I’m thrilled that I had some of my digital art printed this past weekend. It turned out well. My uncle who is pictured here was pleased. I was trying to do prints for him for his 83rd birthday.
I will be adding more.
I’m thrilled that I had some of my digital art printed this past weekend. It turned out well. My uncle who is pictured here was pleased. I was trying to do prints for him for his 83rd birthday.
I will be adding more.
Yesterday, I got a much-needed dose of spring tonic. I awoke with clogged sinuses. I didn’t feel well the preceding day. It had rained all day. The good thing is that the rain melted off the snow.
My husband encouraged me to use the neti pot. That along with several vitamin C tablets did the trick, or started to do the trick. I started to come out of my lethargy. I prepared split pea soup in the crock-pot. I went out into the woods. The woods were the final cure. The streams swelled. There are waterfalls where there were none before.
The only snow that was left was in a cave like area. I say cave like because we have never ventured in there to see if it is an actual cave. The opening gets smaller and smaller. Once we asked my father if there were any caves on the property. He said, “No.” We told him about the two openings we saw. He said, “Don’t go in there.” Well, that leads me to believe….
I started listening to an audio book, “A World Lost,” by Wendell Berry. I’m sorry to say this is the first time I’ve read his works, a shame, since he is a Kentucky author. His phrases are brilliant. I plan on devouring all of his works.
The weather was great. We got out the umbrella for our table and ate dinner on the deck – split pea soup, Caesar salad, and wine. We love eating on the deck. We could hear the roar of the stream from the deck.
We rolled back the netting on the fish pond and fed the fish. The netting had been place on it during the late fall to catch the falling leaves. I’m happy to say both the gold fish and koi came out of hibernation in good shape.
My husband also put the hammock back up. Yes!
I still had loads of energy. I made some banana bread, knitted, and worked on some art. A snow picture, of all things. Later I prepared some juice for next morning’s breakfast. I’m not used to having so much energy. My husband, on the other hand, seems to never stop.
All of this was a joy after the hard winter and the previous couple of weeks when we had experienced the dreaded three. I won’t go into them. They say things happen in threes. One, a leaky roof, did get fixed. The other two will be much easier to deal with in the spring weather.
Still, having energy, I stayed up late, painting on my iPad. I was going for a watercolor style.
Yesterday, I hiked on our property. According to Map My Hike, the trek was 3.68 miles. The snow is melting. Still there were stretches of ground where I was ankle deep in it. The sound of the streams were a joy. Crossing them, not so much. Rain has been continuous today.
I took this small movie of one of the waterfalls. It will be flowing even harder today, but considering the downpour, I will save my next hike for tomorrow.
I look forward to moving my office outdoors. This picture was taken on Friday. It’s only wet today. A temperature of 60 is expected tomorrow. Won’t be long.
I’m a stay-at-home mom. Never mind the fact that my child is now in her mid-thirties and left the nest a long time ago. Never mind me not staying at home until she graduated college. That’s not technically true. I worked from home when she became a teenager. Sometimes I traveled for work. If there were parties while I was gone she was an expert at hiding the evidence.
Sometimes I tell people I’m retired. They, who appear to be older than me, raise their eyebrows in doubt. I want to tell them I’m seventy-five, but in truth I’m just shy of sixty-two. I dye my possible gray hair blonde. I only assume it is gray, not that I’ve seen its true color since my late thirties. Telling them I’m older than I am would only make them hate me more.
People ask, “What did you do?”
I tell them I was a weaver. Chances are I will have to explain what a weaver is. They confuse it with quilting or needlework. I tell them weaving is making the cloth. I explain I can’t sew a lick. I don’t even like sewing. I don’t hem. I don’t sew buttons on that fall off. There is a pile of clothes that my husband has asked me to mend. That was years ago. I hid them away. Hopefully, he has forgotten about them.
Sometimes I don’t feel bad about saying I’m retired. Teachers retire early. If anyone has a right to retire early, it’s teachers. For several years I substituted. If anyone has paid his or her dues to society, it’s a substitute teacher.
My husband wants me to make something of my life, like Grandma Moses. He doesn’t express it in that way. I just feel an underlying pressure. He comes home and asks, “What did you do today?” It’s like asking kids what they learned in school. They rarely ever have an answer.
