Collaboration with VIDA by Artist Stacey Torres

The Chattel Houses of Bimsha

The Chattel Houses on the Caribbean island of Barbados are a common sight, often taken for granted by those who reside there and see them every day. Dating back to “plantation days,” these tiny two room cottages were designed to be movable and transported when needed. Approximately 12 x 20 feet, and made of wood (without using any nails), they were positioned on concrete blocks, stones, or even a small hill. Sometimes, a small shed could be attached to the back for a bathroom of sorts.

The name “Chattel” comes from the French term, for a movable possession, and therefore, not real estate. Emancipated slaves were allowed to own homes, but they could not own land. Therefore, they created these small portable cabins. The owner of the house had to take it wherever he found work, from one (sugar) plantation to another, and would rent a small parcel of land for his house from his employer. If there was a landlord/tenant dispute, the owner of the house had to leave – and take his house with him. The walls of the home could be taken apart easily and placed on a flat bed truck, or a wagon pulled by a mule or horse. Once they reached their new location, the house could be reassembled as before.

"Aunt Mae's Chattel House," by Stacey Torres

Today, the island is still dotted with these curious little homes. They have a simple design of two windows and a center door to the front; and windows on each side (I'm not certain of the back). The windows were usually jalousie windows, or have storm shutters, and sometimes just open with no glass. Many of the houses are on permanent locations now with foundations, running water and electricity. Some have been refurbished and fitted to accommodate tourists and/or for commercial use. However, some of the original older houses are merely lived in as always.

"Da Neighbor's Goat," by Stacey Torres

"Saturday Morning," by Stacey Torres

Homeowners were working class people. They took tremendous pride in their homes, painting them in gorgeous color combinations and using fretwork as trim that served to give a tiny bit of shade and protect the wooden structure from weather. There are newer large homes built in the style of the original Chattel House, but nothing can ever take the place of these early “tiny homes.” Small, practical and transportable. The unique style of these sweet little houses are even more pronounced when you see one or two additions added on. The original starter house was once called a “One Roof.” If you added a shed, it was called “One Roof and a Shed.” If you added an addition, it would be a “Two Roof House and Shed.” The roofs were typically made of corrugated iron.

"Today Was Catchin' Day" by Stacey Torres

My maternal family's roots are from this island. I visited there in 1967 when my grandparents went on a pilgrimage back home for their 50^th wedding anniversary. I was fortunate to visit the tiny Chattel House where my grandfather, Arthur Clement Moore, was born and raised. His two older sisters and some young cousins were still living there. I saw their gardens, their goats, their shed. However, they had graduated to electricity and plumbing by then. Like so many other Chattel Houses, this one had an addition built onto the back. I often dream of that little house and the garden of peppers and squash, and the goats that stood guard. It's funny how my memories always take me back to the gardens of my youth. It is my ultimate goal to be able to travel back to Barbados someday soon, to spend some time there finding my people and painting the beloved Chattel Houses of Bimsha (a nickname of endearment for the island).

So, I've been working on a series of beautiful little Chattel Houses, the way I remember them. These charming treasures, deep in the history of my people were built and remain full of pride and love. I'm sharing my heritage with you as part of my exhibit, "Stacey Torres: Living In Color," May 13 to June 17, at the Henry County Art Center. Commissioned paintings are possible.

"Share N Share Alike" by Stacey Torres

Originally published in The Courier-Times, April 2017

What REAL Women Did For Each Other

March is Women's History Month. We all hear the usual stories about trailblazing women who made history doing something considered remarkable for her time. This has been a tumultuous time for women these last few years. Along with all of the protests, marches and cries for equality, justice and respect, much of our own personal history has been lost in the shuffle.

I think about the woman my mother and grandmother raised me to be – Strong, independent, unwavering, faithful, giving and resilient. They taught me to have my own; to survive and hopefully to not have to worry about where my meals will come from when I'm 80. Thus, I fine-tune my craft on a daily basis, padding my nest, and keeping my eagle eyes clear. In all of this, I am always of the opinion that we get by giving, and if possible, never lose sight of love, human kindness and trust. Yes, these qualities still exist.

