Today was the 60th birthday of a friend of mine. We have a complicated friendship. I haven’t wished her happy birthday in a few years because she has her settings on Facebook so I can’t directly comment on her page (but other people can). That bothers me. It bothers me, because I don’t think I’ve ever given her reason to not trust me – except I left the church she was co-pastoring with her husband.

I didn’t leave because of them. But I did leave because of them. It’s complicated. There were a lot of hurtful things that went down over the decade-plus that I served under their pastorship, and not all of it was their fault. And some of it was. Eventually, I left because my husband left, and in his wake, I was left a “single-but-married-woman” attending church and there’s really a strange disconnect in the evangelical world for women like myself. My friend didn’t do much to help my situation.

Her husband certainly never called my husband to inquire as to why he left and if there was anything he could do to remedy the situation. But neither did any other Elder (and peer) in the church (save two). The modus operandi was to corner me at church and ask how my husband was doing and offer some sort of platitude. It got so bad that I typed up our phone number and waited for the next person to ask. I planned on handing the phone number to the inquiring church member and say, “you call him and ask him. I can’t speak for him.”

No one asked after I went to all that work.

My husband and I were very active in church service, and I continued on after he left, but I began to limit my attendance in order to also be a wife. An opportunity came up at the church and I – being a long time church member who had memorized most of the sermons – decided I could take advantage of that opportunity. I approached the person in charge (someone who had been at the church for considerably less time than I had). I was told that I *had* to attend *every* service – every time the church was open! – in order to be in this ministry. I stood there, rather dumbfounded, soaking in this information. I’d been to *every* service for over a decade and now they wanted *more* out of me? I’d been a teacher, a leader, an organizer, sat on councils, and headed up several annual events without a single hitch. Ever.

I turned around and walked out the door. I was hurt, angry, and disappointed. I felt pushed out. Your husband doesn’t go to church here anymore, so you are not valuable to our ministry.

Every stupid thing this friend had ever said to me surfaced. She was pretty, loved make-up, had her hair professionally done, and was endowed with a full figure. I am plain. I hate make-up, refuse to let anyone touch my hair that I don’t absolutely trust, and am flat-chested. I am the antithesis of a poster girl for anything except Ban the Bra (because you can’t tell if I have a bra on or not).

I allowed this friend to perform “make-overs” on me. One such make-over culminated in having 8 inches of my hair cut off. I nearly ended up in divorce court. I went from waist-length, beautiful, flowing hair to trendy just-below-the-shoulders cut. It was like asking my husband to shave his mustache. I will regret that make-over for the rest of my life. It led to bad perms and bad hair styles and – let’s just not go there. Now that I am older and my hair is thinner and I can’t grow it back out, I regret that haircut.

Then there was the time I needed to have something affirmed: I was asked by my father to take on my 10 year old niece to raise. She was an orphan and Dad believed she was being unduly influenced by her step-grandmother. This friend pulled me aside and said, “You do not have to do this. You do not owe your <deceased> sister.”

Wow. I was stunned. That was the last advice I needed. The last advice I expected. It was wrong on so many levels, the first of which: it did not confirm God’s word to my heart. I decided to follow my heart, and I have never regretted that. I just wish this friend had asked God to speak through her before she blurted something out that would forever mar our friendship. My niece was the best decision I ever made that went against the “counsel” of church elders.

I unfairly compare my friend with my first pastor’s wife, Betty Oglesbee. Betty saw through me. Betty saw into me. Betty spoke after she heard from God. Betty never spoke a word to me that was not delivered in careful deliberation. Betty loved me unconditionally – nothing related to church attendance or great spirituality. Betty was my unconditional mentor for as many years as I had her advice (1987 was the last year I had guidance from Betty, but I still think: “what would Betty say?”

I tell you all this (and there is so much more) because this friend turned 60 today. Her church and her children posted videos of her. I love her children – they were in my Sunday School classes. I was faced with my feelings for her: those of love and those of hurt. Which do you go with? I’ll never fully reconcile my walk in Christ with her ministry. I recognize that. God led us down very different paths. She could have been more encouraging in my chosen path, but I can see that my path so diverged from hers that it would be hard for her to relate to.

