Using a Winsor & Newton Deep Edge Artists' Cotton Canvas (Review)

CANDID INTERVIEW WITH STACEY TORRES -FOLK ARTIST

THIS IS WHERE IT HAPPENED ...

There's a spot about the size of a quarter on my right shin that's very tender to touch, and has been for the last 55 years. It comes from a deep gash I got after I stumbled up some steps.

Earlier this year, I wrote about my love for my late great aunt's ancient Brooklyn brownstone where I spent my childhood summers. I shared all the celebrations and sweet memories with you, and even painted a visual of the home's garden. But there's another story about the house I'd like to tell. A lot of older homes are filled with history, mystery, and often unexplained ominous shadows; including the grand old house on Macon Street in Brooklyn.

Apart from spending my summers at my Aunt Car's house, my grandparents and I made regular visits to see her and my Uncle Henry. One such visit I'll never forget. My grandparents picked me up after school and we went straight to Brooklyn, which was unusual. But, at that young age, to me it was just another rendezvous to see family. 

Once there, Gramps visited with my uncle in the garden, where they smoked and drank Jamaican rum. Aunt Car and my grandmother spoke in low tones trying to be discreet, which was always my clue to hone in and listen hard. As they ascended the stairs from the garden level to the parlor floor, I paused by the family door to my aunt's rooms, but much to my surprise, the two women continued up the stairs to the next level – one I rarely went to without Aunt Car or my uncle. There they rented out rooms to boarders, and it always seemed like another world up there.

But, I was nosy, and they didn't try to shoo me away, so I followed at a respectable distance within earshot. The whispers became lower – hushed, if you will. Intrigued, I edged closer behind them as they slowly walked the hall. The doors to the boarders' rooms were all closed and the hallway was silent. 

Aunt Car paused and opened up the bathroom door that was shared by all who rented there. It was a simple bath with a sink, a toilet and a large footed Victorian tub. I really don't like old bathrooms, and the shortest time I can spend in one, the better. Why were we stopping here?

Nana looked at Aunt Car with their strange communal silent language the two of them possessed. I was quickly learning this language and knew all of the facial gestures and signals. Nana's right eyebrow went up, and Aunt Car nodded. Then Aunt Car looked at her again and whispered even lower, “This is where it happened …” It?? I thought silently. What was it? What the heck happened here? I wedged myself between them and looked up, lifting my brows in an attempt to communicate with my elders in their own secret code, but they only shoved me away.

Aunt Car silently shut the door while giving Nana another code glance, and they went downstairs with me following close behind. It was never told to me what happened in that bathroom, and I knew better than to ask. But something sinister took place on that floor, in that room, and it stuck with me for life. From then on, I've had an extreme aversion to claw foot tubs; I can't stand the sight of them, even though I know I'd love soaking in one … probably as a dead woman, but not in this life!

My job, when staying with my aunt and uncle, was to polish the banisters every week. For a couple of weeks, I got away with not polishing anything above the parlor floor. I didn't want to go up there “where it happened.” Eventually I was forced to go up there, and I would race up the stairs, polish the banisters like crazy, and fly back down as fast as I could. On one occasion, as I dashed past the bathroom, I felt something cold swirling around my ankles, and suddenly I was frozen in place. Then, I felt it grab my foot! Terrified, I fled all the way downstairs to the kitchen on the garden level. Out of breath, I immediately realized, I had left my dust rag up there. Not noticing my trembling anxiety, my aunt told me to back up and get it. So I flew up the stairs again -- but on the third step, I tripped and jammed my shin into the edge of the step, cutting my leg open to the bone. Afterwards, I never told anyone what happened upstairs, nor did I ever venture up there again.

Recently, I spoke with the current owner of the brownstone. He told me of his friend, who is legally blind, that visits the home and sleeps in an adjacent room to that bathroom. The friend told him that he senses water, alcohol, possibly a drowning, and a woman who doesn't know she's dead. He's also experienced other occurrences in the brownstone, including a former inmate from the house next door who walks through the walls and haunts him.

So, now I have an idea what may have happened in the upstairs bathroom on Macon Street. But, what if a real incident did not actually occur that night? What if my aunt was upstairs and saw the ghost of the lady in the water? The plot thickens and widens. All I know is, that is where it happened.

On October 27, 2016, in an article about New York hauntings, the New York Post included accounts about our beloved brownstone and its mysterious bathroom.

Published in The Courier-Times on 10/30/2016

MOORE'S ANGEL: My Final Gift To Them

As you may know, my mother passed away in February 2015, and my Aunt Thelma (her sister) died in 2010. Both were 91 at the time of their deaths. I chose to have them buried side-by-side in a double plot, and purchased a headstone for them shortly before my mother's passing. I did not, however, make the final arrangements to add the inscriptions, etc. It has been an extremely painful challenge for me to even visit the grave site and move forward.

When I was ill, all I could think of was 'I had not given them the details for the stone. What if I don't make it; what will they do?' And then, I put it off again and again - until last week. It finally stuck in my mind that to wait any longer would be unacceptable. So, I met with the funeral service that takes care of my family and talked about the stone. In this meeting, I made the decision to design a stone using my own artwork; something I believe my mother and aunt would appreciate.

However, if you knew them, you also know there were few things that they would agree upon. But, I tried to keep them in consideration as I came up with my design. While headstones are for the living to see, they especially honor and represent those who rest there.

My mother was Methodist; my aunt Catholic. Mom was fond of the Praying Hands symbol, but we had used that on my grandparents’ grave, which is a few feet away. My aunt liked earth tones; my mother liked jewel tones. Aunt Thelma was extremely proud of her Caribbean and Canadian heritage, but Mom claimed she didn't remember anything about it (deliberately). It was not going to be easy.

I prayed on it, and took a nap shortly after leaving the meeting. It's rare for me to dream in the day, but I did. When I awoke, the design was clear as a bell. I painted an angel that looks much like them when they were young. In the angel's arms, she cradles a bouquet of four yellow roses; my mother's favorite flower, representing friendship. In this bouquet are also four Silver Maple leaves - the Maple Leaf being the symbol of Canada, where they grew up. A small halo of Poinsettia and Barbados Cherry blossoms are in her hair in honor of our family heritage, and Thelma's birthplace. The angel's hands are not in the typical prayer position. However, they are eternally held in a gesture of humble supplication. I have named her “Moore's Angel,” my maternal family name.

MOORE'S ANGEL, by Artist Stacey Torres

This is the image that will be glazed upon the headstone above their final resting place. I believe they would be pleased with this, and trust my remaining family will be as well. All in all, I feel tremendously better for it myself. Some of the grief and anxiety has been lifted from me. Painting this angel's image came to me very quickly, and was not of my own design; she just appeared.

