I was the English Department Chairman at Cardinal Newman HS in 1975. Joel interviewed for a position on the faculty, and it was an easy recommendation. He began his teaching career there, then moved into Santa Rosa’s public school system and retired some years ago. He was/is a friend. His wife Linda is an artist, a painter, sculptor, a person whose hands are magic whether she’s holding a brush, clay, or a pair of scissors. She was also a hairdresser. For the years we lived in Santa Rosa she cut my hair. In exchange I was on call to photograph anything that was crying out to be photographed—her sculptures, paintings, drawings, herself. I’m afraid that I used her more than she used me. I owe her bigtime.
When Teeny died in 1988 she immediately brought us a platter of food. Linda is that kind of person, that kind of friend. I’m writing about the two of them in my blog because three years ago Joel was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Linda’s drawings, her paintings are a refuge, an outlet, a temporary escape from the challenges she faces as Joel’s caregiver. She has been posting images on Facebook for a few weeks now, commenting on how she and Joel are doing. Here’s what she’s had to say.
To Paint is To Love Again Henry Miller
“A few years ago my dear husband Joel was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. It broke my heart. To hold the grief I began painting flowers from my garden.
I started going to the senior center. Early spring I could still leave Joel for a few hours. Once a week. I brought a bouquet of flowers. Sat at the folding table in the open art class. Drew and painted. People would talk and draw, paint or cut things up. One lady painted pears. For years. Really beautiful. I would pull from the room. The color of Kathleen’s shirt slipped in behind the daffodils. The lemons rolled in by the tulip vase.
Joel and I sit in the garden. His mind is like a glass beach filled with broken bits worn smooth by the tide of time. I tell him love stories. How we met. How we traveled and camped and sat out under the Milky Way. One time packing up in Yellowstone we saw this old couple put all their gear in the big old trunk of their car. I thought that would be us.
Sitting at the folding art table I wondered why does a mat have to be plain white. Probably in the eighties it didn’t. So I grab another piece of paper as a pretend mat and color it. Over time the paintings grow. The mat becomes part of the painting. The flowers overtake the mat.
I sit in the coffee shop sipping chai for 3 hours. A day of care. Playing with images, getting caught-up on “the days to remember”. My friend refers to these times for me as bittersweet. I like that. The bitter encased in the sweet. Sometime the other. Yesterday I steal a rose hanging over the sidewalk on my morning walk. I paint it. I call it “A Stolen Moment”. I remember to paint her thorns.
Someone asked me why in my paintings I draw so much. Good question. I really love to draw. With pencil. I collect them. From the hardware store. From the Met. From the back of the junk drawer. I even have a Sponge Bob pencil left from when the grand kids were little. So I have a good think. Does my painting support my drawing? Do my drawings support my painting? I begin to allow my drawings to be more present in the paintings.
I bring in my black and white scarf to paint with the black and white pot. The drawing went well. Fun actually. But the painting keeps shifting away from me. I struggle. I don’t know where it wants to go. I give myself time to catch up. I give myself time to adjust. I call it the “Pot Of Transitions”. Joel asks me what I’m working on. I say a kerfuffle. He says ah kerfuffles have soft edges.
It’s not all beer and skittles. I can’t always feel the love. I try to allow the non feeling. I do allow myself to eat a cookie. I have no ace up my sleeve. No magical moment to share. It was a hard day. I pull out an unfinished salvia, draw and add dabs of color. I can hear rain start gurgling in the gutters.
Cecil Collins says “Creativity is one’s relationship with life”. As a wife, a mother, a hairdresser, a friend, a lover. A lover of trees. A Lover of the bay. A lover of beautiful moments. Drawing, painting, scribbling. Watching, touching and tasting. Smelling. Backing up. Scratching my head. Forgiving, erasing and starting again.
When Joel was diagnosed. I had just retired. Then the pandemic hit. What do I do? How do I care for myself? How do I care for Joel? The pamphlets say join a support group. I try three different groups. It’s not that anything is off about the groups. But more like I’m trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. I try holding one of my corners over the round opening. That’s exhausting. Finally my friend suggest I join an online drawing class. I do. I draw. For months. Everyday. Every lesson plan is like Christmas.
Joel gets a walker. What a great idea. Healthcare pays. Woo woo. Cherry red. A seat. Storage. Two hand brakes. We live on a slow hill. You go up. You come down. Cherry red doesn’t slow on the down. Joel doesn’t know how to use the hand brakes. Joel’s learning period has past. Cursing thoughts rumble past. I start drawing the poinsettia. From out of nowhere come the stars.
Joel has risen three times tonight. Trying to find his bearings. The sweet bit lingers. Even in the daylight. I walk him back to bed. Tonight I left all the starlights on. The air around me feels like honey. The star reflections drifting out our windows. Overlapping. Touching. Moving and shifting as I move and shift with the tide of time.”
“The Age Of Trees”
'“We take the backroads across the valley to pick up our daughter’s dog. Between the cloudbursts, a rainbow. I take my avenue of the Oaks which is really the old road that winds past the Laguna. The Oaks. So so many great ones. I loose count. Next a left by the “Wolf” tree I name for its grand size. It weaves like lace into the sky. A left on to the long straight stretch. All the oaks on one side their centers eviscerated by power poles. But still they hum. Their canopy like a boat.
