WHERE DID SUMMER GO?

                                  WHERE SUMMER WENT

When summer break ends, parents tend to get overly sentimental and utter things like, “Where did the summer go?” Mind you, these are the same parents who claimed they’d go raving mad if they had to endure another camping trip with their barfing children. These are the same parents who thought they’d die of embarrassment when the neighbors called to inform them that their young children were running through the sprinkler without swimming suits . . . again.

Well, just in case you’re wondering, I’ll tell you where summer went.

Summer floated down the irrigation ditch along with my young son’s tennis shoes and childhood.

Summer flamed, then flickered out like old street lamps with flashes of exploding fireworks and ebbing orange embers in a dying fire.

Summer soared away like the injured sparrow my children brought home to mend – later watching with still breath as their old friend flew too high for returning.

Summer danced over hammer-smashed rocks, grasshopper collections, and weaving hollyhocks, like mountain rivers to the valley floors.

Summer hopped from family reunion to family reunion like backyard pet rabbits stopping long enough to nibble on the garden fare best suited to their liking.

Summer grew up, cut off from home roots, like toppled corn stalks in the field and heavy melons fallen from the vine.

Summer dozed off in an ocean of blackness like children in sleeping bags wishing on falling stars in the backyard and telling scary stories in the dark.

Summer swirled upward like backyard barbecue smoke laden with the steamy smell of thick, dripping steaks filling the air.

Summer aged from green to brown like dying tulips that save their buried hears for next year’s blooming.

Summer raced past us like hot August afternoon rainstorms filling flowers bed, gardens, and ditches with life-giving water, and then moving on.

Summer paraded past like colorful floats, precision marching bands, and candy-throwing clowns. Stretching our necks, we peer down Main Street, unsure that the celebration has ended.

Summer was cut short like faded blue jeans with threadbare knee-holes.

Summer melted away like soft butter left too long on the kitchen table when it is one hundred degrees outside in the shade.

Summer rustled past us in the morning air like freshly washed sheets on the line. Now at sunset, someone has taken in the linen, carefully folding it away for the next change of season.

Summer grew wild like tender asparagus along the ditch bank, ready to be plucked and savored at just the right instant. Now grown old, the ageing plant has gone to seed and survival.

Summer unfolded like the yellow rose in the white vase by the kitchen window. Early sunlight from the eastern sky uncurled the tightly closed bud, revealing the flower within. Now, the soft pedals have fallen.

Summer is going out. Children are growing up. Garden vines lie heavy. Harvest is near.

And that is where summer went.

Baadsgaard Man Camp 2014 Rocks

SOUL IN THE MAKING

We often speak of an artist's finest work as their masterpiece when in reality their greatest creation might be a life they've touched. I know from personal experience that an artists's finest handiwork might be the result of an ordinary conversation on an ordinary day. I took Introduction to Drawing from a graduate student in the early seventies at Brigham Young University. I do not remember his name. He was not well-known, rich or tenured, yet because of two conversations we shared, the trajectory of my life changed forever. His ability to see into my soul enabled me to contemplate new possibilities and take flight.

I was wearing multiple layers of worn thrift-store clothing, working three jobs and taking a full load of classes when I stepped into my first drawing class. I’d always longed to be an artist but believed my mother’s opinion about my lack of talent. To my dismay all the other students in class were excellent artists. When asked to display our work, I was embarrassed by how my creations compared to the others. Still, an eager student, I relished the learning process and quiet awakening of every drawing assignment.

A few weeks into the semester, my teacher asked me to stay after class.

“Would you consider becoming a model for the art department?” he asked me.

“Why would you ask me?” I replied.

“Because I’ve noticed you have a perfectly proportioned body.”

I told him I’d have to think about it. After class I walked home alone deep in thought. I’d never heard a positive comment about my body before. After opening the front door to my apartment, I headed straight for the bathroom and locked the door behind me. Then I looked in the full-length mirror. Slowly, one piece at a time, I removed layer after layer of thrift store clothing. Someone appeared in the glass that I’d never seen before. I dropped to my knees and sobbed as past comments from those who might have loved me filled my mind.

“You’re fat and ugly. No boy will ever want to marry you.”

For the first time I wondered if those words were a lie, if I might be something more. Though I did not have the courage to be a model that semester, I would never be the same. On the last day of class, my teacher had each student bring their portfolio and present our drawings in the hallway outside our classroom. One by one I placed each piece of work on the cold floor and waited. My teacher carefully studied each piece, then looked up at me and smiled.

“You are the only person in this class who earned an A.”

I dropped my jaw.

“But I’m the only person in this class who doesn't know how to draw.”

“You are the only student in this class who is a true artist,” he replied.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You are the only one who did more than I asked and tried new techniques that might not work out. You were the only one who searched for truth deep inside yourself and wanted to share. I don’t know what art form you will pursue after my class, but I do know that you have the soul of an artist.”

I walked down the steps of the Harris Fine Arts Center that summer evening with a new image of my future. Something deep inside knew this man spoke the truth.

Sometime later, when I tried to locate this teacher to thank him for what he had done for me and present him with the gift of my first published book, I was told that he had passed away. I was too late to thank him that day. I hope I am not too late to thank him now, and to express my deepest gratitude to all who lay aside personal ambition to do God’s work. Are we not all artists? Is not the highest of all art the ennobling of the human soul?
Now when I’m painting pictures with words or looking into the lives of my ten children or twenty-five grandchildren, I think about my art teacher. Perhaps it is fitting that this gentle giant of a man will remain anonymous. For the greatest creator, the finest artist in the universe tells us that we are His best work and glory – His masterpiece.

Pulling Faces

For some reason when someone pulls out the camera, my husband's silly side comes out.
When my daughter April snapped these pictures for posterity,
 I had no idea what my better half was doing.