Bobbing Along

A Lifetime of Stories: collected, painted, shared.


Between trips to West Virginia and New York City, the past week has been pretty busy. Stories are percolating up in the noggin, stories that I am anxious to share. First, however, I must do some other schtuff—laundry and bills and such. And the stories are not quite ready to pop out onto the computer […]


One grandmother smelled of Listerine and moth balls. The other smelled of kitchen—fried chicken, black raspberry pie. My grandfather smelled of pipe tobacco, my father of sweat and anger. Mom smelled of Windsong. Perhaps my smell will be of turpentine and oil paint, but that won’t happen unless I get my ass into the studio.