings and update on The News to come.........



Happy Memorial Day

_/\_

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Why ya watch mi ?

That line was our calling card. We left it every WHERE.

From the Roundabout to the West End, From Straithbogie to Great Georges Street. From Spanish Town to Tivoli Garden.

I'd hear the bwoys whispering, "a who dat wid di dread?" or shout out, "ya queen sweet'n pretty, rasta, bless up!"

Or I'd see the screwface ladies who just kiss teeth, arms folded 'pon their ample chests, scowling. They didn't like giving up one nice prince they hoped would sekkle dung with ona dem. Can't blame them.

"Why ya watch mi?" he'd shout, laughing. "Jess watch yuself, now mon, nah watch MI." And he'd step on the gas............


Seriously --- WATCH THIS SPACE. Some news coming.

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Loving on Miss Una

Sweet, sweet Miss Una, my mother-in-law. Quiet as a church mouse and with a shy smile that warms up a room.

Until you make her angry.

I'm thankful to have always been on the her good side. She can kiss-teeth like nobody's business, swing a furious switch at a wayward yard dog and let out a low bellow that will rattle the windows when she sees one pickney misbehave. For such a tiny woman, she can make a big noise.

But she's always turned those soulful eyes on me with love and kindness. As her first daughter-in-law, and the bearer of her first grandchildren, sweet Miss Una has always had a soft spot for me, and me for her. She never asks for a thing to be brought down to the yard 'fram farrin' unless I prod her -- what do you need, Una? What can we bring you?

She'll shrug and smile, never asking for anything bigger than a breadbox. An iron fi press 'im clothes, perhaps, or one nice new church hat. She telephoned me last night and wished me a belated Happy Mother's Day. Our daughters had sent hand-made cards and a small package down as a gift for her on a day that few in her yard remember to commemorate. She'd forgotten all about it herself.

"What do you need, Una? What can we bring you when we come?"

She was silent for a moment and then said, "Mi wan one white dress fi go a weddings and one black dress fi go a funerals." That made me smile. Some folks in yard present a wish list of luxury items when they hear we are coming down. But not Miss Una. A simple outfit for beginnings and endings is all she needs, a more-than-practical wardrobe request.

And because she asks for so little, while needing so much, we have begun to build her a small block house in the yard. It's time to provide her with more comfort in her senior years. Finding the funds has been tough and even driven some to less-than-savory methods to make it happen (naughty, naughty bwoy!). But we'll find a way. Musst!

Life has been hard on sweet Miss Una. It has hardly ever been sweet.

Too many children when she was barely older than a child herself. And never a decent man around to share the heavy load. It has made her tough without making her hard.

Over the years, Miss Una has always had good advice when her times were rough, "jess laff it ahf, Miss Vic, mi jess laff it ahf". Whether it was having to bail one bad bwoy son outta jail or settling a simple family feud over missing cutlery and dishes, Miss Una might scowl at first but then she would indeed laff it ahf, jess laff it ahf.

Thanks for the love and the laffs, Miss Una.................

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Half Way Tree

Working on a large oil portrait, 24"x30", of the man of the house, the king of our castle. But I'm only half way. I had hoped to, but don't imagine I will, have it completed by Father's Day. I would like to return the love after having such a beautiful day this past Sunday and present this portrait as a gift.

The above images are some close ups of my favorite sections. The work as a whole has not fallen into place just yet. Here are the "before" images of the same sections:







The before pics, above, were charcoal sketches, plus washes of oil paint added. I've been building and changing colors ever since. I've been enjoying the journey but look forward to the outcome -- it's a labor of love, seen?

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Putting Up A Resistance - A Mother's Day story

The decision to become first-time parents together was the easy part. Which, in retrospect, seems hilariously short sighted. I lived in NYC and he lived in Sav La Mar. It's probably a good thing we didn't think about the details too carefully since it might have derailed our little family before it even came to be.

I'd been watching him tend gently to the little ones in the family yard, always patient and with a warm smile. At first, I wondered if some of these pickney were his; it seemed logical, given his age and what appeared to be a common practice in that rural community. There were a whole heapah babies and Baby Mudda's but not a whole heapah wives and husbands with intact families. Not a lot of family planning going on.

He snorted at my question. "NO. Mi no haff no pickney. Mi coulda have one whole ARMY a pickney by now, but mi no wan' dem fi grow up like a mi: fadda-less and in the ghetto." That gave me goosebumps. He grew up never knowing his father, with barely enough food to feed him and the 6 siblings who arrived after. I had underestimated him. He was not the happy-go-lucky yardie, just out for a good-time party and cruising the back roads in a fast unit. He carried a heavy heart.