The spokes of my wheel are slowly coming back together, and, I too shall keep walking.

Published in The Courier-Times, Sept 25, 2016

Don't Rush Your Endless Summer

Posted: Sunday, August 28, 2016 6:00 am

By STACEY TORRES - For The Courier-Times 

This year, the autumn equinox will arrive on Sept. 22. Sometimes it occurs on the 21st or 23rd of September when the sun crosses the celestial equator. I don’t know where exactly that is, except that it’s in the sky and it’s supposed to match our equator here on earth. Of course, none of that makes any sense to me, but that’s what I was taught. Thus, it heralds the first day of autumn.

ALLYSON'S GOLDFISH, by Artist Stacey Torres

Fall used to be my favorite season, but I don’t care for it much these days. Perhaps because it signals the upcoming darkness; the cold, desolate period when nature comes to a stop. Some things survive it; some do not. I would like a calm, but endless summer. I’ve had my years of seasons changing, and my own personal equinoxes and solstices are beginning to run into each other.

Years ago, August was the crown jewel of summer, as people wrapped up their family vacations, kids headed back to school, and summer was gently tucked away for safe keeping until the following year. But our society tends to rush the seasons.

Christmas decorations are actually in some stores after July 4. Some kids went back to school early, making family vacations pretty much impossible because of peak-season rates, work schedules and countless sports and other activities children take part in. There’s no more playing ball under the street light, catching lightning bugs, slurping a cone on the back porch or family dinners at the park. By the end of July, everyone is exhausted, and parents, broke from the children’s extra activities, can’t wait to see their kids go back to school.

Life, being so short, should be savored with the ones we love, doing the things we enjoy with each other. Where are those “lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer?” One day soon, those little ones will grow and jump off that springboard into a pool that will be their destiny. Our elders will be gone, and all we have are these piles of scrapbooks to remind us of what we did yesterday, instead of archiving them in our hearts and minds, to be remembered during those cold, dark winter days ahead.

But I’m just one of those people that like to hold onto the sweet things of the past that still make things feel good ... Nana’s home – brewed iced tea – no, it wasn’t sweet tea, but it was strong, cold and pierced with citrus and cloves ... her fresh-cut roses that were put on our Sunday table that lasted until Friday night, when the last fragrant petal settled on one of her pretty “summer tablecloths” – the ones with the orange slices around the border ... all-day family outings at the park, that began at dawn with ham and pancakes on a small griddle, a hearty all day picnic, and iced-cold watermelon and singing as the sun began to sink … or, sleeping with a million cousins in one bed on a hot night, with feet tangled and a fan competing with our laughter.

Of course, nothing remains the same, and we all change, as does the earth and its seasons. Sure, I really do love the other seasons too. But summer takes us back to our youth … to that first convertible ride under a July sun ... summer dances with friends, and sleeping in the backseat at the drive-in while our parents did whatever that was they did that made them giggle like children.

I could go on, but I don’t need to. You all have your favorite summer memories ... some wonderful; some not. Pull out that scrapbook in the back of your mind, and do something fun again. Enjoy your own endless summer while it lasts.

New Castle resident Stacey Torres is an artist, dancer, writer and author. Her column is published on the last Sunday of the month.

As published in The Courier-Times 8/28/2016

It's Going To Be A Long, Hot Summer

The last few days have been unbearably hot – Everyone is feeling it; there is no way around it. They've warned folks to stay indoors if they don't have to be out; keep hydrated; wear a hat; use your air; and check on pets, neighbors and the elderly.

BREAK TIME, by Stacey Torres ART

The older I get, the harder it is for me to tolerate the heat, and so I've had a lot of difficulty. This is A Long Hot Summer – in every way.

We are now in a world where people are hateful, rude, crude, angry, bitter, accusing, fearful, paranoid, blameful, shameful, evil, spiteful, revengeful, mean, prejudice – did I say fearful? Fear of the unknown makes things hotter, more volatile and explosive. And, worse – people feel justified in their behavior. A nation that is torn apart in multiple directions smolders on the brink of more burning turmoil. Folks don't trust what they don't know – what they don't care to know – what others have told them – without finding out and understanding the truth for themselves.

Are we nation of sheep – following this one or that one aimlessly in no particular direction … without bothering to read their own map first … Marching through A Long Hot Summer?

The heat, along with some new medications made me terribly ill this week. My blood pressure shot up and I panicked, paying a visit to the ER for safe measure. I'm still reeling with spotty dizzy spells and being lightheaded. The ER doctor warned me to remain inside this weekend and stay cool … And, I tried. But, yesterday, I left the house. I was craving lemonade, so I drove to the Speedway station and got a 52 oz lemonade with lots of ice to nurse on all day while I painted and did some M&R (max and relax) under the air conditioning.

There was a friendly sort of guy in there joking with folks and having a conversation with the cashier. When I got to the register, my coupon for a free drink had expired, so I reached in my wallet to pay. But he, in a very Lancelot kind of way, handed the cashier a $10 bill, and said, "It's on me."

In the midst of A Long Hot Summer, with everyone eyeing each other with suspicion and guilt and horrible thoughts, he Paid It Forward! It was very kind of him, and I thanked him. There was a time when this was the norm. When we cared about each other, whether we knew anything about them or not. His timing could not have been more perfect. So, if you see the friendly guy with the green t-shirt and suspenders - Give him ANOTHER thank you for me, please. This Long Hot Summer is hardly over yet.

As published in The Courier-Times, 7/2016

Aunt Lorna Stacey Torres

SOLD! Aunt Lorna Stacey Torres: Aunt Lorna (Painting), 16 x 20 x 0.75 in by Stacey Torres Painted with Hydrus Fine Art Watercolors and (colored) India Ink on 16 x 20' Ampersand wood panel. It is framed in a gold tone wood frame, wired and ready to hang. This painting has been sprayed with an acrylic varnish for protection. There is no glazing/glass with this frame.

NOW, THAT'S A PEACH!

It's called a Patio Peach – a small ornamental peach tree usually displayed in large planters, and often brought indoors to overwinter in cooler climates. I guess I bought mine about nine years ago from a garden center in Indianapolis. After a few months of basking in the sun in the backyard, she seemed quite content. So, I took a chance and planted her in the ground about 12 feet away from the back door. After all, how big could a dwarf sized “patio” peach tree get?

