A Major Change

"I'm changing my major to art."

Look up these five words and you'll find they roughly translate into "I'm going to make no money."

Just what every parent with a kid in college wants to hear.

"It doesn't matter- just so long as they're happy, healthy, have ten fingers and ten toes..."

Yeah, but couldn't five of those fingers be pushing around numbers on a spread sheet instead of paint on a canvas? Wouldn't six figures bring you closer to health and happiness?

My parents silently accepted my proclamation, although I'm certain these questions, among others, were swirling around in their heads. I had entered Penn State as a pre-veterinary major, and here I was, in the middle of my first term, being lured by the sirens of the art world. You can count on a siren for a romantic notion or two, but you won't see too many of them forking over the rent money. My education, room and board were being completely subsidized at the time so I didn't understand the satisfaction of security, nor was I planning on worrying about it anytime soon. Tomorrow was another day, and frankly, my dear, I didn't give a damn about the details.

As a child, when asked what I wanted to be when I would grow up, I would answer, "A ballerina or a veterinarian." Considering that there are more than six degrees of separation between toe shoes and a terrier's testicles, you could say that I hadn't as yet made up my mind. Careful not to be blatantly discouraging, but doubting my commitment to the veterinary cause, my mother would say, "You know, Joan - you have to do more than love them. You have to clean up after them, too."

You also have to make it through your first term of classes.

Penn State's sprawling campus and enrollment of 40,000 did not intimidate the small town girl, but disappointing test grades and a handful of teeth-baring pre-veterinary majors proved to be more than an annoyance. They were driven and ruthless right out of the gate; I now admire their single-minded passion, but I was not up for the fight at the time. This particular dog-eat-dog world would not work for me.

An elective course in graphic art led me to the dark side. My Darth Vader came in the form of a charismatic printmaking instructor I met while struggling through the land of press type and cut and paste. Looking to increase his own enrollment, he convinced me to take a course in "intaglio" or metal plate printmaking. I took the bait and entered the print shop...

... and left four years later with a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in printmaking. Armed with academic idealism and a reasonable amount of artistic knowledge, I landed back at my parents' home. My own collegiate experience had been quite the bipolar ride; I had spent hours laboring over lithographic stones and zinc plates yet managed to shape my social persona as well. It was not all work and no play for Joan, and she did not emerge a dull girl. Who better to light the fires of future students? A position as a printmaking professor at a university my objective, I set about applying to graduate schools in pursuit of a Master's degree. Giving in to immature confidence, I targeted only two schools and was accepted by neither. On to Plan B.

Plan B was intended to be implemented for the short term; I never imagined it could span two decades. I took a job as a hostess in "Wanda's on the Park", a restaurant in the Wilkes-Barre Sheraton Hotel, looking forward to saving some money and reapplying to graduate schools the following year. Waitressing at a favorite lunch spot followed and soon I was up to my neck in dishes and double shifts. By chance, I encountered a Penn State alumnus on her way to New York and in need of a roommate, so off I went to the Big Apple, with my Master's Degree a dot in the rear view mirror.

Sharing a duplex with four other women, I secured a server position at the Plaza Hotel's Palm Court. Although more glamorous than a luncheonette, I'm sure that my parents had doubts about their four year college investment being used to artfully place a piece of cake on a plate. How about that dollop of whipped cream with three strawberries as a garnish? Now, that was worth something.

Twelve years passed in the big city, and I found myself married and looking for a house. Once settled in upstate New York, I began to look for waitressing work. Though kept alive, my creative pursuits had never generated much income. "Good evening. Would you care for something to drink?"

My skills in the hospitality business, though not my vision of a career, have served me well. (Get it?) These days my plate-toting is limited to my own dinner and a few private parties. I have yet to stumble upon my big artistic break or institute the mechanism to make it happen and I'm sorry to say that my parents will never see an artistic economic return on their tuition dollars. House portraits and pet portraits have generated a lot of interest and little cash flow. "She's so talented; if only she could find her niche.", my father would say.