And it seems he had been watching me more closely than I realized. After multiple trips, including our intense, hair-raising accident early on, he began to gently ask me my intentions. "When yuh tink yuh wan' give me one yewt, Veektoddyah?" When did I want to have his baby? He'd said it with a gentle laugh and a smile but a sideways glance. Couldn't put too much of his heart out on the table if I was going to stomp on it real quick.

Timing, as they say, is everything. And it was the right time for us. Before too long, I was pregnant and we were both over-the-moon at the thought of it. The story of my husband's journey up to America is one I'll leave for another day, but suffice it to say that it was arduous and stressful. We both wanted him to be here before our baby arrived and he made it with just about 4 weeks to spare.

I should have known we were headed for trouble when we attended our first Lamaze class together. I'd been to several alone already, the odd single pregnant woman in a class of parental pairs. I was delighted to finally have him at my side. He, on the other hand, found it all ridiculous. The stop-watches, the odd breathing, the idea of being my "coach" were all more-than-foreign to him.

"All dis fuss over one likkle baby?", he asked, shaking his head.

Altho he'd been born in a hospital, his 6 siblings had all been born at home. And home was a two-room board house without indoor plumbing nor electricity. His granny had been the midwife and brought the other babies into the world with only a kerosene lantern to see and an outdoor wood fire to boil water. The facilities of Beth Israel Medical Center in lower Manhattan struck him as overkill. Altho' I had hoped to take advantage of the Midwifery Clinic at B.I., my insurance carrier had other ideas, so we were in the hands of my young, no-nonsense and very hot female OB/GYN. Dr. Fischer was sassy and brusque, but with a quick smile and a reassuring confidence.

And when The Day arrived, I gently poked my husband. "I think it's time," I whispered. He cracked open one eye and then closed it back again.

"Mi no wanna be in dat room," he whispered back.

"Oh, YES, you ARE going to be in that room," I smiled back at him.

"Seriously, veektoddyah, mi no really wan fi be in dat room."

To be frank, I wasn't looking forward to the experience in That Room either, but I had no choice. And neither did he. It was not up for discussion and I made that clear. I did not jump through a thousand bureaucratic hoops, hire an immigration attorney, pay outrageous Embassy fees and even called in a favor with a college friend working in the Clinton White House -- all just to make certain he got here in time for The Day, in order to go to the Labor and Delivery room alone. While he sat in some posh waiting area with his inlaws.

No. He was going to be in That Room. End of discussion.

I will spare you, gentle reader, all the details of that day. Labor and delivery room stories are usually only very interesting to those present. But our unique pairing did give us a few twists to the usual birth-day accounting.

When I was finally wheeled into our room, which was really less clinical than we'd imagined, more like a small cozy private hospital room with a few additional high-tech devices plus a comfy rocking chair, my husband headed straight for the far corner. He hunkered down, trying to be invisible. He wore huge dark aviator sunglasses and had quickly wrapped up his dreads in a red-gold-and green striped winter scarf. It was November, after all.

When Dr. Fischer strode in the room, took one look at him and his attempt to melt into the wallpaper, she knew right away that he was going to be a less-than-dependable assistant in the day's endeavor. Noting his dark glasses she snorted, "What, is it a little too BRIGHT in here for you, dads?" and then turned to me, raising her eyebrows. I sighed, "He really doesn't want to be here, he gets a little queasy at the thought of it all." So Dr. Fischer kept him busy with anything that could take HIS mind off of the queasy details. As if she and I didn't have enough to do.

But he made it, god bless him, without keeling over. He held my hand, rubbed my back, quickly agreed to leave the room whenever asked in order to get me a cup of ice chips (he loved that mission), and made repeated visits to the waiting area to keep the two sets of grandparents apprised of my progress. When he was obligated to remain in That Room, he held his station up by my pillow, sunglasses intact, probably gazing at the ceiling tiles most of the time. He did not want to see any head crowning, thank you, and no, he had no interest in cutting any kind of cord, thank you VERY much, not today.

But when that beautiful baby girl was placed on my chest, her eyes wide and blinking at us both for the first time, those sunglasses whipped right off and he knelt down to get a very close look. If you are a parent, then you know the feeling of that moment. As the attending nurse took her from me and prepared to whisk her off to the nursery for a bathe and the perfunctory weighing and measuring and so forth, my husband leaned down to me and whispered, "Mi gwan go follow her. Mi haffi mek sure she don't get SWITCHED."

If I hadn't been so wiped out, I think I would have burst out laughing. I just gave him a quizzical you-can't-be-serious look. "Ummm, what?", I said.

"Mi granny tell me to follow 'im, to nevah let mi eyes offa mi new baby. She seh in American hospitals, deh baby dem ALWAYS get SWITCHED. And true, our baby so nice and pretty, someone will want fi tek she, so me gwan stay by her side and mek sure it no happen."