Still – she has been a good friend. She’s a TV icon.  She’s written books. Her children converse with me. I don’t actually hate or even dislike her. I’m just hurt by different things that happened under her ministry. And I truly want to bless her on her birthday. I want to let all of that go. I want this to be her best-ever birthday. She deserves that much. She’s been through hurts I can only imagine, and her hurts have caused her to strike out at people like myself. She doesn’t trust people who claim to be friends.

It’s complicated. I love her. I want her to have a happy birthday. But…

rocks 004 rocks 006

We affectionately call this rock, “The Sadie Rock”. It bears a small resemblance to the English Pointer we had at the time we found the rock. Sadie is long gone now. Don and I held her head and paws when she crossed the Rainbow Bridge ~ she was truly the dumbest dog we ever owned, but she was our dumb dog.

I sat down tonight to write about the things I want to change in my life and I ended up taking photos of a couple of rocks I have picked up over the years. I – we – have way too many rocks. The last time we moved, we left quite a collection behind, but we quickly amassed a new one.

Many are just the right size to slip into a pocket, which is probably how they came to be added to our rock collection. Others, like Sadie Rock, took some effort to bring home. Sadie Rock weighs around 3-5 pounds. She’s metamorphic rock from the high desert above the Alvord playa. She makes a great book end, and since we have a plethora of books as well as rocks – that is a good thing. There’s not enough shelving for all of our books. Or rocks.

Or antique bottles and jars.

I am on a major decluttering binge, combined with deep=cleaning the house. Arthritis, a full-time job, and other duties interfere, but I have made good progress: I’ve washed down the entire kitchen (still need to clean the refrigerator inside), cleaned out the pantry, tossed out stale herbs and spices, cut my canning supplies in half, and even de-greased the top of the refrigerator. (Who puts in a stove and doesn’t include a hood with fan? The people who remodeled our house before we bought it. Ugh.)

I cleaned out and washed the walls in the laundry room – who knew I had so many duplicate cleaning supplies? A small bag of out-dated medicines and vitamins was delivered to our pharmacy for disposal. It was a small bag because I managed to haul off a LARGE bag of said items to the pharmacist last year.

I am half-way through the bathroom.

I keep finding rocks and instead of tossing them outside, I carefully haul them up the stairs to the loft, which is the last area I will be cleaning. I will have to make some hard decisions about rocks when I get to the loft. I am hoping it will be so much closer to spring and I will have a good idea where to put my “special” rock garden. I’ll have to toss all the agates. It’s not like we can’t drive a couple of hours to the coast and pick up more. I may have to admit to myself that I will never use the obsidian shards, though. Those were harder to come by.

The project, which is basically Stage 1 of my New Year’s Resolution “to change my life for the better (how’s that for a vague resolution?) so I can create and finish projects without feeling guilty about the household demands (yeah, now we’re getting specific: get rid of the excuses so I can’t fall back on them)” is slowly taking shape. One idea I had was to collect all the jars, bottles, and jugs – mostly vintage, but some antique, and all worth less than $10/a piece – into one spot. I can’t part with them! But presently, they aren’t even on display. And that is a travesty. (Saves on dusting, but…)


The idea of displaying all those glass items is troubling in a house with few open walls. I had an idea – confirmed by visiting Pinterest – that I could take an old wooden ladder and hang it sideways on the wall to create shelving. They call this style of decorating “shabby chic” and it’s perfect for my tastes. But to find a ladder! Wood ladders are not easy to come by.

I coerced a girlfriend to go with me. We hit every antique store in Oregon City (I wasn’t willing to expand my search: the Aurora antique shops and the Sellwood neighborhood antique shops attract more tourists and are pricier). My friend, it turned out, isn’t so much in to antiques as I am. But she was a good sport. And at the last place – an antique mall I didn’t know was an antique mall – we found The Ladder.

Wandering through that old barn structure, going from antique vendor to vendor, I was struck by how “this could be my house if I keep collecting things…” Yes, I live in an antique mall. I can’t keep up on the dusting.

And I want more.

Back to the ladder – it isn’t a bunch of funky paint colors, which I was sort of hoping for, but it is unique with the round rungs (and the warped bottom rung – or top rung, if your turn it over). My husband asked what I paid for it and guessed $30. Diane and I high-fived as we said (together), “CLOSE!” I paid $45. Ouch.

It needs to be painted. And hung. it’s perfect.