My Patio Peach grew to about 4.5 feet tall, and thrived for two summers. However, I lost her during a sudden ice storm one April, and cut her down the following month. What I didn't realize, however, was that I had failed to chop and eliminate a sucker that was growing from the base of the stump. Over the next year and a half, that sucker grew into a beautiful 12 foot tall peach tree with branches that spanned about 15 feet in my garden. This created a glorious little canopy that replaced the umbrella that used to tumble over into the day lily bed every time a slight breeze came.

Patsy's Gifts
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In the summer of 2010, the reincarnated Patsy – that was her name – began to bear fruit. Small walnut sized peaches with pretty unblemished thick peach skin. Because she had been an ornamental tree in her former life, I just accepted these little treasures as bonus eye candy. One afternoon, my mother and I sat at the kitchen table; her watching television, and me baking muffins for the farmers market.

“Did you put something special in those muffins?” she asked.

“No. Like what?”

“You didn't put any rum or brandy in them?”

“NO! Why?”

“Well, I smell booze,” she said.

I sniffed around, and I did too. It smelled a lot like the starter for her Friendship Cakes she used to bake. But, I had nothing like that around, and rum cakes were not on my menu for the market – that week.

The smell was so distracting, she stopped watching her show, and I was inhaling like a Bloodhound.

“Do you have a bottle of something open?”

“No. I told you I don't have anything ...”

Me & Patsy 2012

My nose led me to the back door and out into the garden. And there it was! Those darn little peaches had become ripe – over ripe, and were beginning to ferment right on the trees. Bees were fluttering around and bumping into everything. Hummingbirds were flapping their wings wildly, and I reached up and plucked a small perfectly round mini peach. Biting into it was probably the most surprisingly delectable experience I had (that summer). It had firm white flesh, yet it was juicy and intensely sweet. It was also like taking a shot of peach brandy with fur. I gathered up a few, and my mother and I gobbled mini peaches for hours! We were in some sort of shock and stupor, so I don't remember supper, television, or how anything else got baked that day. We had to harvest what we could quickly, because the fruit's time was short lived.

Patsy gave us an abundance of sweet tiny peaches for a few years. On Labor Day of 2010, the day was hot, still, and very quiet when we had a wondrous visitor to the tree. A fabulous blue and black butterfly with a wing span of at least four inches was there. This lone butterfly spent the entire afternoon in the tree, seeking the sweet nectar, resting, and drinking again and again. It was still there when the sun went down. We were mesmerized by its presence. I tried to research it to find out what type of butterfly he/she was, but I never found anything. By morning, it was gone, never to return again. My mother thought it was beautiful, and my aunt who was in the garden with me, said it was an omen. Six weeks later, my aunt had passed away.

The following fall, my mother entered a nursing facility. We talked about the tree, and she smiled when I brought her a piece of bread I had made from some of Patsy's frozen peaches. After that, the peaches became fewer and fewer each year. The tree was still beautiful, but her delicate pink blooms in the spring were beginning to wane.

Mom passed away in February of last year. That spring, Patsy had just a few blossoms, and the meager crop last summer was sour and blemished. This spring, there were even less buds, that fell to the ground by the end of April. The small amount of leaves turned brown and died. In fact, Patsy appears to be dead as a door nail (they say door nails don't live long). But she's gray and barren. My heart breaks at the thought of cutting her down again. How could this happen? Well, I heard that a lot of trees are suffering now as a result of the droughts we had a few years ago. Maybe. But, I also remember my aunt's premonition. 

The Visitor

My Grandmother Poindexter always declared that her crocuses would bloom on her birthday in the second week in March. Mark my word, theyalways did. My uncle recently told me that after her passing several years ago, they never came back again – after decades of growing on the sweet little hill on 10^th Street.

So, I'm sitting in my living room, gazing through the kitchen and out the door at Patsy. What shall I do about Patsy; what shall I do about me? I think I know how she feels.

Barren Patsy Today ... Not a Leaf - Nothing ...

Without that love and support and gratitude that comes from unconditional love, one cannot thrive. Yes, I gave her love, support and gratitude; but not as much as my mother did … much the same way she loved, supported and was grateful for me -- as I was for her.

I am not thriving. It's important that we continue to thrive throughout life – no matter how old or experienced we are. We need that love and support and the gratitude of someone special to fill a certain void that was not meant to be filled by friends, family or even ourselves. You know what I'm talking about.

Before my mother became ill, we would talk about my future after she left. I always said that I would leave New Castle immediately, and go somewhere warm (for my health), beautiful (for inspiration), and near the sea (for my peace of mind). She thought that was a great idea. But now that she's gone, I remain frozen in place – Afraid to leave and afraid to stay. My frustration is apparent in my artwork, and often in my writing. The loneliness that invades my spirit at times is not measurable. I fear I'll fall into a rut … well, I already have … and won't be able to climb out. My leaves are turning, and my fruit is a memory. To save myself, I must make some decisions soon.

You all know my motto: “Keep Walking!” (to your destiny). I wish I could figure that out. But, if I look a little bit closer, behind the Hosta and weeds and ancient mulch, I can see it. I noticed it this morning, and it has shaken me a bit; but not in a bad way. I see a new sucker growing … right at the base of her trunk. Patsy will keep walking, and so should I. Of course, I will share my thoughts, fears, hopes and decisions with you all – if and when I ever discover what they are.

First Published in The Courier-Times, June 26, 2016

Confession: I've Been Loving An Older Man

He has been my friend, my companion, my protector, my family, my sweet baby, and even my caregiver. Although he scares and intimidates most people who try to get close to us – well, who try to get close to me – he only means well. He's just not social, and he's too old to change now.

Although he is possessive and jealous, and quick to show his dominance to anyone he feels is a threat (that would be everyone), to me, he's loving, kind, caring and totally in tune to my moods, emotions and even physical health. We've been together for more than 10 years, and I've vowed to be there for him as long as he needs me, as he has been for me through all kinds of ups and downs. In a sense, you could say we're soul mates.

He has the most beautiful, knowing eyes and the softest hair. However, he is a bit short, and sometimes walks with a slow limp. Yet, there are times, when he's still quick on his feet, agile as the athlete he once was, and even though he now has saddle bags, he's in darn good shape to be 84 years old.

84 dog years, that is. I'm speaking of my beloved Blue Heeler (Australian Cattle Dog), Rudy. If you follow me on Facebook, you know all about Rudy, who gave himself the title “Lord Rudolph” about three years ago. Sometimes, he's also known as His Lordship, The Grand Duke, Mayor of Hillcrest or simply King of Every Thing. To me, he's just my Rudy. People have been urging me to write a book about his life with me now that he is aging and facing new health issues more and more. I'm having difficulty writing it, so I'm sharing a bit of him with you today.