Today he won’t have to ask. I cleaned the house. When I do clean it is so rare, one can’t help but notice.
He will come home today and ask, “Did you write something today?”
I will respond, “No, I cleaned the house.”
He wants me to be a writer. I’m not even sure how that came about. I’ve been dabbling in it for several years now. I once showed him poems I had written in high school. That’s when this new phase of my life began.
I told him I would try my hand at writing. He was excited. I think he hopes I will be a best selling author and make us rich. He is delusional. I heard the other day that a book is uploaded every five minutes on to Amazon. In his enthusiasm on starting me on the writing path, I did get a lap top computer out of it. Not bad.
I don’t know what writers do. So I acquainted myself with some. It was easy to do. I’ve come to the conclusion there are more writers than there are actual books in the world. I question them about their methods. The whole scenario is still vague to me. The only think I have really established is that they drink a lot of coffee. Talk about a buzz kill. I don’t like coffee. I suppose I could move to England. I don’t know any English writers. But, I assume they drink tea. I like tea. To be more specific, I like chai lattes more than I like tea. If I do become a writer, I will be a fat one. Writing one page makes me want to reward myself with one.
To further encourage me my husband said it was okay if I got one of those whipped cream canisters like they have at Starbucks. Soon I won’t be able to fit in my writing chair. I won’t be able to keep up this charade.
When I first started this several years ago, I racked my brain for something worthwhile to write about. Someone I met when I was eight years old popped into my mind. I had met a slave, well someone who had been born into slavery. I would write about her life. If someone asks me about being retired, I can tell him or her I actually knew someone who was born into slavery. After that statement they shouldn’t question me on being old enough to retire.
For three years I researched her life. I waited too late. Most people who had known her were dead. Maybe instead of writing I should have set my sites on detective work. I still managed to dig up a lot. It was mostly stuff that people wouldn’t want me to write about. When it dawned on them I was writing this down, they denied that they had said it. I stored my research away.
Then I heard of something called NaNoWriMo. I dug my research back out. I aimed for the top of the mountain, that 50,000-word peak. I planted my flag, but the whole path to the summit was zigzag. The route I took to get there made no sense. I boxed my research back up.
During my couch potato virtual climb to the top I sat for hours on end in a slumped position. I finally came up for air but my back didn’t. Can one get disability benefits from a month stint at writing? My writing acquaintances were vague on this as well.
My back got better. I learned to sit erect while writing. What did you learn in writing school today? I learned to sit erect.
In the meantime, while I was lollygagging around, not really taking this whole thing seriously, someone wrote “The Help.” While walking on a New York City street, my husband and I did one of those zigzags to avoid running into someone crossing a busy intersection full speed ahead. He had that particular book stuck up in his face. Later we went on a retreat to find a friend had brought that same book along for their nightly reading. “The Help” was everywhere, like the universe laughing at me. My husband didn’t say anything out loud, but telepathically I was getting the vibe, “You missed the boat on that one.”
I let the writing thing rest for a while. I took up painting. My husband came home from work, “Did you do any art today?” The chais came in handy for the artwork as well.
A couple of years passed. I found out some of my vague writing friends were doing NaNoWriMo. I joined them. This time I meant business. I began writing before my husband went off to work. The next thing I knew he was opening the same door he had left through that morning. I said, “You know how to fix dinner, right?” He stumbled around in the kitchen, asking me where things were, and how do you do this. It was impossible to keep my train of thought. I haven’t mentioned until now that the kitchen snack bar also is my writing desk. Teapots and vitamins are lined up in front of me.
Anyway, after all the questions, I caved. “Okay, I’ll fix dinner. You sit here and read what I wrote.” He obeyed. That became the scene every night until I actually surpassed the 50,000 mark and made it to the less oxygenated height of 80,000 words. This time I went in a straight line. I don’t know if his taste in literature isn’t that refined, or the fact that he is just blindly in love with me, makes him like everything I write. He is an avid reader, and his favorite authors are some of the most respected. Still I know it’s because he is blindly in love.
If you write about Paris, can you deduct a trip to Paris from your taxes? I gleaned no information from my writing friends.
I don’t know how long this writing gig will last, or even if it will amount to anything. I am thinking about giving up the chai habit. Does giving up chais mean giving up writing? Will learning to like coffee make me a better writer? I have so many questions about what it takes to be a writer.