And he did. He never left her side until she was brought back to me in my own room.

The small phalanx of nurses in that maternity ward, the bulk of whom were West Indian, found his protective and watchful eye over his new daughter quite endearing. Each one who came to the room packed my bag full of extra baby blankets, diapers and such, more than the standard issue of rations. In fact, it seemed that each nurse on that floor made an extra visit to our room to hand us "just a few extra supplies" to take home, having a soft spot for this new faddah from bakka yard.

"To hear 'im talk, yuh tink HIM give birth to dat lickle girl him SELF," one Jamaican nurse told me, when she was settling me and our daughter into my room for the night. "All he can talk 'bout is when he gwan tek him new baby bakka yard and show her to evry-baddy and show her all 'roun Jamaica and rae rae rae." She kissed her teeth but then smiled. "You an yuh dawta haff one good baby faddah, yuh know."

So it didn't matter that he resisted watching every second of her arrival, and that of her baby sister two years later, -- once those babies were here, his watchful, loving eyes have never left them. Although I love the flowers, cards and made-to-order breakfast on Mother's Day, those watchful, loving eyes are the greatest gift.

Then again, that i-phone you gave me today, honey? That's a really close second.......

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You say verandah, I say porch

You say rain-ah fall, I say it's raining.

You say she bawl eye-watah, I say she's crying.

You say pin-weeng, I say penguin.

You say prop kahrn, I say popcorn.

You say flim, I say film.

You say pickney, I say kids.

You say neegle and noogle, I say needle and noodle.

You say electric city, I say electricity.

You say you had a vision last night, I say I had a dream.

You say ya wanta bile egg? I say, yes I'd like two boiled eggs, please.

You say mi soon come, I say 2 hours or 2 days?

You say mi luvya yuh know, I say yes, I know.

You say verandah and I say porch. No matter what you call it, the view from here is still beautiful..................

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Skin Deep

I rode the school bus with her every day. Seventh grade was painful enough without having to begin each morning stumbling past The Perfect Girl. Honestly, her older brother got all the good looks in the family; she was the Caroline to his John-John, but she still shone in the reflected glory of his football-team-captain aura.

I would lumber onto the bus, squeezing past her and her chattering friends, to my usual seat, alone, and gaze at their morning tween version of a kaffeeklatsch. In hindsight, she wasn't really that pretty, but she seemed perfect to me. Where I had unruly dirty-blonde curls, she had that 70's-sleek thick, straight chestnut mane. I wore weird aviator-style wire-framed glasses and had two layers of braces on my teeth. She was free from any sort of facial hardware, with smooth flawless skin. She had an uncluttered beauty, at least in my eyes, and I often found myself simply staring at her and her forgettable friends each morning. They gossiped and laughed on the interminable bus ride toward our middle school in a small Connecticut town.

One morning, as she turned around in her seat so she could chat with her girlfriends, The Perfect Girl caught my eye. I must have been watching them, quietly and alone from my seat a few rows back, when she noticed me. She sat up straighter. Her smile melted away and she barked at me, "Take a picture, bitch. It lasts longer." Her friends all turned to look at me, gasping and then squealing with laughter. I quickly turned away, looking out the bus window. My face warmed, I was mortified. I couldn't believe that she had even noticed me at all; I had always felt invisible on that school bus and suddenly a dozen pairs of eyes were looking and laughing at me. She didn't know that I had been looking at her with a mix of admiration and envy. That I thought she was beautiful and confident, where I was still an ugly duckling searching for my footing and losing my way in 7th-grade hell.

I felt as if she had stabbed me.

I never thought of her as The Perfect Girl again.

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Whole Lotta Love

I received this in the mail this week, a wildly hand-painted cardboard box, about 6"x4"x4":



As you can see, it says that it contains "LOVE". It kinda freaked me out, since I had no idea who the person on the return address was. I was afraid to open it (so many nuts out there, you know?). I opened it at arms length, looking away from it, just in case it exploded or something.


Thankfully, I guess it only contained love.........



Here's the peson on the return address: Franck De Las Mercedes, an artist who apparently has been sending out these packages made to order for quite some time. They contain Peace, Justice, Love or whatever you care to share I suppose. Check him out and spread the love...........

And thank you to my mystery sender.

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Waiting for the country bus

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The I Three -- no, The EYE Three.....

"Conch No. 1 ", 10"x8" graphite on kraft paper




"Conch No. 2 ", 10"x8" graphite, chalk on kraft paper




"Conch No. 3 ", 10"x8" ink, watercolor and gouache on kraft paper

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Melancholy

"Melancholy Dread", 8"x 6" ink on butcher paper $200

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