Rudy is so funny and entertaining. It's a shame he doesn't like or trust other people. When I adopted him, his vet told me it seemed Rudy suffered from fear aggression. He can be rough and tough; he is a Heeler, after all. But some things with him just won't change. For a while, I took him to a stock farm where he could work off his aggression and attitude by herding sheep. Actually, he did quite well with little to no training; it's in his blood. But I found the facility when he was maturing, and I had to retire him shortly after that. It was just too hard on his heart.

Lord Rudolph, marker painting by Stacey Torres 2015

Lately, I've been bragging about how well Rudy's been doing these last few weeks. In recent months, he has had all sorts of ailments and mysterious issues, but we've dealt with them and he always comes through. Lately, he's been doing great - until late yesterday afternoon.

We were standing in front of the house -- me pulling weeds, while he chewed on his favorite tall grass. However, when I turned to give him a treat, I noticed he was sitting on the lawn with a puzzled look o his face. His back right leg seemed to be in a cramp, and his right paw was clearly hurting him. I didn't see what happened, so I don't know if he fell, stumbled, or if it was just a cramp, spasm, or maybe even a seizure. It took him a long time to get up. After that, he seemed okay, but was limping badly and couldn't get into the car for a trip to the park. Since he already has a weakened (arthritis) back right leg, his right side wouldn't support him.

So, I'm treating him gently with heating pads and little massages -- and mindfully being vigilant. There's not much else to be done when these things happen. He's been to the vet so often lately, and that's always traumatic for him, i.e., “doggy Valium,” a muzzle and just chaotic stress. So, I limit his visits to his wellness checks and emergencies. Rudy is just like any other 84 year old man (or woman) I suppose. I'll continue to watch, nurture, love and pray for him.

This morning, my little guy appears to be a little better. His appetite is still hearty; eating like he's in training for a Sumo match, and his limp is fading more into a careful strut. He is still a trooper, still brave and proud and hilarious as ever, barking at the stove, which means “cook something!”

As so many other people who love their furry family members deal with a sweetly aging pet, we all dread the day when we ultimately must say goodbye. I've experienced this life event with a few other dogs; each one is as excruciating as the other. But each one left me with a tremendous store of happy memories and absolute love and devotion. My prayer is that Rudy remains with me in peace and comfort for a good while longer. But his happiness and quality of life are key. For now, he's just like me, ripening with rich maturity in a very special way – with aching joints that crackle, pop and snap like breakfast cereal. But we're still here – moving forward and adapting to this wonderful changing life day by day. God sent him to me, and I'm cherishing and taking good care of my gift.

Originally published in The Courier-Times, New Castle, IN, May 29, 2016

Why Can't We Just Be?

It is time for me to come clean. I am now a member of “AA.” However, I do not attend meetings; if there are any locally, I am unaware of them. But, before you jump to any judgmental conclusions, let me clarify – my AA is not the AA you're thinking of. My AA stands for “Artist Anxiety.”

Visual artists, performing artists and writers, etc. all go through this annoying cycle from time to time. I've always been a stressful, fretful, colicky and anxious person. However, being creative and artistic has pushed me to my limits, and it has become down right debilitating.

I know that stress can and will kill you, and sometimes we – all of us – tend to place that tension upon ourselves – sometimes unknowingly. The first time I was actually diagnosed with clinical depression, I had no idea. I didn't feel depressed … not the way I thought depressed people were supposed to feel, anyway. I thought I was feeling normal, and that everybody felt that way. But a doctor explained to me that a lot of people, particularly women, don't always recognize the unique symptoms involved with depression or stress related conditions.

The Decline of My Emotional Wellness 2, by Stacey Torres

Our physical bodies will often show these signs, but we don't understand that it comes from stress, i.e., fatigue, insomnia, joint pain, headaches, etc., which can lead to more serious problems. We need to listen to our bodies and just slow the heck down. That's what everyone told me last week – slow the heck (and that's not the word that was most commonly used) down – relax and be still. I tell everyone else that, but I don't have sense enough to do the same.

Artist Anxiety can manifest itself in the most bizarre ways. What to paint? What will people think of it? What pigments blend well with red ocher … what is red ocher? Did the dog really chew my best shading brush? Really? What deadline? I sold a painting; did the buyer like it? Did I really sip (for the second time) paint brush water thinking it was my cup of tea? To make matters worse, I challenged myself to do 29 paintings; one per day during Black History Month.

Then it gets a bit deeper. I'm not a hobbyist, it's what I do to pay my bills, eat and exist from day to day. In the last year, I have shown my art in a number of art shows and exhibits, and it's been a learning experience. I do know that March and April were hectic for me last year, and this year is far from different. I submitted work for three different events, all of which were to advise who was accepted (or not) by last week. In my case, two did; the Twitter Art Exhibit, in NYC; and the Inspired by Nature Paint Out at the Indianapolis Zoo. I was/am extremely elated and honored to be a part of these two shows. I stressed all week waiting to hear from them, and they waited until the very last minute to notify me that my artwork was accepted.

But, the cream on the berries came this morning. I had been waiting and praying for two weeks for word on a particular exhibit I have been coveting for a long time. I entered last year, and was rejected. Finally, today, I received notification from our Lt. Governor's Office, that I have been selected as one of the Hoosier Women Artists 2016. I'm not sure how many of us there are this year, but it's somewhere around 10-15, out of 205 entrants. Our work will hang in the Lt. Governor's Office for one year, and we will be celebrated in a reception at the Indiana Statehouse wrapping up Women's History Month. I am still reeling from the excitement, anxiety and worry.

You know, had I relaxed and chilled, slowed the heck down and let things come naturally, the outcome would not have been different. I am learning – slowly – about self care, resting my mind and heart and luxuriating in the blessings and gifts around me. I hope to be creating for years to come – but in order to do so, I need to chill out; let go and let God.

But artists and writers and performers and such – we're all nuts. We're going to stress and bark and overwork ourselves into big balls of fruit cake … it's what we do best. So, for now, I'm tooting my horn that I'm a proud Charter Member of AA.

Have an abundantly blessed Easter.

First published in The Courier-Times, March 27, 2016

Gathering The Fruits Of Our Giving Tree

All things considered, life is truly a giving tree if we simply open our minds and hearts to receive its fruits. Perhaps my message may seem redundant each month. And, every month I attempt to write something new and different, but these blessings continue to come to light again and again.