After reading that 80,000-word draft of a novel, night after night, my husband found a contest he thought I should enter. He was more elated than me that I made the short list of finalists. It was one of those religious experiences. Now what? My writing friends were once again close lipped. I once met a swami. He said that the real work begins after one has a religious experience.
I plan on getting my loom out of storage. Maybe inspiration will come while making cloth.
My husband supports me, but he also practices detachment. It is his Buddha nature. I was honest up front. He came into the marriage with open eyes and promised to love me in spite of my ups and downs and struggles with these insatiable longings. I know there are groups for this type of behavior, but shame and embarrassment won’t let me seek them out.
It was only yesterday that I endeavored to end temptation. I felt the cold rush of air envelope me one last time as I slammed the door saying, “Farewell, No more!”
My seducer lives too close. Due to our close proximity it will be hard to avoid further encounters, but I am adamant in my resolve to end this affair.
I am ending it for my own well-being, not because I’m married. My marriage is on solid ground. My husband is truly a Superman, who unequivocally meant for better or worse.
It’s been twenty-four hours now. Making it to this point has been quite an accomplishment for me. I awoke at three am suffering from withdrawal symptoms. There was this incredible hunger and thirst gnawing at me from deep within. I won’t go into fifty shades of detail. Suffice to say it was a sensual dream. My lips were so close. No. I said I wouldn’t go there.
I put on a facade of normalcy and packed my husband’s healthy lunch. For breakfast, I handed him a plate of blueberry pancakes. I lavish him with savory treats like this often. It’s my guilt leaking through. He asked me why I wasn’t eating. I avoided the question and handed him whipped cream to go on his pancakes.
I watched him out the window as he left for work. I quickly showered, and took extra pains with my make-up. My car keys were missing. In desperation, I called him at work. He had them. It was just a mistake I told myself. He drove my car last. Did he think I was going to cave and have a rendezvous at Starbucks?
As I said, it’s been twenty-four hours now. Once I lasted seven days. Another time I lasted four days. I think there is hope. I’m taking it one day at a time
So, there you have it. I have resolved to end this affair I have with food. I slam the refrigerator door shut one last time. I just hope I don’t fall, totally, madly head over heels again once Valentine’s Day rolls around and my husband places roses and dark chocolates in front of me. Who am I kidding? I hope he reads this. Forget the flowers and just make it a double portion of chocolates. After all, dark chocolate is one of the new health foods, right?
Inspired by reading “Wild,” both yesterday and today I trekked out on our farm trail. I was disheartened by some of the reviews on the book. One reviewer stated how easy she had it. I couldn’t believe this. This woman hiked the Pacific Crest Trail from California to Oregon, carrying an enormously heavy backpack, sleeping outside, not to mention, she was a woman by herself.
Yesterday I hardly got one mile. That is counting both directions as I turned around and came back home before I passed out. I was walking mostly uphill. The snow was anywhere from four inches to a foot deep. It was that crusty hard snow. Each step was like walking in cement.
Today, my goal was to make it a bit further. I did, close to two miles. The snow today started off much softer. Yesterday the temperature was in the twenties. Today it was in the thirties, and the sun had been shining earlier. But, as I got further along, the snow became crusty again. This was the part not touched by the sun. I ended up getting off the trail and walking down our half mile drive-way. My wobbly legs felt like they were walking on clouds at that point.
I hope to attempt it again tomorrow. On both days I was dripping wet with sweat, under my layered clothes. Hopefully, I burned a few calories.
This morning I finished reading “Wild,” by Cheryl Strayed. Maybe it’s because I love hiking, that I thought this book was so marvelous. I checked out the e-book version from the library, but now I want a hard copy, or at least to have it on my Ipad for further reference.
Maybe this is the year that my husband and I might hike just a small section of the Appalachian Trail. I have backpacked only once, with him, at the Red River Gorge, and only then for a couple of nights. Perhaps we might just do that again.
I was inspired to do this picture this morning. This is a section of our small six mile trail that we have forged out on our farm. Our small farm is sixty percent woods. We like it that way.
I have done easy hikes where I walked fifteen miles in one day. I know that I have walked that much per day while visiting New York City (mostly Central Park) and Paris, France. My husband and I once walked a small section of the Lewis and Clark Trail in Oregon. I will never forget that trail. It was astounding.