So far, I have been working around my obsession with old things (who am I kidding: OUR obsession). I need a vintage hutch for the kitchen (found one I like, but it’s $495 and I don’t have that kind of money right now). In May, I will travel to Reno to bring the remnant of my inheritance home which includes three chime clocks (two wall & one mantel) and a Star thread case. The Star thread case is full of Lions’ Club memorabilia which I will try to sell on eBay.


I think mine has six drawers. Stole this from Pinterest, there was no photographer credit. Each drawer pulls out with loads of room for items to be displayed (theoretically, spools of thread). If I was a seamstress, this would be a real treasure for thread keeping. I’m not a seamstress, but I think I have enough odd, little, things of vintage and antique status that I can use it well. It is currently full of Lions’ Club memorabilia of undetermined value. I will be doing a lot of research when I get it home.

I want to hang more photos of my grand children around the house. I need to update my photo albums. I have an entire photography update needed, which include scrapping some of the genealogy stuff. Yeah. Just start me on this project. I was pretty good about albums until about 1990. That means I have 26 years of photos that need to be converted to albums. I have the albums and the photos.

And then there’s grand kids. I want them to be in photo frames and hanging around my house. I have very little wall space in this 1150SF bungalow. Open floor plan = no wall space for photos. I think some people hang them all the way down to the floor. Wouldn’t that be cool? Not with dogs, though. Or cats.

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This isn’t really a good conclusion to my post. This is a rock I found in the northern Cascades, in a remote stream that we had to bush-whack to get to. I won’t be putting this baby outside – ever.

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It is yellow jasper.

Don and I were hiking up about a spot that has a couple names (to us): “It’s-just-a-quarter-mile-from-the-read-lake-honey” and “Mossy Rock”. The lake is actually unnamed and the quarter mile from the road was up sheer cliffs, only to discover there was a spur logging road that came down within a hundred yards of it.  Mossy Rock refers to the deep moss covering of a rock slide another fifty feet to the north of the lake.

We were hiking and playing in the shadows of the fir trees when I spotted the rock in the water of the creek flowing down the hill. Pulled it out, looked for more (there were no more) and hauled it home. Took me forever to figure out that it was jasper. I need to label it so my kids know what it is when I am gone – and the story behind it.

Everything has a story. Every rock picked up. Every moment memorialized. I am loathe to toss rocks outside to weather and age because I fear their stories will get lost. So many human stories are lost. No one will know why we kept Sadie Rock when we die. They may not even recognize that it resembles a dog’s head. It’s “Just A Rock.”

It’s never just a rock. It’s a wonderful discovery. A treasure. A monument to a moment passed in our life. A cairn on the path of life, showing the next pilgrim the way.

God help them if they follow me…


I mean to keep up this blog and post about my family history, but I haven’t been very good about it since the first of the year. I did manage to scan and save an entire folder of family history as it relates to the paternal side, but I haven’t pursued any of the leads or transcribed many of the stories to this blog. I have a 40-page “General Family History” that someone transcribed, typed, and carbon copied to my father. I suspect my Uncle Mike wrote it from letter he has in his possession, but I have not called him to verify that. Most of it deals with letters written during the Civil War – originals that I do not own.

Personally, I have been dealing with whatever it is that cripples me – that undiagnosed, but very real, autoimmune condition that causes some very obvious (even to the medical field) symptoms. I should go to a doctor, but I am so over that right now. they can’t find what is causing this, so why go? Yeah, yeah, I get that the symptoms are on the “do not ignore these symptoms” list, but doctors can never find the root cause – so why not ignore the symptoms? It’s not like you get a magical remedy just because you checked in to a doctor’s office. you get a bill, insurance shaves a small portion off, and you pay for a shrug of the shoulders. Last visit? $143 for “Gee, I have no idea, but go to the ER if it gets worse.”

I crawled into bed last week and stayed there for three days. Cheaper than a doctor’s visit, and a modicum more of relief. It could be worse: I could have something they could identify that is actually very deadly and rapid in advance, or I could have Fibromyalgia. Whatever it is, it only cripples the body once in awhile and the rest of the time I just have weird (but obvious & measurable, even to doctors) symptoms.

I’ve also been working hard on starting an at-home business (now that I am finished whinging about my body aches and pains). I have a portfolio of mini paintings and several books on building my own Word Press website (not this blog, but my art site). It’s slow going on the web design because I feel intimidated by technology and I think I’m going to just have to bite the bullet and start from scratch with the web site. Now that I have made that decision, it should be easier (see, you didn’t even know I was making a decision, did you? Neither did I).