"Aunt Mattie Whitfield," by Stacey Torres

My Aunt Mattie was not my real aunt. She was a very close family friend - an unlikely friendship that began when my mother was in a deadly car accident in 1949, traveling from Lincoln University in Jefferson City, MO to Wilberforce University in Ohio. She and several students were traveling together when they were involved in the collision on U.S. 40 between Knightstown, IN and New Castle, IN.

When the ambulance arrived, they refused to take my mother, the lone survivor, to the hospital because she was black. As she lay bleeding on the street, a local funeral home offered to transport her to the (Henry County) hospital in their hearse. Because her family lived a great distance away in Canada, my mother was alone in a hospital in a small town where she knew no one -- and where she ultimately knew from experience, that the color of her skin would alienate her further.

It was then that she met Mattie Whitfield, an older local African American woman who sometimes went to the hospital to volunteer. She would sit with patients, read to them or pray with them. It was just something she liked to do. Upon learning there was a young black girl there with no family, she immediately took it upon herself to take my mother under her wing. In time, she came to love and care for her until she was healed, and the family could get to Indiana. At the time, my grandfather worked as a porter for the Canadian National and Canadian Pacific Railroads. They governed when he could take time off and when he and the family could travel by rail outside of Canada. There were no other options.

When my mother was well enough to leave the hospital, Mattie and her husband, Herbie, took her home with them where they cared for her further. They lived in a small white house on South 16^th Street by the railroad tracks. Finally, the family (my grandparents, two aunts and an uncle) arrived from Canada, and they were embraced by the Whitfields as well. All of them lived together in their 2-bedroom home for an additional 6 weeks while Mom continued to recover. They all worked together to give her their own form of old fashioned natural “physical therapy” that included salves, massages, prayer and careful exercise.

This is what strong, clear-thinking giving women did for each other. I say “women,” because even though Uncle Herbie was crucial in opening his home too, knowing the woman that Mrs. Whitfield was, she would have reached out and cared for my mother – or anyone – whether she knew them or not. Because that's the quality of humanity she possessed. She had no fear, no boundaries, no limits; just an abundance of love, compassion and patience. During this time, in that cramped love-filled house, they all became “family,” bridging the gap between Indiana and Canada. Mattie became "Aunt Mattie," and she was a very integral part of our lives for the next 20 years. But, that's another story and another painting altogether.

At my parents' wedding (Queens, NY) in 1952, Aunt Mattie is seen in the distance - She was an honored guest.

First published in The Courier-Times, March 2017

Embracing Gratitude Over Gravity

Yesterday (February 18), I drove to Indianapolis to visit a friend. The weather has been unseasonably warm the past week, yet I was really surprised when I spotted mounds of Tulip and Lily shoots coming up through the soil along side some Snow Drops. Those were not so much of a surprise, considering they and Crocus will bloom through the snow. But it's the early greening that has me concerned.

Will the blossoms survive should we have an inevitable freeze, snow or hard frost? Some years ago, I lost my cherry trees to an April ice storm. My friends tell me to calm down, and let Mother Nature do what she does … all things come in time … all things come on time. And that includes us.

Over the past year, I've spent many hours in the mirror having private conversations with myself, and wondering if what was happening to me was normal – or, as I always like to say – attributed to my illness last year. Well, of course, it's normal. I'm simply going gray!

I've had a strand here and there, but in the last six months, I've developed a white-out! Unlike my mother, who had a magnificent spread of glorious silver white hair , my hair did not look anything like hers. She started to get a classic “salt & pepper” look somewhere around 50. Then, almost overnight, it was suddenly sparkling white. I was shocked, and didn't know how to approach the subject – what did she think of it? She said, “Oh, don't worry; it's a badge of honor. You have to earn it.”

“Earn what?” I asked.