At this point, I am so out of shape. We have been snowed in for over a week with freezing and below freezing temperatures. But Spring is coming (I hope?), and time to start walking again.
Beyond the 3o Day Painting Challenge. I am still only using my Ipad. There is a lot to be said for digital. For the last week we have been organizing photographs before the digital age. I date back to black and white. That gives you some indication of how many pictures there are. Still, we have more in the short span we have taken digital pictures. We have a closet shelf of art supplies and past work. That also dates back. The closet needs to be cleaned out. I think I will stick with the digital format for art for awhile. I already have enough clutter with my yarn and weaving supplies.
I wanted to keep up the practice of drawing, even if it is only on my Ipad. I love experimenting with the different things you can do, or in my case, attempt to do. It seems odd, after thirty days, not adding the link that started it all. I will anyway, because I’m grateful that she started this habit. http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
This is a short story I entered in the contest: nycmidnight.com/ I was given the genre of Mystery with the subject of a bank account, and the character of a butler. The photograph was taken from http://www.briarpress.org/7388.
Nigel Brown is given little to go on for his first case as newly promoted inspector, as the complainant, Miss Abigail Rochelle, drops dead before she can even relate her story. He only knows a butler has somehow duped her out of ten thousand pounds.
“It was that butler fellow that did it.” Those were the last words of Abigail Rochelle, who lived at No. 1, Rochelle Lane, aptly named since Miss Abigail Rochelle was the only resident on Rochelle Lane.
Miss Rochelle was a spinster, a short, plump woman. She plopped a pan of brownies down on the inspector’s newly polished desk. Miss Rochelle loved to bake. The problem was that being alone she ate most of what she baked. It was Nigel Brown’s first case, having only been promoted the day before to inspector. Glowing with anticipation, he sat at his sparse desk, a blank report before him. He had just taken down the name and address from the agitated Miss Rochelle when his new ballpoint pen gave up the ghost. He excused himself to get a fresh one. Upon returning he found Miss Abigail Rochelle slumped over in the seat, half a brownie still in her mouth. Inspector Nigel Brown’s first day as inspector was not going well at all.
The one bright spot was that his first case was close to the morgue. Poisoning was ruled out as Inspector Brown had eaten a brownie himself and suffered no adverse effects. That was one blessing, although the inspector was not a religious man. Logic drove him, as did a rugged ambition towards not letting a case rest until it was solved. That is what got him the promotion and premature gray hair.
The autopsy ruled that Miss Abigail Rochelle hardly had any passable arteries left. That was not surprising after those many years of living alone and having no one else but herself to eat her own confections.
Before her untimely death, Miss Rochelle, aged 51, had been duped out of her life savings of ten thousand pounds. Being a man with a reputation for thoroughness, Inspector Nigel Brown could not have a blemish on his record with the first case under his charge. He owed it to the dear departed Miss Rochelle. How dear she might be was yet to be determined. But, before this was over, Inspector Brown was committed to making that and every aspect of Miss Abigail Rochelle’s life his business; whatever it took to bring justice.
Inspector Brown’s first order of business was the questioning of Albert Rochelle, brother to Miss Abigail Rochelle. He and his family lived in London. Mr. Rochelle had been out of town on business for the entire week in question. His wife was much grieved that she hadn’t visited or phoned for two weeks to check on her sister-in-law. Her youngest was leaving for college. With her husband away, Mrs. Rochelle had been entirely absorbed in that process, and she was suffering a bit of melancholy over becoming an empty nester. The inspector could relate having two boys of his own, although they wouldn’t be leaving for college for a while.
Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Rochelle knew anything about a butler. They both concurred that this must have been some new development and not like Abigail at all. Upon inspection of the premises, they were both shocked to find how neat it was. Everything was dusted and in its place. This was also not like Abigail. They eyed each other in shock. Perhaps she had indeed hired a butler. The only disturbance was two wine glasses and an empty bottle. The Rochelle’s told the inspector this was also contrary to Abigail’s usual behavior. They had never known her to drink.
A trip to the bank proved Miss Rochelle’s bank account to be devoid of funds. She had closed her account only one day before her untimely demise. The teller seemed to remember she was withdrawing the total sum for renovation or something like that. The teller was a tad vague on the exact reason why Miss Rochelle was closing her account.