Meanwhile – I still love my job that is just three miles from home. I’ve had a bit of a bad attitude this week, but if I think about it – this is just where I am supposed to be. it’s just that it is *not* my career. My career is what happens in the evenings, when I have a pencil or paintbrush in my hand. My career doesn’t pay the bills; my job does.

I’m on a major deep cleaning and decluttering binge – my 2016 winter goal is to get through the entire house. My 2016 Spring goal is to bring the rest of my inheritance home and clutter up the space all over again, but this time with meaningful antiques. Oy vey. Let me just get the house in order, first. I’ve made it through the laundry room and most of the kitchen. The problem is the weather… It’s been NICE and the garden is beckoning. I can’t neglect my garden!!

I did manage to get out and prune my grapevine back, but the annual dead-heading and getting ready for blooms hasn’t happened yet, and the air has been so warm… I noted that my forsythia has blooms on it. Haven’t seen anything on the Camellia – yet.

And birds. I haven’t posted about birds, or even taken many winter photos of them. We have a resident Bewick’s wren that has moved to the front yard and has figured out the suet cages. The Brown Creeper has been a steady visitor, too. I can’t keep enough nectar in the Hummer feeders because the Townsend’s Warbler has figured out how to raid them.

So – my promise – to start transcribing the “General Family History” beginning in February. Then, Great Aunt Gert’s letters. And Newton Brown’s letters. Great-great Uncle Newton ought to be interesting. Great Aunt Gert was just funny. And, in between, I’ll post on gardening and decluttering. I’ll strive to post once a week, at least – just to practice my writing skills.

Besides – you all need to know how I got to Oregon from Jarbidge, right? It wasn’t a very direct route… But nothing in my life is.


The difference between folklore and fact is that one can be irrefutably proven and the other is usually a bit of an embellishment of truth that is handed down until the retelling of it becomes known as fact. An example would be the Ballad of Jesse James in which the writer wrote that Jesse robbed from the rich and gave to the poor, and that he had a wife and three children. The facts were very different: James was a thief with a vendetta against the railroad and he did not spread his wealth to the poor. He also only had two children, not three.

So what has this to do with Benedict Arnold?

I was leafing through some of my Grandfather Wilcox’s letters (Gramps, as I knew him) and I stumbled onto this gem of a story about my ancestry. I’d read it before but remembered few of the details. Here is the story (ancestral names in bold)(and complete in grammatical error):

<snippet> “Then there was another cousin, William Meade, his father & my great grandmother were brother & sister so I am told. That is the branch that had ancestor that was around Cedar Hill, N.Y. when he was very, very old. Along with two other lads they deserted the Continental Army thinking the cause about lost. On the outside they learned and observed different and were looking for a ticket back in to good graces of the Federal Forces when oneXXX Major Andre walked into a bar, then called a tavern, and they took him in tow and found the famous message from Benedict Arnold. They had their ticket and used it. Ancestor Williams was rewarded with a very nice piece of land that kept him in drinking liquor until he was still well preserved into the memory of future generations.” <end>

That makes you say “Hmmmm”, doesn’t it? Given Gramps’ penchant for spinning a tale and embellishing it, I thought it prudent to see how much of that narrative actually matches the historical record. I was surprised to find that enough of the record matches to make a connection, and the historical record differs a little in every version of the telling. However, not one single, verifiable, item in the record points to the three young men as AWOL from the Continental Army (which was not, no matter how much Gramps wanted it to be, a “Federal” Force as the Nation had not yet been born).

This much is true: three militiamen by the names of John Paulding, Isaac Van Wart, and David Williams did make the discovery and did arrest Major John Andre. (Another version gives the second man’s name as Van Wert.) (A “skinner” would be a Militiaman). Paulding was the only one of the three who could read and soon realized the man they were robbing was actually a British agent.

This little gem of Gramps’ use of folklore is full of fact and falsehood, but it makes for a great fireside story in much the same way as the Ballad of Jesse James makes for a moving ballad. Sprinkle the truth with a little spice – that would have been Gramps’ motto. There are obvious holes: Gramps skipped from William Meade, the very, very old man to a story about an ancestor named Williams.

This fellow, Williams, would be a distant relative, not a direct ancestor – if we are even related. I haven’t gotten that far on my search because I’m trying to stick with the straight lines of the family first (which includes the matriarchal lines as well as patriarchal).