Though Mom and Dad may have had reservations about my choices, they rarely voiced negative opinions. They listened as I ran on about the exquisite nature of lithography limestones quarried from a singular source in France. My ink-stained hands were the color of a mechanic's, yet it was unlikely that they would earn me as much. Keeping quiet, my parents let me find my own unconventional way.

Easter of 2005 was the last time they visited my home; two months later my mother would enter a nursing home with dementia. As I prepared dinner in the kitchen, my father surfed through the televison channels and landed on a religious drama. When the image of a young boy hammering hieroglyphics into a stone appeared, Dad casually remarked, "There's Joan in college."

Santa Has Left the Building

Two nights ago I made an honest attempt to catch Clint Eastwood's latest film, "Invictus", at the Regal Cinemas in the Poughkeepsie Galleria Mall. Running about 15 minutes late (not bad for "Joan Standard Time"), I arrived at the theater to find a long ticket line standing between me and the movie. Deciding that I should see this particular story from the beginning, I aborted my original plan and took a stroll around the mall. After about ten minutes of dodging kiosk salesmen and stray children, I started to head back to my car and towards a glass of wine at one of my favorite restaurants.

Before leaving the mall, I caught sight of a poster that read "Paws and Claus. Pet portraits with Santa. Mondays 6-9". Housebound by the recent cold snap, Ms. Grace was in need of an outing and a trip to the mall seemed just the ticket. I'd bring my Heidi Klum back the next night for her very own photo shoot. Now, back to that cabernet.

We arrived at the mall at about 8:15 on Monday and jogged through the parking lot to the mall entrance. The photos were being taken at the opposite end of the building, so we made our way through the waves of holiday shoppers, only to find that Santa had finished his shift at 8:00. "I'm sorry- there was a typo on the advertisement. You can bring her back tomorrow morning, if you'd like. We could fit her in before it gets too busy with the kids." Thanking the very nice young woman behind the counter, I knew that I would not be back the next day. I had brought my own camera, so I figured I'd grab a few shots of Grace amid the holiday decorations while she socialized with the shoppers. Our mission would be accomplished.

We got about twenty feet away from the photo studio when we were stopped by a baby-faced security guard who informed me that only certified therapy dogs were allowed in the mall. I explained that we had missed the Santa shoot and that we had to walk back through the building to the car. With sheepish authority, he advised me to avoid the food court. "We had an incident today with a small dog-someone had an allergic reaction." I thought to myself that said reaction was more than likely due to MSG infested Chinese takeout, but I held my tongue and politely went on my way.

At the risk of sounding like yet another overly infatuated parent, I can't get over the effect my dog has on people. Whether it was her goofy grin or the showgirl swish of her hindquarters, she captured the attention of countless passers-by. Undoubtedly, a dog out doing her holiday shopping might prompt a second glance, but the hugs and kisses bestowed upon Gracie as she continued along her promenade appeared to be the product of her own brand of magic. I kept my eye out for the next authority figure who would bust us as I allowed Grace her share of the limelight. She was in dog heaven.

We made a quick stop at Petco's treat bar where I filled a bag of mixed biscuits while Gracie cleaned the floor and grabbed a cookie or two out of the bins. A few more petting sessions and a display of tricks for the cashier and we were on our way back home.

Craving a cup of coffee, I turned into Dunkin' Donuts. As I reached onto the floor for my purse, I looked into the store window and saw a familiar character in a red suit. Santa! I hurriedly unzipped my camera case, grabbed Gracie's leash and jumped out of the car just as he was walking out the door. "Santa! May I take a picture of you with my dog?" As calmly as any man capable of delivering millions of presents in one evening while at the helm of eight tiny reindeer, he said, "Why of course."

He handed me his card, which identified him as a "real beard Santa", available for private and corporate parties, holiday parades and Christmas Eve. Apparently a distinction has been made between the St. Nicks who sport their own growth and those who don prosthetic fuzz; this fellow was the jolliest of natural specimens.

After taking some quick shots, Santa asked if I would snap a few on his disposable camera. I obliged as he explained that his stepfather was battling cancer and he was sure that the photo would cheer up his mother. Popping Gracie back in the car, I thanked Santa, wished him well and went inside to grab my coffee. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I smiled as I saw Santa on his cellphone, standing next to his minivan.