“Stardust.” And, that was that.

Well, there is no salt & pepper or stardust on my head; it's more like salt & saw dust, and runs down the center of my head like a dull skunk! Years ago, I chose to embrace my natural hair and don't use any chemicals on my head at all. Besides, it would be my luck that if I tried to dye it, it would look even more rusty than it does now.

So, it took me a while to find a way to embrace my hair – along with ALL of the other manifestations happening to my body at this season of my life. I prayed on it. I watched my friends make their own personal decisions about their aging, and I finally decided to just celebrate all of these changes.

Gratitude vs Gravity: that would become my goal. I have much to be grateful for in so many ways. I am aging, as we all are. But I'm grateful for the ability to be here for this event. I've got aches and pains; many unexplained; and, new health issues that scare me. My fears of being and dealing with life changes alone haunt me … However, if my knee hurts, my instinct is to rub it until the pain leaves. That's not a bad thing; it's honoring the part of the body that calls out for attention. I am grateful, because I can still move on my own, and do that simple task for myself.

When I have kidney pain, I am grateful that I at least now have answers as to why there is such pain. When I hear my joints scream 'snap, crackle or pop' when I rise from a chair, I am grateful, because it means the muscle inside my chest that transports my blood continues to sing along as well. When I see a gray or silver hair on my head (or elsewhere), I am grateful. Because some people don't live long enough to see their own. Life could be worse. And, when I have to massage my hands each night before I sleep, I am grateful; because this means I've been using them to paint and create art all day – and sometimes into the night. Oftentimes I have to force myself to drink enough water. But, then I realize, there may be a day I will forget how to swallow. So, I am grateful.

I decided to meet my hair, saggy body parts and changing destiny in my own way, and I'm elated – and grateful. Like the early Snow Drops in the grass, my stardust is on time.

Published in The Courier-Times, Feb 2017

I can't believe this happened to me

In July 2016, I was contacted by The Janice Mason Art Museum in Cadiz, Kentucky inviting me to present a solo art exhibit. Immediately, I understood the magnitude of this offer. Giving a one-woman art show is amazing enough. But to be asked by a museum is golden. As coveted as a gallery exhibit would be, a museum show is the cream on the berries and is priceless on an artist's resume.

I eventually accepted the invitation, having no idea what this would involve. I almost considered backing out, but the Museum staff made it very clear that they wanted to show my work, and that they particularly wanted to show it in the cold, dismal winter months. Because my art is extremely colorful and bold, the idea was to bring some brightness into an otherwise bland and often depressing season. I agreed to go ahead with it, and thus, my show named, “COLOR STORM: If Not Now; When?” materialized.

I thought five months would be sufficient time to pull this off. Well, it would be had I been more adept at preparing my artwork to be “gallery-ready.” This undertaking was huge! The framing, matting, wrapping, labels/tags, preparing an extensive spread sheet with the details of the 70 paintings I planned to exhibit, damage control, coordinating mediums and themes, and the pricing. Beyond that, many paintings needed to be re-worked.

Also, framing is an expensive luxury for some artists. I relied upon professional framing for group exhibits, etc., and, most likely, I will again. But with this many paintings, I decided to try and do some of the presentation process myself (with a little help from my artist friends). I've learned to do some of this. But, let's face it, I'm just not good in this area.

So, I put in hours of work preparing my art to go to Kentucky in December. The show would open on January 5, and run until February 25. The Museum agreed to transport my paintings to and from my home and the Cadiz. I stressed and worried, and worked well into the early morning hours for weeks on new paintings. My home looked like a war zone with paintings crowded in my living room as I cataloged the entire collection. I couldn't breathe, and suffered anxious panic attacks, bouts of fear and even depression.

While most people would assume this was a joyous effort, they don't realize that art IS work. It is the work I do, and it is my intent to do the very best I am able. A representative from the museum arrived at my home on a Saturday when most of Indiana was coated in ice. I fretted over his safety in making the 5+ hour journey here, as well as his return to Kentucky. And then, it was my plan to rest and breathe. But, of course, I didn't. My adrenaline has been rushing about for months.