Dec 22. The long goodby. The truth is I try to see in colors. Spring green weaves with last of the leaves. I try not to look to closely at the leaves. They have a life of their own. Black and white is refreshing. I know where I stand. Good or bad is impossible. I back up and honor the loss. For lunch I slurp noodles with dear friends. Fortified. I take the next step. Love to you all.”
Trapped By Love
I took a nap and Joel took off. The neighbor brought him back. Then the dog licked my donut. It was sitting on the kitchen counter. My donut. One of those special donuts thats worth going out of your way for. I guess the dog thought so too. Then before I could stop him Joel ate the donut. My not so special donut. Then we took a walk and the dog found a bone and ate that. Then later barfed it up on my sofa. I had had enough. I took them both outside and we all stood in the driveway. Me holding us. And the neighbor came by and asked how it was going. And I said. They are both a pain in the butt. And joel said not his butt.
We’re off to see the wizard.
My friend came to town. I met her at the library. I took her to my favorite chai place. Then over for noodles. We walked and I talked and talked. And she listened and listened. Then over noodles she spoke. With the wisdom of a wizard. In her soft quiet way. All the broken parts in me leaned in. And she said “you know Linda, nothing in you needs to be fixed”. All the broken parts sighed.
January 16th. Joel talked straight for 5 hours last night. Like only the disassembled talk. With words and meaning. Urgency. And a frantic desire to be heard. I heard him. I do not know what he said. I can tell you I tried to reassure him as I cooked dinner. Nodding as I moved around him to cut veggies. Lifting his hands away as I painted a leaf on my painting. I helped him in bed for the third time. I couldn’t wait to leave. I started to leave. Then backed up. Bent down. Cupped his face. Whispering sweet dreams
First tie your camel
My friend reminded me of this saying. A few days ago. When at the end of my rope. I said I don’t know what more I can do. First. Tie your camel. Do what you can do. Then. Trust in the love. So today I made scones. Our overworked social worker came by to see how we were doing. I fed her scones. Even sent her home with one in a sandwich baggie. She said no one has ever made her scones. Joel ate the rest.
I’ve been away at the coast. Walking the headlands. Taking pictures of the bluffs. The surf is wild. Hammering into the cliffs. Creating mythical creatures. The Gods must be proud. From where I stand the disconnected headland looks like a cupcake. Frosted with green moss. It makes me laugh. A few steps away a sleeping dragon. Trees grow careful out its topside. In a hollow an eye keeps watch on humanity.
A Gull Tries To Stare Me Down
We come to the coast. A balmy winters day. Dungeness crab sandwiches to eat on the bluffs. The tense parts in me went out to roll in the surf. The artist in me stayed to draw. To draw is to forget. To forget is to let the salt air take away my troubles. But for now. The troubles have something to say. The drawing keeps shifting and changing. Working. Then not working. Draw. Erase. Stand back. Step up. Mindful of the gopher holes I use up my erasers. My painting friend gives me hers. Best gift ever. I leave all the ghost lines. Tell a jumbled story. My story. I don’t know where I’m going. But something does.
Don’t Worry About A Thing
My great grandson has a mullet. He’s almost 3. He’s glad to have it out of his eyes. His momma’s glad to have the soft sweet baby curls still at the nape of his neck. I’m glad to have the laundry done and to have Joel asleep in his hospital bed. And. I’m glad for this tiny watermelon I bought on a whim and the daffodils blooming against the raised beds in the mostly winter garden. And. I’m glad for this morning with Joel waving his arm to the beat of Bob Marley as I danced around the kitchen table.
Last night. Feb 16 2024
We are watching tv. Or I am watching tv. Joel is dreaming himself home. Carried by our prayers. I surrounded him with lanterns of star lights and bouquets of daffodils from the garden. And on the mantle his family in pictures. An altar to his life. It won’t be long now. A few days. A week. He is at ease with the world. His life and the loved ones he leaves behind. How could he not.
Joel has passed. My dear heart. Silent. Into the night. The day. Surrounded by love and all your prayers, thoughts and best wishes. Thumbs ups and heart emojis, every little thing, meant so much. I love the depth of who we are. Thank you
She added, “A dear friend has offered me a show at the library form room. It opens later this month. I’ll try and post some of the painting also.
I hope for those close by you can come. We will.
P.S. October 26, 2024. For months Linda stopped showing her paintings on Facebook. She’s back. Accompanying one of her recent drawings was this:
“High Summer”
I Finally scoot to the center of the bed. It has taken five month. For me to put my pillow. In the center of our queen size bed. Lay my body down. And sleep. For fifty year I had my half. He had his. I would climb in to the very center-edge of my half. He his. In the night. We were always touching. My wrist a feather against his ribs. His hand on my hip. Our minds off in dreamland. When I moved he followed. A rollover was completed by a hand reaching out. A few times we stayed in a room with a king. And in the morning he’d say. Where did you go. I lost you.