The month of February is a bittersweet month in my life; particularly this year. It's been a year since I lost my mother; the 16^th of February, to be exact. I had been dreading dealing with the date for quite a while, and when it did come I took it much harder than I had anticipated. In fact, the grief I experienced all last week was overwhelmingly painful – much worse than the year before when I and my family dealt with her actually passing. It was easier then; almost a relief – because at least my mom was no longer suffering, and the anxiety of it all was over … so I thought. However, I've had an entire year to ponder and wonder, and miss her, and relive the last six years of our lives over and over.

But, for all my faults and quirks, I remain a woman of faith, and instead of asking God “why?” – or begging Him to bring my mother and my family back, I prayed with a grateful heart and thanksgiving. I thanked Him for the gift of life (my own, in particular) … But more so, for the gift of family and friends who have stood by and taken care of me over the last year. I prayed and thanked Him for giving me such a mother who led me to where I am in this life. I also thanked Him for opening my eyes and receiving the gift of creativity again. I've said it a million times before, but my artwork, my dance and my writing have literally saved my life.

And, then, I also thanked God for the other relationships I've had in my life … the ones that went terribly wrong. For those are the ones that have made me stronger. It is said, that sometimes the wrong man's purpose in a woman's life is to help her become a better woman for a better man … And, of course, vice versa. Some women can be equally dreadful, I suppose.

I've been focusing on my spirituality. So, last week, in all my grief and blind hopelessness, I chose to be silent. Sometimes, like many of us, I have difficulty with prayer. I know there is no right or wrong way to pray to my Creator. So, I choose to have simple conversations with Him. But, I never felt I was getting a response, and didn't know if He heard me. I decided to just be still … to listen in total silence, clearing my brain of all activity. I sat in silence, and I knew instinctively that the first thought that entered my mind would be my answer.

I won't tell you what my prayer was, or what the answer was. I will confirm, however, that it was on point, and by Friday morning, I felt comfortable, at peace and motivated.

That evening, I reconnected with someone dear to me, and we watched funny movies for hours. He shared with me a family tragedy he was dealing with that had also occurred last week. The laughter and the comfort of a warm companion helped us both through our heartbreak and confusion. In the end, he gifted me with a beautiful guitar. No, I don't play an instrument or read music. I'm clueless! But, the other gift from him is (possible) music lessons – Yes, at 62, I'm learning yet something else new. He assured me, that he would not teach me to play songs; but to play a guitar!

At the beginning of the month, I challenged myself to paint one picture a day during Black History Month. This is an exercise that has freed my mind, purged some ill feelings and sadness, and allowed me to express my pain and joy within myself and my ancestors through my artwork. I've worked very hard at this, and on the 22^nd day, I sold a painting I did about two years ago – one of my “church ladies.” The collector who purchased it, along with one of my hand painted tiles, wrote me a beautiful note encouraging me to continue creating. He said my artwork held a message that would be different to everyone, and a blessing to others.

So, the point of all this is that a week that began as a literal nightmare, ended in beauty and hope. I'm constantly telling you all this … there is always hope. We cannot stop walking – moving forward and living our lives and giving of ourselves.

In the last 12 months, I have so many friends who lost loved ones, somehow we are all still here – we made it through. The week my mother died, I also lost an aunt and a cousin. Three women in our family gone like feathers in the wind. Yet, all three still shine like moonbeams on all of us.

There are cardinals in my backyard now. There's always cardinals out there, one is very prominent and relevant to me; a female. I've painted her a few times, and the sight of her and the sound of her simple little song brings me much comfort.

Life under this Giving Tree ain't so bad after all. Keep Walking!

First published in The Courier-Times, February 28, 2016

New Castle artist honored by State of Indiana

New Castle artist honored by State of Indiana: INDIANAPOLIS — New Castle artist and Courier-Times columnist Stacey Torres was honored Tuesday at the Indiana Statehouse in recognition of her talent. She was one of 29 named as 2016 Hoosier Women Artists.

For Love of Family - And a Grand Old House

Aunt Car, circa 1920

It took me a few minutes to get past the return address label that read, "738 Macon Street." The last piece of mail I received from that address was a Christmas card from my most beloved great aunt and uncle, Caroline (“Aunt Car”) and Henry Gill, who was also my godfather, in 1967. I had just moved to New Castle, Indiana, and my grandmother's sister had sent me a card signed in her elegant penmanship. She had been a "schoolmarm" in Barbados, West Indies in the early part of the 20th Century and the written hand was not an art, but a requirement -- to her. Eight months later, on a visit home to New York, I watched her die after an agonizing fight with stomach cancer at 73.

This aunt was so important to me. But I never realized how much until the last few months. She has been constantly on my mind. In the summer of 1967, she and I accompanied my grandparents on a pilgrimage to their homeland, Barbados to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. Aunt Car and I were roommates, and shared a double bed under a white mosquito net. We visited Bathsheba, St. Joseph Parish, the town where Aunt Car and Nana were born and raised. Children and adults came running out of their tiny houses and closed their businesses for a chance to see "Teacher" one more time. Realize that these people were all ages. Certainly most of them had never seen her before, but they had all heard of her - from their parents and grandparents, and held her in reverence. Teacher had come home from America. Young and old, they embraced her and gave her flowers, which she accepted with humble grace – that was her way. I was not quite 14, and did not understand how important this afternoon was to her; and now me.

Last month, I thought of her again, and cried as I finally realized that the Summer of '67 was a gift from God. To have the honor to have spent one last summer with this woman who also helped raise me, who guided me, who slapped me when I sucked my teeth or rolled my eyes; and then embraced me in tears of her own; who loved me unconditionally. She taught me to make curried chicken (Trinidad and Barbadian style). She was strict, she was grand, and she was elegant. Above all, she was always a lady! She was the most beautiful woman I had ever known. But, I was 14, with poor, undeveloped communication skills, and had no idea how to tell her how much I loved and appreciate the things she did for me. Aunt Car grew heavy on my mind for weeks. I felt her with me those lonely days in the hospital, and I can still smell her soft fragrance, Arpège.

One day in December, I received a package in the mail from 738 Macon Street. I knew who it was from, but a lump began to grow in my throat. Seeing the reality of that return address gave me a chill. A few years ago, I received an email from a gentleman who had found one of my posts on a genealogy site where I sought information about my grandmother's family. He had purchased Aunt Car and Uncle Henry's wonderful old brownstone in Brooklyn, and found me via my post while doing some research. Together, we put a lot of pieces together, and through countless emails and photos, he brought my aunt and her wonderful house where I spent my childhood summers back to life. I don't think he knows what a void he has filled in my life. Brian Hartig is a geographical historian extraordinaire of the Bedford Stuyvesant neighborhood in Brooklyn ! He wrote a fabulous book about the history of 738 Macon Street, with chapters about all the owners from 1892 until today, including my family, the Gills.