Yesterday, I and two friends journeyed to Southern Kentucky for my Meet The Artist Reception, which had originally been scheduled for last week, but yet another ice storm made it impossible to travel. It was a most remarkable day forever embedded in my crazy Book of Life.

First of all, The Janice Mason Art Museum is a delightful venue housed in a former Post Office building. It's absolutely perfect for showing art, with it's beautiful architecture, antique P.O. boxes and character. I was greeted by someBoard Members, and guests from the community, including several artists from Trigg County, Kentucky.

This was a fabulous experience for me; an opportunity many only dream of. But what really touched me was the community of Cadiz itself. A small city with a vastly diverse group of people of different races and cultures living and working in a remarkably harmonious way for the betterment of their city, county, their families and the arts. Last night, we attended a community fund raising supper celebrating the 30^th Anniversary of “Genesis Express,” a civic organization that benefits children through various programs. Watching these folks working together and interacting with mutual love and respect was reminiscent of days gone by, when that was the norm everywhere in this country. It was a reminder that we are all one, and need to take care of each other – ALL of us. Not just what's best for me, you, us, them, and they – ALL of US!

Out of the darkness, COLOR STORM brought me to see the light. Why can't we all treat each other with loving kindness and make it all great again that way? If Not Now; When?

Soon He Will Be Home

The warm, savory aroma of a beautiful turkey slow roasting in the oven gently coats the tiny kitchen with warmth and security … comfort food. Only, it's not a turkey, but a small, chicken in a foil pan with a few potatoes, carrots and onions adorning the sides. It sure smells like turkey. But some moms are just like that. They do what they have to do with what they have, and make magic happen every night. On top of the stove is a small worn pot half filled with a thin gravy and a few biscuits warm in a pan.

The drafty apartment is small, with just one bedroom … his. She sleeps on the sofa, where she shields her eyes from the flashing neon signs across from their fourth floor flat, with an old blanket she pulls over her head. But, tonight she is not sleeping. It happens to be Christmas night, and she's waiting up for him. The two of them share this small space, along with simple dreams, hopes, joys, sadness; all the things many mothers and sons share these days.

Madonna by Stacey Torres

She worries about him. Tonight he is working – volunteering, actually – at a suicide crises center, talking courage and hope into the people who sometimes call in, lost in their dark desperation … hoping to find some strength and purpose with their lives when all else has abandoned them. Her son is very good at this, apparently. Always full of hope and logic, his gentle way of accepting others and walking them through their issues comes natural to him. Her husband died a few years ago, and the two of them barely get by.

The mother didn't really want her son to go out this evening; after all, it is Christmas – and his birthday. But he explains to her that this night, more than most others, is a very crucial time for people who are lost, depressed, and suffering from ravaged hearts and souls. “They need me,” he tells her. And knowing this to be true, she resigns herself to wait up for him so they may share a simple Christmas supper together later that night.

This night is no different than any other to her. She frets and agonizes over her son constantly. You see, he is different. His tall graceful presence, with those dark eyes and skin cause him to stand apart from others in a unique unearthly way. People have taunted him, mocked and even threatened him because he was different. Because his beliefs are different, and he looks at the world and humanity differently. They assume the worst in him, and judge him without knowing him – or her. He lives in a world where he is constantly profiled by people who live in fear and ignorance. The mother fears there will be no generation in their family after him. That's just the way things are now. She hopes he will be home soon.

Many years ago on a Christmas night, the aroma of a wild foul boiling in an earthenware pot over some embers out in the courtyard is both comforting and tantalizing. There, she sits and waits as her unleavened pancakes bake on hot stones.

He is late again. Out with his friends working on his birthday. As always, she is worried about him. His work takes him to places and people she is she feels are dangerous for him. But deep in her heart she knows it's what he is meant to do. It's his life's work.