6f61bd97-961f-420f-9c8d-36147952a501Thomas Force Palmer 1787-1865

I found a hand-written “history” of the Palmer clan in my file cabinet that I have reserved solely for genealogy. This is where I stuffed everything my father sent me: all my mother’s notes on her side of the family, and anything my dad had on his side of the family. My father was the grandson of John and Irene Wilcox. Joseph Snow Palmer was my great-great-great grandfather.

I have not researched the hand-written history, but I am going to transcribe it below (verbatim). It was written in pencil on faded note-paper, but is still legible. I’d like to capture it before it fades completely.

Here goes:

Coat of Arms was granted to Ralph Palmer in 14 century and brought (?) to the coming of the clan to America.

Ralph Palmer was of great note in the South of England and resided at Sussex. Sir Edward who was a descendant in the 8th generation was our ancestor. he (sic) married a daughter of Sir Richard Clement. She had three sons (think of it3) (sic) triplets and they were born on three successive Sundays, the first one on Palm Sunday*. Some Record (see coat of arms)**

The first of Palmers of our line in America: William. He came from Sommersetshire, England in 1621 on the good ship Fortune. He had a son, William. The second Wm. was a lieutenant under Capt. Miles Standish and has been designated as Lieutenant William Palmer. he was a man of large affairs and held many positions of trust. He married Judith Feake and had five sons & one daughter. One of his sons Ephraim married Sarah Messenger & they had seven children. One of whom was John, who married Sarah Close and had five children, one being Justus who married Amy Lockwood and had six children, all sons & the third of these was Ephraim our Revolutionary ancestor.

He was born in 1760, married Margaret Force in 1786 and had 11 children, seven sons and four daughters. The eldest of these was Thomas Force Palmer born in 1787. Married Rebecca Snow 1813 and then had six children, four girls & 2 boys.

Joseph Snow Palmer, b. 1819

*I’m trying to verify that story. Sounds like a tall tale: giving birth to triplets, but each one a week apart, beginning on Palm Sunday?? I can verify the boys were triplets, but not the story. That link also hints at the tragic death of my ancestor, Sir Thomas Palmer. (Cause of death: beheaded after the Lady Jane Grey conspiracy.) That bears a lot more research!



Yeah. right. I itemized only those items we have purchased from Christmas at the Zoo. And the outside lights – I lost 5 strands last year (2015). Yay for cheap LED strands: what is up with five of them going “kaput”???

Not like it was a big deal: I did the outside lights AND lit up the company tree with my lights and didn’t even miss the five strands that died. That should tell me something.

Sometime in the next five days, I will get this all pushed into our 12×6′ attic space. Hopefully, I will d o this without hurting my knees.

Why? I don’t know. I really don’t know. But it’s fun. :)


I had a lot of failures the last couple of days, and the photo of the full Christmas moon is – technically – one of them. Like the other failures in the past 48 hours, this one is  one I can live and work with. So there’s no detail on the moon, but I did capture it perfectly round as the fog parted – and I did it without a tripod. I balanced my camera (with the 300mm lens) on the stair post. One lucky shot.

I wasn’t going to do a Christmas post, but… here I am. Blogging at 11:20PM on Christmas Day. It was very nearly a disaster. Let me list my mistakes:

  1. I seriously mis-judged the popularity of Star Wars: The Force Awakens. Of course, I remember the opening of the very first Star Wars movie, right down to who I went to the movie with and what theatre. It was epic. I never dreamed I would give birth to children who would love that movie as much as I did. And I certainly never imagined a SOLD OUT Christmas matinee. When does that ever happen? Oh, yeah – Star Wars: The Force Awakens.
  2. I made my first-ever pecan pie. I made certain I had all the ingredients, and I had them all out on the counter when I started. Karo syrup, sugar, vanilla, eggs, chopped walnuts (OK, it was a walnut pie! Picky, picky!). I followed the instructions to a “T” and was a little surprised when the filling didn’t seem to fill the crust as expected. Oh, well. Put it in to bake and 60 minutes later realized I had forgotten to add the one cup of sugar to the syrup-vanilla-egg mix. OOPS.
  3. The oven would not light. I pre-lit it at 10:50AM so I could put the ham in at 11:00 and we could dine at 2:00. I’d used the oven a couple of hours earlier when I put it on “warm” to heat up the ceramic bowl I mix my sourdough bread dough in. I had no reason to believe the sucker wouldn’t light. It didn’t just not light – there was no gas flowing to it AT ALL. No gas = no danger of huge explosion. Checked the burners. They all lit. Turned off oven, turned on oven. NOTHING, not even a faint rotten egg odor. Called in the husband. He mentions that this has happened to him, but not on a scale like this.
  4. I broke one of my Spode Christmas glasses. Darn. Actually #4 was the moon pic, but since I broke the glass and I already mentioned the moon… Yeah. So I only have 3 pretty Spode Christmas glasses now.