The cashier stated to Inspector Brown, “I do remember Miss Rochelle. She was short and round, her head just peeking above the counter. She offered me a cupcake. I passed; making the excuse I was watching my weight. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. It wouldn’t be professional to be eating at my teller window. Sticky pound notes are not something my boss would appreciate. Anyway, everything was in order. I counted out the notes and said good luck with your house repair. Or was it home repair? Maybe it was something else. I’m sorry. I can’t be sure.”
The inspector’s next course of action was to question neighbors and acquaintances. This was not an easy task as there were few of both. Miss Rochelle’s house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, hidden from view by a row of evergreens. It was also a good half-mile away from any other houses. The neighbors rarely saw her out.
The inspector, being the man of logic he was deduced that with all that baking, Miss Rochelle must have been in need of deliveries, eggs, milk, butter, and such. Would not the butler be taking care of this for her? Someone must have seen him. He now had fingerprints; although they had not matched up to anyone they had on file. A description might be all that was needed to find this alleged butler.
One by one, he spoke to each delivery person. Miss Rochelle was a good customer, they all agreed. They were sorry to lose her business. She handpicked everything. She was meticulous about her baking. Only the finest ingredients would do. None of them had seen a butler or a man for that matter. There had been a few smirks on the matter of a man.
The mailman told a different story. “She loved romance novels. She ordered them in bulk. I knew what they were by the name of the publisher on the brown paper wrapping.” The mailman, wanting to be as helpful as possible, added, “She liked to enter a lot of contests.”
The inspector confirmed that Miss Rochelle had an entire walled bookshelf filled with mostly romantic novels. She was lonely. She had some money. She was off the beaten track with her only relatives in a different town. She was the prime target for a con artist, a romantic con artist who liked to clean. But how did he happen upon Miss Rochelle? Was he a traveling salesman? Inspector Brown ruled that out since none of the neighbors had reported one. So, how did he know Miss Rochelle? She had belonged to no clubs. She more or less kept to herself, baking and reading. There had been no other reports of middle-aged women being taken in by a con man.
Miss Rochelle received a weekly newspaper. Paperboys are out early. If anyone might have seen the elusive butler, it would have been the paperboy. The lad, appearing frightened at first, swore that he saw nothing strange at No. 1 Rochelle Lane.
Thus far, Inspector Brown concluded, the man in question had been there less than a week and had kept himself secluded from other people. If he were a butler, the next course of action would be to visit estates and find out if there were any word about new butlers being hired or fired.
Another week passed. Inspector Brown was becoming more perplexed. His once immaculate desk became flooded with new cases, cases he put aside in favor of stamping case no. 1101 that of Miss Rochelle’s missing butler, closed. He couldn’t rest. His boss was becoming disagreeable.
More importantly, his wife was displaying a foul mood. There was a holiday coming up. Mrs. Brown insisted that he take she and the children on a train ride into London, as he had neglected them so. For the sake of his marriage he conceded.
Mrs. Brown chatted on about all the shops she would visit. The inspector played a game of cards with his boys. The oldest was winning. The inspector’s concentration was off, as he was replaying all the information he had on case no. 1101. He rubbed his thinning gray hair in disgust. The youngest, age ten, tugged at his coat sleeve. “Papa, can we go to the new bakery in London?”
Still distracted, “Yes, yes, I suppose we can. What is the name of this new bakery?”
“Abigail’s, I think,” said his son.
“Alright, if it is okay with your mother.” Just then, something clicked. The inspector lit up with a smile. He registered the two words, Abigail, and bakery.
“Tell me Jonathan, how do you know about this bakery in London?”
Jonathan, “My friend at school told me.”
“Who is your friend?”
“My friend is Daniel. He was delivering newspapers. A man on his route told him about a fabulous bakery that would opening and that he should visit when he was in London.”
Inspector Brown shook his son with a wild look in his eye. “What else can you tell me?”
His wife shrieked, “Nigel!”
He calmed, “I’m sorry, son. This is important.”
His son implored, “He won’t get in trouble will he?”
“Son, who do you mean?”
“Daniel’s older brother.”
“Why would Daniel’s older brother get in trouble?”