He spends day and weeks talking to people; teaching them ways to live a more fulfilling life, and giving them courage and hope when they are lost in their dark desperation. He has fed the hungry, comforted the sick, and is always accepting of others.

Her husband died a few years before their son began his work. And, now the two of them live a modest and humble life, and she trusts his judgment and decisions.

She knows, however, there is nothing she can do but support his dreams and his wishes. The long hours spent talking and sharing these hopes tells her that he is accepting of his calling and ultimate fate. All she can do is be there for him.

The son has told his mother that he has been taunted, followed, threatened and mocked by people who do not know or trust him. She frets and agonizes over her son constantly. You see, he is different. His tall graceful presence, with those dark eyes and skin cause him to stand apart from others in a unique unearthly way. Some love him and respect what he teaches them. But there are many he feels threatened by. He is judged and profiled by people who live in fear and ignorance. The mother fears there will be no generation in their family after him. That's just the way things were then. She hopes he will soon be home.

Originally published in The Courier-Times, December 2016

Being Thankful - It's Not That Hard

And so, today is the first Sunday in Advent – or, the beginning of the Advent Season, which runs until Christmas Eve. And then, we have the 12 Days of Christmas, which begin on Christmas Day through Epiphany on January 6. Complicated? Not at all. If you put it in the context of what it is, and not what it has become. In the merchandising world, the Christmas season trumps everything from Labor Day on, running right over Advent, and reluctantly leaving on Christmas night so the stores can start stocking their Valentine's Day cards.

But to us Christians, the Advent Season was meant to be a profound time that prepared us for the miracles of Christmas. It was meant to be used as a simple time to reflect, wait and breathe in the peace and warmth that our bodies, souls and minds so crave. In a way, this peaceful time helps us to replenish ourselves after a year of stress, conflict, broken promises, pain, fears, anger and challenges. At least, ideally that's what it should be. And, this year, more than any other in our history thus far – we need to – as a people; not just Christians – but all of us, breathe in the peace and let go of the toxic negativity we have allowed into our hearts, our homes and frequently spills out of our mouths.

We have much to be thankful for … not what we have wished for or wanted; not for what we have or have gained; not even for healing. But, instead, we need to learn to be thankful for what we've gone through and have survived. The trials that were put before us – we got through them, and we're here … with beating pulses and a purpose. There is still time to set our hearts right – to love and be loved in return – and to do unto others the way we all deserve to be treated and cared for.

Last week, I was challenged by a friend to be verbally silent for a minimum of 24 hours. Miraculously, I completed the challenge, which was peaceful, enjoyable and awakened some things within me that have overslept way too long. Prior to the start of me keeping my mouth shut for a day, I had a beautiful conversation with a wonderful woman I have not seen since I was a young child. We connected on social media a few months ago, but this was the first time I called her on the phone. I could hear my mother's voice urging me to call and reach out to this remarkable woman.

The lady and my mother met in college in the 1940s, and were good friends until my mother's passage last year. But I called her, and we chatted for a good hour. This woman, who is now 90 years of age, is sharp and vibrant, active in the arts and her community, as she always has been. At this time, she is in the process of writing three books, and recently received the Key to her City for all of her years of dedication to keeping our history and culture alive, while teaching young women and men to prepare themselves for the world. She kept telling me she wanted to see me, and that she'd be there for me – as another mother, should I feel that need – but, ultimately as my friend. This has become the norm for me lately. I've found myself being friends with my late mother's peers and associates, and it has been wonderful. So, here is another beautiful soul placed in my life to help fill a tender void.

New beginnings are here for us to make the most of. During this Advent season, regardless of your faith, use this time to replenish your spirit, your heart and the goodness you brought on this earth with you. Breathe in the peace and warmth of this season. And, exhale the negativity, fears and hate that may have crept in when you weren't looking. Be grateful for the here and now. And above all, be kind to one another.

First published by The Courier-Times in November 2016

Stone Love Art Jewelry

Geranium Manor

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