It is fitting that 48 years later, the next piece of mail I received from that address would be at Christmas – it was my very own copy of The Story of a House; 738 Macon Street, written by Brian Hartig - a gift I will always cherish.

But, it gets even better! Recently, I was commissioned to paint a portrait of Aunt Car in her Brooklyn brownstone – the way I remember her and the home from my childhood. I had not seen her or the homestead since 1968 when she passed away; Uncle Henry died in the 70's. I accepted the commission, but took it in a totally different direction by portraying both her and Henry in their rose garden behind the house, along with their dog Trixie, and Waldo, a ground tortoise who was/is ancient and lived on the property. I painted their yard bigger than all of the other typical shotgun backyards in the neighborhood; even though it wasn't. But as a little girl, that's how magical it was to me.

Hopefully, I will be able to visit the home for the first time in decades very soon – in time for Aunt Car's 122^nd Birthday! I'm excited and humbled to be able to see my artwork hanging on my her parlor wall … Keeping a piece of me back home again.

Published in The Courier--Times 1/31/2016

My Final Article of 2015 - Keep Walking!

Where to begin? On this Third Day of Christmas, while me three French hens are a-stewin', I must take some time to reflect upon what's next for me on life's road. No, I'm not going to make or discuss New Year's resolutions, as I don't believe in them. Short, attainable goals are fine. But resolving to do this or that in a world where we promises are not guaranteed, is fruitless, and sets us up for added pressure and stress. However, we do have control over our motivation to get to our destiny.

If you know me well, or at least keep up with me on social media, you will know my mantra; Keep Walking! This can mean a lot of things to different people. When I first started randomly posting these two simple words on Facebook and Twitter, I would include an image of a pair of shoes – often very beautiful, elaborate shoes in order to get one's attention. However, most people were more interested in the shoes (“where can I buy them?”) than the humble little message. Keep Walking. So, I stopped the shoe pictures, and folks stopped “liking” the posts. They didn't get it. It merely means Keep Walking (towards your destiny).

Before you can keep walking, you must know where you want your life to go. I was told to reach for the moon, because if you fail, you'll still land among the stars. The idea is to keep it moving, no matter how many obstacles, pain, detours and confusion may be on your life's road. If we stand still, and keep looking back at our failures, heartaches and losses, we will never see the gifts ahead of us. We will never know the tiny blessings that add to the richness of our life. We will have missed our bus, and thus, have to keep walking anyway.

I could look back and dwell upon the tragedies on my road this year; the loss of my mother; the trauma of financial breakdown; the humbling things I had to do in order to survive; the inability to manage my life and take care of basic responsibilities most of us take for granted, like, keeping utilities on or maintaining a running car; and ultimately, a life threatening illness I will continue to manage the rest of my life. I could; but, why? I'm not the only one who has lost a loved one this year, became destitute or sick. There are always those who have it worse than others, and some worse than them.

In September, I wrote about how I had found the love of my life and how vibrant the future looked. What I did not write about in October, was how quickly that love changed to revelations of a hopeless situation. Oddly enough, while it was painful, it was not excruciating. And, despite it all, my gratitude for 10 weeks of happiness I would not have had otherwise, over powered my disappointment. I chose to get up and keep walking.

It's true, when you are dying, your life does pass before your eyes. In my case, while I was in the hospital, mine passed before me in an endless parade of visions and memories. My hardships were the last thing on my mind. Instead, I saw the wonderful blessings, experiences and opportunities that I was granted this year.

My mother was gone, but she left me a legacy of laughter – she was one of the funniest people I ever knew. She taught me to stop and think clearly, and that it was better to look towards the future and be prepared; rather than look back with regrets. She taught me to forgive, even if forgetting is harder. She taught me to poach an age when I was 56, and how to tell the difference between good gin and bad. She taught me to never give up my faith, and to NEVER let anyone ever walk on me or block my view. She taught me to keep walking.

While I worried about how I would make ends meet, my creativity began to blossom, and a new passion for my life long love of art bloomed once more. I quickly learned how to redirect this passion into a possible way to generate income. But, more importantly, other people's love and appreciation for my painting validated me as an artist, but also my worth as a person. Having my paintings shown on television was one thing. But what touched my heart was all of my friends – and people I didn't even know – who cheered me on and encouraged me – to keep walking.

Through these steps on my life's road, I was discovered by those in a larger art community, who gave me the opportunity to exhibit with them throughout Indianapolis, and more recently in other larger cities. And, as my friend and mentor, Salkis Re (a California artist) told me, my tribe will find me. But, I also have to put forth the effort to find them. So, I keep walking.

Also, the gift of writing – to share my feelings and experiences with you here – have led to the publication of my new book; something I had put off for years.

My health threw me for a loop. I still have haunting feelings about how close to death I actually was – even though I did not feel I was in such danger at the time. Because I felt the power of my God and my ancestors with me. They kept telling me to fight, take control of my health – learn about my illness and grab it by it's mane, and get the heck back on track. I saved myself because I kept walking.

If we look upon our disabilities, we will never see our strengths or growth. I know I will have moments of sadness and fear throughout the coming year(s); we ALL will. But, if we hold onto the good stuff – it's in there, if you look close – it will become easier and we will become stronger.

A friend lost an infant child many years ago. She never got over that, and asked me recently why God took her baby. I don't know the answer to that. Maybe he saved that child from years of unspeakable pain and suffering. Did you lose the job you had for 15 years? How else would you have been able to walk into the career of your dreams that you now have, had you not been freed from your limitations? Was your car towed while you ran into the dry cleaners? Had it not been, perhaps you would have been involved in that fatal car accident two blocks away 10 minutes later. We don't know these things. It's not for us to know. But it is our responsibility to KEEP WALKING towards our destiny – toward 2016 – and all the riches and blessings to come. Bad things happen to all of us; and so do good things. Cherish those things and those people around you. It's been said many times before that yesterday has passed, but today is a gift; that's why it's called The Present.

Please, keep walking.

http://www.thecouriertimes.com/neighbors/article_446dac4e-a82d-11e5-a842-5772463bb5ea.html

FRIENDSHIP PEARLS ARE REAL GEMS

This year, in my own simple way, I am celebrating FRIENDSGIVING in lieu of Thanksgiving. Giving thanks is something I do every day, and most recently with due diligence. However, Friendsgiving is a practice many have adopted – some without even realizing it.