“Because he asked Daniel to take his paper route. He had got sick from drinking and smoking with some other boys the day before.”
The inspector then knew why the paperboy was so nervous when he came to question him.
“No, son, he won’t get into trouble.”
With that, Jonathan smiled and looked relieved, “I know the street it is on.”
Inspector Brown, “We will go there first thing.”
His wife gave him a most disturbed look, as she knew their holiday had taken a detour. He countered, “Cupcakes for everyone!” The boys smiled.
They arrived to see a new establishment, not yet open for business. The children were disappointed, but not Inspector Brown. A sign hung above the window, Abigail’s Confections. Inspector Brown banged on the door. A middle-aged gentleman in work clothes, paintbrush in one hand cracked the door. “We are not yet open for business.”
The inspector whipped out his badge. His wife rolled her eyes, jealous of this man who had usurped their family outing. The inspector’s sons fidgeted behind him. The man gave a puzzled look and let them all in. He put down his brush and wiped off his hands with a wet rag. He extended his clean hand toward Inspector Brown, “I’m Charles Butler. How may I help you?”
Inspector Brown gasped. He wondered how he could have been so negligent in missing the man’s last name might have been Butler. All the while he had been looking for a manservant or someone pretending to be a manservant. Mr. Butler acted surprised at the inspector’s visit, but not in the least guilty of anything.
The inspector asked, “Mr. Butler, are you acquainted with a Miss Abigail Rochelle?” He used the present tense when presenting the question to Mr. Butler.
Mr. Butler, “Why, yes, I am. Do you know her? I hope you will not spoil my surprise to her.”
Mr. Butler’s face was glowing. Inspector Brown was well accustomed to men who perpetrate crimes. Mr. Butler was clearly not this type of man.
The inspector continued, “Mr. Butler, I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news.”
Mr. Butler, “Is Abigail all right? I left in such haste. It was so early. The paperboy was just making his delivery. Abigail was quite groggy, still asleep when I told her of my plan, our plan, I should say. We had done some celebrating the night before.”
Inspector Brown, “Your plan?”
“Yes, this shop. I was going to call her tonight. I have made such progress, as you can see. Have you ever tasted her baked goods, Inspector? They are incredible.”
“Yes, I have, actually and, they are scrumptious.”
Mr. Butler, “But I’m sorry I’ve rambled on. I’m just so excited. I bought the ring today.”
The inspector’s eyebrows arched. “The ring?”
“Well, yes, I want to ask for Abigail’s hand in marriage.”
“Mr. Butler,” The inspector hesitated. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. There was a mishap. I’m afraid Miss Rochelle has died.”
Mr. Butler’s smile turned downward. He looked like a man who had been run over by a double-decker bus.
At this point, Mrs. Brown stepped in. “Please have a seat Mr. Butler. Let me get you a glass of water.” She walked over to the counter.
Mrs. Brown handed him the glass. Inspector Brown in a most apologetic voice, “How did you and Miss Rochelle meet?”
Mr. Butler sipped on the water and sat it aside. “She entered a contest. You see I work for a publisher here in London. She didn’t win, but I was so enthralled by the way she put forth words on paper. I have the manuscript here. Would you like to see it?”
Inspector Brown, “No, not now.”
“Well, anyway, I just had to meet her. So, I took it upon myself to go see her.” Mr. Butler took the ring from his pocket eyeing it over. “You see, Inspector, I fell in love. Do you believe in love at first sight?”
Inspector Brown looked at Mrs. Brown, “Yes, Mr. Butler, indeed I do.”
“How did she die?”
The inspector explained the whole situation to Mr. Butler, leaving out the part where Miss Rochelle had thought he might have robbed her blind, for he knew now it was a total misunderstanding.
“Mr. Butler, did you know that Miss Rochelle has a brother in London?”
“Yes, she has mentioned him and his family. She told me his wife is quite the baker as well.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that, Mr. Butler. I will need to call on you again. Will Monday be okay?”
“Yes, of course. I will be here. I will have to figure out what to do here. I guess I will need to sell the establishment. I put most of my savings into it along with Abigail’s.”
Early Monday morning, the inspector once again took the train into London where he visited Miss Rochelle’s brother and wife relaying the curious circumstances. Together, Mr. and Mrs. Rochelle and the inspector paid a visit to Mr. Butler. Upon meeting him, they found no reason to press any charges. It was such a shame that Abigail didn’t have a clue.