I can’t repair #1. At least, not for the four of us. But I did hear a rumor that if I had looked a few miles south of home, I would have discovered that the nearby small town theaters are not sold out. And – get this – no passes, which means no internet pre-sales! Guess where my husband and I are going on Saturday? If I can reach my kid & her fiancé and they want to drive over here… I will have redeemed myself.

#2 wasn’t so bad. The pie is merely not as fluffy as it should be, and maybe not quite as sweet as it should be, but it is entirely palatable. Tillamook vanilla ice cream complimented the pie quite well.

#3. I made preparations to rewrap the ham and call a restaurant for reservations while my husband said a short prayer. God answered his prayer and the oven lit! Ta da! And then it over-cooked the ham. Seriously? I need a new gas range. It behaved when I put the rolls in, so at least those baked properly.

I’m going to confess something here. If you’re a fan of Pioneer Woman, don’t read any further. But, in all honesty, I nearly killed myself a few years back, stressing over a holiday dinner. My BP hit heart attack levels. I think it got up to something like 166/110. Yeah, it was Very.Scary. I didn’t go to the hospital or anything, but it was a real wake-up call to me to 1) always take my BP meds and 2) stressing isn’t worth it.

That said, we had instant mashed potatoes with instant gravy. Tasted like instant, but no blood pressure spikes. Choose your battles. At least the pie was palatable.


Presents were awesome. We’d barely poured ourselves cups of coffee before the dogs began to beg to open their presents. No, really. Murphy got excited the minute we put up the tree and he’s been scanning the window for stockings every day since. I finally hung the stockings and he got really excited. Last night, he caught Santa filling them and he nearly came unglued with excitement. He climbed on the chairs and he tried to scale the wall. He was beside himself.

Harvey is a lot more like me – he can handle delayed gratification – but he was obviously hyped for the event as well.


The “indestructible” dog toys were destroyed by Murphy within the half hour. That includes Harvey’s toy. Harvey doesn’t care – he doesn’t play. He just wanted the pleasure of opening his gift, and he got that. But the BIG hit was the homemade dog treats I made for them.

Homemade dog treats are SO simple. These were made from the remnants of a quinoa and kale soup with a chicken stock base. I tossed in a cooked yam and a gift of “bacon jelly’ that someone gave to me (don’t ask. I don’t know why, either, but it was very handy when I needed to make dog treats). Pureé. Add flour until you can roll it our without a big sticky mess. Bake at 350 for half an hour and then at 250 until hard. Turn once.

The dogs love this particular recipe. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE.


A Bigfoot ornament. I actually squealed when I opened this. Don and I shop for ornaments at this wonderful store – Christmas at the Zoo – and I found this ornament there the day I picked out Don’s ornament. I almost cried. I couldn’t possibly tell him about it because then he would know where I bought his ornament and would possibly guess what it was (a moose). So when I opened this and saw it – I squealed. I knew exactly where he found it (down to the tree and limb).

He said the girl who boxed it for him was dubious when he said it was for his wife. Silly girl! She should spend more time believing.


This was another squeal. These t-shirts kept popping up in my news feed on Facebook. I get that it’s about algorithms, but… This is so ME. The three women in my life that I call “daughter” conspired to do this for me. I love this!


This is what I gave my husband (not all that I gave him, but his stocking stuffer). Christmas Murphy. It is gouache on canvas, 3×3″.

I have an entire project lined up that is posted on my other blog, Two Crow Feather Woman. 3×3″ canvases of animals for an art show. I’ve been selling them as a sideline ($30). It’s just fun. For the main part, I’ve stuck with animal portraits, but I am adding a little anthropomorphism to the mix as well.

That said, I leave you with this last offering and an invite to like my page on Facebook as well: Two Crow Feather Woman (Link will only work if you are on Facebook)


Merry Christmas from me & Happy Penguin with a Christmas Vest!


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