Ho, Ho, Ho. Merry Christmas.

Twisted Sister

A third grader bowed his head in an attempt to hide the tears as they spilled beneath his horn-rimmed glasses. His apparent plight caught the eye of his teacher, who quietly asked him what was causing his distress. She might have expected him to complain about homework, a test score, or a class bully. Instead, he looked up at her and proclaimed with a sigh,

"I HAVE A SISTER!"

I'm pretty sure he would have preferred the bully.

My mother relayed this story to me, and although it sounds like one of those "cat in the microwave" urban myths, I always thought it would make a great first scene in the independent film of my life. Whether or not this actually took place, the foundation of an eight year old boy was severely shaken the day I was born.

Wayne was a wonderful child who followed all the rules. He did what was asked of him and took exceptional care of his belongings. When walking up the street to visit his grandmother, he could be trusted to safely avoid the dangers of the road by adhering to the grass along the edges. No need to worry about this kid. But look out for number two.

I took it upon myself to cover all the bases Wayne had missed with his good behavior. I whined, I cried and threw fiery tantrums. My father fenced in our entire yard, as I could disappear before the hat dropped. Having yet to learn respect for the possessions of others, I was the terror of the toy box. The human equivalent of an untrained puppy, platoons of my brother's plastic soldiers fell victim to my teething jaws and I was incredibly difficult to housebreak. I preferred the feel of a clean diaper but was resistant to toilet training, so I often took it upon myself to empty out the contents behind the downstairs couch. More often than not, it was my brother who would make a gruesome discovery while playing with his friends. Yep, I was a real princess.

The gap in our ages made it unlikely that we would be the best of friends during our formative years. We travelled in our respective circles and he was simply my older brother while I was his pain-in-the-ass little sister. Passing years brought differing opinions and heated arguments often ending in accusations of favoritism; although neither of us had ever wanted for anything, it was clear that I was "Daddy's little girl".


We managed our aging parents' care with minimal contact. Only the rare special event would find us back home at the same time. Throughout my mother's nursing home tenure and my father's cancer, decisions were questioned and tensions mounted. Dad quietly wished that we would somehow mend our fences, but he wasted no time on fruitless peace-making measures.


As we tag-teamed our visits to watch over Dad in his final weeks, the tide unexpectedly turned. Sweet little singing birds did not pull back the curtains to reveal a pot of golden friendship at the end of a glistening rainbow, but we could clearly see the benefits of compromise. We helped each other through my father's passing and seamlessly joined forces as we faced the aftermath of his life. I never would have imagined a "feel good" Hollywood ending for this independent film and I can't explain how I let it come about. Dad tried to tell me that I would need my brother, but I had so often refused to listen. I guess I'll just assume that the bug up my ass had affected my hearing.

Watch out for those bugs.

Guess Who's Coming To Dinner

"So they sold the house up on the corner, and you'll never guess who bought it."


I shuffled through my list of improbable or fascinating potential inhabitants, and since it was unlikely that either Britney Spears or Bill Clinton would relocate to Trucksville, Pa., I came up blank.

"A gay couple."


Definitely not on my list, I quipped, "Well Dad, their yard will always look nice."


Having learned that an old man's mind should be allowed to open at its own pace, I withheld my views on acceptance and tolerance. With the exception of a few years in an apartment in the nearby town of Forty-Fort and a stint in the war, he had spent his entire life on the same block. He could admit change or quietly live alongside it with benign indifference. I decided to leave it up to him.

Nine years have passed since Wade Shaw and Jim Hawk took up residence on Vonderheid St., causing not even the slightest stir. A close knit community, I was fortunate to have my father surrounded by wonderful friends as I tried to manage his care from 3 hours away. Watchful eyes surveyed the house, monitoring the safety of the lonely old man within. Wade and Jim joined the team, sending down food and paying friendly visits. Sexual orientation was not at the table as my father and Wade would trade car stories and discuss the history of the local yokels. Just two regular guys "shooting the shit", as Dad would so elegantly say.