Mrs. Rochelle was elated with the little shop, so much so, that she and her husband agreed to buy out Mr. Butler’s part. She needed something to stay busy since both her sons were now away at school. She would keep the name in Abigail’s Confections, which pleased Mr. Butler, greatly.
Inspector Brown marked case 1101 solved.
Day 30 of the 30 Day Painting Challenge: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
Day 29 of the 30 Day Painting Challenge: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
After the challenge is over, I hope to go back and rework on most of them. I want to challenge myself to do at least one per week.
Day 28 of the 30 Day Painting Challenge: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
Day 27 or 30 Day Painting Challenge: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
I seem to always draw the same face.
Day 26 of 30 Day Painting Challenge: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
Day 25 of 30 Day Painting Challenge: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
Day 24 of 30 Day Painting Challenge: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
Today I was lazy as far a painting goes. This is a redo of another one. We awoke to snow covered ground. I took a walk out in it today. It was really beautiful.
Day 23 of 30 Day Painting Challenge: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
Day 22 of the 30 Day Art Challenge: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
Day 21 of 30 Day Painting Challenge: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
Day 20 of the 30 Day Painting Challenge: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
Day 19 of the 30 Day Painting Challenge: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
Day 18 of the 30 Day Painting Challenge: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
This is day 17 of the 30 Day Art Challenge: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
This is day 16 of the 30 day painting challenge:
This is day 14 of the 30 Day Painting Challenge: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
And now for something completely different. This is for day 13 of the 30 Day Drawing Challenge: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
I was unsure if these really looked like eggs. I thought maybe potatoes after I finished. But I asked my husband, “What does this look like?” His first guess was eggs.
We are fortunate in that a good friend supplies us with eggs from his chickens. Getting our own chickens is a one day plan of ours.
This is Day 11 the 30 Day Drawing Challenge which can be found at: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
It feels this cold today. We woke up to part of our water being frozen.
This is Day 10 the 30 Day Drawing Challenge which can be found at: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
This is Day 8 the 30 Day Drawing Challenge which can be found at: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
This is not the picture I had intended on doing. I had originally wanted to do a picture of beets which may be for tonight’s super instead. But perhaps I will attempt to draw them before we eat them. This needs more work. I need to work on blending better. The trees kind of resemble telephone poles. I got lazy and left out branches. In places I got carried away with branches, and ended up taking them out – too much clutter. So, there may be more versions of this particular one, like the truck, on trying to get them as right as I possibly can. Maybe after 30 days I will have figured out better how to use this app, ArtStudio.
This is Day 8 the 30 Day Drawing Challenge which can be found at: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
Today has been a snowy, very lazy day for me. On my lazy days I resort to what is easiest for me, drawing a face. It is no one in particular, although maybe it might look like someone out there.
This is for the 30 Day Drawing Challenge which can be found at: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
This is a new version of yesterday’s drawing. This is for the 30 Day Drawing Challenge which can be found at: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
Day 4 of 30 days of drawing in January. Yesterday, we saw an old truck in a parking lot. This is my rendition. The link for the Month of Art of January 2015 30 Paintings in 30 Days Challenge is: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/ Done using ArtStudio on Ipad
The link for the Month of Art of January 2015 30 Paintings in 30 Days Challenge is: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/ Done using ArtStudio on Ipad
Juicing Joy – I have a weakness for alliteration. This is my second drawing for the Month of Art Drawings. I am doing these using Art Studio on my Ipad. That green blob to your right is supposed to be cabbage. You might recognize the carrot, celery and kale, and even an apple. For the most part my fruit seems to take on some ubiquitous neutral form.
The link for the Month of Art of January 2015 30 Paintings in 30 Days Challenge (doesn’t January have 31 days) is: http://lesliesaeta.blogspot.com/
A friend posted a painting challenge in December, and I said I would try it, too. No, as Yoda said, “There is no try, only do.” I will do this challenge.
For the month of January, I along with almost one thousand others, have committed to doing a painting a day. I am taking the easy route, doing Ipad art. Maybe I will get brave and venture out of that comfort zone. We will see.
I recently wrote a story about two bad acorns. Thus, that is what this drawing represents.
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