Friendsgiving is a casual potluck supper where the host often prepares a turkey (or other festive meat or main dish of choice), and guests bring their favorite side dish or specialty; no matter how humble or elaborate. The gathering is often the Wednesday before or the Friday after Thanksgiving. But it can also be held on Thanksgiving Day for all practical reasons. In fact, Friendsgiving can be any day in autumn.

The idea is for friends to gather together to celebrate their friendships, reflecting upon how they met, and how they all have cultivated and valued their ties together. There are many people who are far away from home, at school or work, without families of their own, or who have lost their loved ones. Friendsgiving allows them the opportunity to give thanks and feast together. It is also customary to include new friends or acquaintances in the spirit of fellowship. Their friends have become family.

Friends are very precious gems. Sometimes we take them for granted. But we all have people who have come in and out of our lives randomly throughout the years. Sometimes they stay a while; some leave without warning; and there are some who are there for the duration; often returning after decades of going our separate ways, yet never losing touch.

But there is a unique and glorious type of friend also – the ones you know, or barely know, who perform acts of great love, compassion and humanity towards you – when you least expect it, and when you most need it. I call these friends “Pearls.”

This is not what I intended to write about this month; even as things began to unfold in my life during the last few weeks, I did not want to write about this. But there is no way I cannot. Now that I have seen first hand how brief and fragile life is, I must address this subject for the goodwill of all of us.

On October 30, I developed severe abdominal pains on my right side, radiating to my back. It was excruciating, and by Friday I was heaving and regurgitating blood. My neighbor, a retired nurse, rushed me out to the ER, where their initial thought was I had gastroenteritis. I was admitted for overnight observation. My neighbor stayed with me, even going up to my room with me and helping me answer questions during my admission. She also volunteered (with trepidation, however) to help Rudy, my not-very-friendly Blue Heeler, who was left at home unattended. This in itself is huge, because he suffers from fear aggression, and most people are afraid of him. As an animal lover, she took it upon herself to be his caregiver as long as was needed without bloodshed or drama. He continues to pretend not to like her. She has also checked on me diligently and made sure I was okay at home alone. And took it upon herself to spruce up some of my landscaping. How can you not love a Pearl?

My overnight observation turned into a four-night stay. I was much sicker than originally thought. There was no gastroenteritis, instead, a UTI (urinary tract infection), which dehydrated me, causing my kidneys to fail and ultimately, I developed Septicemia. When I learned this, I was devastated and terrified. For three nights, I suffered through fever, hallucinations and violent body tremors. But it was my decision to fight like hell, and rather than stay for weeks and weeks passively allowing the sepsis to take me out, my doctors deemed me fit to go home in short measure.

It was upon returning home when reality set in and I immediately sank into a deep depression filled with fear, anxiety and the terror of what I had experienced. Mostly, my emotional state was haunted by the fact that this was the first time I truly needed my mother's presence, and she was not there. Delayed grief soaked me like a wet blanket, and I cried and prayed, and cried and prayed some more.

Then, I met with a urologist who informed me that I have a rare kidney stone that comes from a genetic condition. This stone is what set all of the other conditions in motion; beginning with the UTI.

Soon some other Pearls began to appear – like those angels unaware we hear about. The morning after I arrived home, a Pearl left some cans of soup on my front door. Another Pearl made me beef stew, corn muffins and a small pan of brownies, along with a basket of fruit and bath tissue. This Pearl also took me to a few doctors appointments. One lustrous Pearl made me my favorite meal; liver and onions! A very dear Pearl brought me a turkey dinner that lasted me a few days. And, another Pearl brought me a very special lunch on Sunday. Then there was a rare Pearl who unexpectedly helped cover some expenses without my knowledge, removing a tremendous burden from me. Of course, there were those who visited, called and wrote me. My mother would be very happy to know how many people have shown their love and support for me. This was her biggest fear that after she left, I would not be cared for; not so. This is how Pearls come together and form the friendship strand that binds us all together.

My surgical procedure to blast my kidney stone was scheduled for November 23. Let me tell you, I'm the most frightened wuss on earth. Immediately, I began to fret and worry; not one for hospitals or procedures I'm not familiar with. I won't lie – I've been scared! Mostly, I worry because I'm alone and don't know what to expect, still recovering from my hospital stay. But, other Pearls in the strand have reassured and comforted me with their experiences and expert knowledge. Yet, more than anything, all of my Pearls have covered me with their wisdom and undying faith in our Creator. I am told I have many, many “prayer warriors” lifting me up. I am certain it is these glowing Pearls who have helped me through this thus far, along with my fierce faith in God. My personal relationship with Him has grown stronger – as I am.

So, hopefully, by the time you read this article, I will have successfully made it through this procedure (yes, lots of people have it done every day; but remember, I'm a wuss); passed said stone fragments with little disturbance to my neighbors; and, I will have ideally celebrated my 62^nd Birthday yesterday.

But most of all, with or without a big feast, in my heart I will have – and will spiritually continue to celebrate Friendsgiving with all of my Pearls – As I will for the rest of my days.

As Seen in THE COURIER-TIMES

A Halloween Treat To Remember

To begin with, this story is Faux Fiction. You, the reader will determine what's real … or not …

When I was 7, I longed for a shiny acetate store bought Halloween costume. They were glorious to look at, and if you got one, you were mighty special. You could be Dale Evans, Peter Pan, Mighty Mouse, a clown or the Frankenstein monster. Maw had made mine, and I endured it for years – A furry monkey costume, complete with mask and tail.

The thing about that costume is it itched me to death! I broke out in hives every year, but was too proud to admit it until I was safely at home with my bag full of candy, oranges and pennies. Making matters worse, I was forced to wear my costume over my school clothes, including tights, a pair of wool leggings with stirrups that fit over boots, and a heavy coat. On top of that, I had a tight hood secured to my coat, placed over a woolen cap. My monkey mask was tied around my bulky head, and my tail stood straight up. It's a wonder I could move at all. My friends never waited for me. By the time I got down our front stoop, it was almost November 1^st.

It didn't matter because I was not allowed to go out on Halloween with my friends. Rather, I went with Maw, who stood right behind me as I went door to door down our long block. Maw hated the ordeal as well, but it was that way or no way.

At each and every door, Maw would stop; look the house over; and either nod or shake her head before I could approach the door. Then she would prompt me, “Say trick-or-treat!”

“Trick or Treat, Mam.”

“Say Thank-You!”

“Thank you, Mam …”

And it went on and on. She was selective as to which houses I could stop at or not, and this always made me mad. I could see my friends running in and out of the street like banshees wailing and hissing in the night. I wanted to run wild and out of control too. I always wished Granddad would come with me, but he was left at home to pass out candy to the other children.

My friends never missed a house, and they always had bigger bags than I did; some had two. “Why can’t we go to the Rozelle’s house?” I would wail. “All the others are going there.” She'd say,

“Because you are neither a vagabond nor a scalawag, and you’ll go where I tell you … where the food is safe!” I rolled my eyes safely behind my mask.

Towards the end of the block, up by Marsden Street, there was Mrs. Hazel’s lonely little house, set farther back from the street than the others. We all had standard “Jamaica Houses,” with three windows and a door, but she had a tiny bungalow that was nestled back in the trees that shook when the Long Island Railroad rumbled by. This was the first year that we noticed Mrs. Hazel decorated her house for the holiday. She played in Maw’s bridge club, and she and her husband, a short quiet man, had no children of their own. Since she recently retired, we figured she'd be home. On her little porch was a pumpkin with a candle burning inside, and seated in a large cane back rocking chair was one of those big, stuffed effigies. You know, how folks take old clothes and stuff them with newspapers so that it looked just like a real person, placing them in chairs or trees to scare the kids. Back then, stuffed people hanging from trees weren’t too popular in our neighborhood. But Mrs. Hazel had a good size person on her porch. It was headless, with a large pumpkin for a head, and wore a red plaid shirt and old dungarees stuffed into some scruffy boots. His arms were folded across his chest and he was slumped down in the rocker.

I was terrified. “I don’t want to go there, Maw,” I whimpered. None of my friends were there to go with me, and frankly, Maw was even standing closer to the street than usual.

“Don’t be foolish, go on!” she urged. Chills tickled the small of my back, and I suddenly wished I had on even more clothes. I was so cold, and scared of the pumpkin goblin. I hate those things, and the pumpkin itself was beginning to ripen and stink. I rang the bell and ran back to Maw in a snap. “What are you doing, silly? Go back up there!” Just as I was about to defy Maw and fly home, the door slowly opened. Maw pushed me back towards the door.

“Say trick-or-treat!”

“Trick or Treat, Mam.”

The door opened wider, and the warm light from inside lit the porch completely. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Hilda, is that you?” Mrs. Hazel hollered?

“Yes, girl! I’m out with Irene.”

“Well, well, well, is that you in there, Miss Queen?” She patted my layered head.

“Yes, Mam.”

”What you supposed to be?”

“A monkey again, Mam.”

Mrs. Hazel was silent for a while, and then mumbled, “Sure you are, heh. Come on in!” Before I could protest, Mrs. Hazel grabbed my arm, pulling me in past pumpkin man, and Maw quickly followed behind. “Come in and warm up. I’ve been waiting for some nice company.”

Mrs. Hazel led us to her small kitchen with the aroma of meat roasting and hot cider. It was quite warm and cozy in there. Her little round table had an orange linen table cloth and displayed a large milk glass punch bowl filled with hot cider, plates of cookies and candy corn.

“Wow!” I shouted. “Look, Maw!”

“Mind your manners,” Maw reminded me.

“Oh, Hilda, it’s Halloween. Let the girl enjoy herself. Here, Queen, help yourself.” She handed me a little china plate and I loaded it with cookies, ignoring Maw’s warning glance. I knew the gluttony lecture would be given once we got home. I sat sipping hot cider, which was very, very spicy and had an odd taste. I figured that was just Grown Folks Cider, and I was feeling very full and sleepy, while the two older women sat and gossiped quietly.

“Where is he, Hazel?”

“I don’t know, Hilda. It’s been two weeks. That woman stopped calling here and he hasn’t come home since. I know he’s with her!” Mrs. Hazel began to sob softly.

I had learned long ago from Maw what my place was and not to butt into grown people’s business. But this was good stuff! I tilted my head back in the chair, closed my eyes and pretended to doze off so they could speak more freely.

“Did he take his clothes?”

“No! That’s just it. He left for work that morning, and he never got there … Neither did she!”

“Nooooo,” Maw crooned.

“Yes, the dirty blood clot even took his lunch that day! The police ain’t doin’ nothin’ to help find him. He’s just an old man who run off wit de woman, that’s all.” They had both reverted from proper English to their more comfortable West Indian dialect they fall into when angered.

Through the slits in my eyes, I watched as Maw took another sip of cider after Mrs. Hazel doused it with a big splash of sugar cane brandy. Oh, brother, this is going to be a long night. Eventually, I really did sleep, and the next thing you know, Maw’s dragging me back out into the cold, past the pumpkin man and down our long, lonely street. It was dark and scary. All of the children had gone in, and I couldn’t even see our house at the end of the block. I was grateful when Maw grabbed my hand in hers and we trotted the rest of the way home.

I was freezing cold, and the frost from my warm breath in front of me swirled above my head like a ghost. The big Jamaica houses loomed on either side of us, and I was too afraid to even mention there was not a soul nor car out on this Halloween night. Finally, we reach the comfort of our house, and found Granddad waiting at the door for us.

That night, I didn’t even bother to sit up and count or sort my candy. I washed my face, piled into a pair of warm pajamas and climbed into bed without being made to. I slept fitfully, tossing and turning, enduring nightmare after nightmare. Soon I was awakened with a start by the sound of sirens wailing down the street.

That’s our street, I thought! I sat bolt upright in my bed, just as our doorbell rang. Who could that be so early in the morning? It was not even daylight yet. I heard Granddad at the front door talking with someone; who, I don’t know. He walked back to him and Maw’s bedroom, where they spoke in hushed voices. Suddenly, I heard my grandmother’s familiar bawling, “Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no! (her favorite expression),” then, “No, no, no, no!” They talked some more, and there was nothing to hold me in my bed any longer.

I stood outside my grandparents’ bedroom door and listened to him relay the story to her again. A neighbor had heard a gunshot coming from Mrs. Hazel’s house. When the police arrived, they found her shot to death at her kitchen table; apparently it was a suicide. Our finger prints are on that table, I thought. Something was burning in the oven. When they opened it, they discovered cooked human remains – a woman’s body stuffed in a big roaster, all fixed up with potatoes, carrots, onions and celery. On the porch was a headless Mr. Hazel propped up in a rocking chair with a pumpkin stuck where his head should have been. His own head, by the way, was found brewing on the stove in a large cider-filled stockpot full of cloves, cinnamon and apple peel … Grown Folks Cider ...

I never dressed for Halloween after that, and the monkey costume was finally put to rest. Today, as I sit sipping my hot espresso, and spread orange marmalade on my muffin, I am busy planning. How shall I dress my pumpkin man for my porch this year?

Excerpt from my novel “Queen Irene: A Garden of Easters,” not yet released.

Originally published in The Courier-Times, Oct. 25, 2015