Firmly believing that no one should be alone on the holidays, Wade and Jim welcomed my father to their table, where he was treated to the warmth of family and the comfort of delicious food. I began a tradition of taking Dad up on Christmas Eve, as he was reticent to go alone after Mom's death. We shared laughs, exchanged presents, and gave new meaning to "Dad's night out with the boys".

My father didn't understand that being gay is not a choice. He was a "man's man" and held on tight to decades-old beliefs. Oftentimes, I would find myself wincing at my father's point of view on certain subjects, but he was remarkably low key in his assessment of his neighbors' lifestyle. As we walked back down to his house after a Christmas Eve visit, he started to speak and I fully expected a long overdue defamation. Instead he said, "Did you notice that those guys wear shorts and barefeet even in the winter? Now, that's pretty weird."

"Yeah," I answered. "That's pretty weird."

Calamity Jen

I've never been to Europe. Except for a few cross-country trips and a couple of island vacations, I wouldn't consider myself much of a world traveler. Hell, I haven't even seen the world's largest ball of string or South Dakota's corn palace. My path seldom varies, yet I have been able to intersect with some genuine characters. As a result, I have in my possession a choice collection of crazy and cool friends.


Jenny Booth moved into our neighborhood when I was in the sixth grade. She lived next door to my best friend Laurie Fry and I soon became the third wheel on a bicycle which clearly needed only two at a time. Since my house was about a block away, I often found myself left out of the loop and pissed off. (Those who remain close to me might cite the beginning of a pattern, but that's subject matter for another cup of coffee.) In spite of occasional tensions, we managed to rack up quite a few wonderful adventures. Having full run of the then undeveloped woodlands above Laurie's house, we hiked, camped and even built a fort that was the envy of the neighborhood boys. Laurie and Jennifer were remarkably tolerant of my moodiness and insistent behavior and had front row seats to watch as the seeds of anal retention sprouted. "Of course we'll buy galvanized nails for the fort, Joan. You're right- we must have galvanized nails." In return, I provided them with plenty of fodder for healthy laughter as I attempted to shed my uptight and prissy skin. You can imagine the response when I showed up for a camping trip with a satin pillowcase. As the other kids chanted, "Harrison's got a satin pillow!" I tried to explain that it was an old one my mother had given me, but the imagined shade of my blood had already turned an ostracizing shade of blue.


Although we moved in and out of each others lives throughout high school, the bonds were never broken. Laurie chose to go to college in Washington state, while I remained closer to home at the main campus of Penn State in State College. Jenny was two years behind us and our relationship strengthened as I came back for breaks and summer vacations. Her family became my "second family"; I loved being with the Booths and their extended clan on holidays and the annual family reunion on Memorial Day. My folks were understandably jealous as I had chosen another family over my own, but the feelings melted away as they were brought into the fold and went on to become good friends with Jenny's parents, John and Donna.


Eventually, Jenny heard the call of the west. Her passion for horses led her to Phoenix, where she landed a job at a racetrack. Not particularly enamoured with the industry, she moved on to Cody, Wyoming where she became a "wrangler" at Valley Ranch, a beautifully rustic lodge on the Shoshone River. Along with the demanding care of the horses, she tended to the equine needs of the guests as she led them through the surrounding countryside on horseback. The abilities of the riders were varied and often a test for the guide's patience, but Jenny rose to the task and performed her duties, with what else, grace.


The following years played out like a series of red dots traversing a map in a spy movie. My address book has pages of crossed-out listings chronicling her whereabouts. After Cody, she touched down in Arizona, doing a brief stint at an Arabian farm. Moving on to Stanley, Idaho, a tiny town nestled in the Sawtooth mountains about an hour from Ketchum and Sun Valley, she led pack trips in the summer and drove teams of draft horses as they pulled sleighs full of guests into the snow-covered mountains. At the end of the ride, they found a wonderful dinner waiting for them, and I suppose it was at this time that Jenny began to hone her culinary skills. Clever and creative, she went beyond franks and beans into the land of homemade croissants and sauteed sweet potatoes. "Now that's French, ain't it? Why that little lady sure can cook up some fancy grub! And she's a hell of a lot easier on the eyes than some old codger in his undershirt and suspenders..." Sorry-guess I was out riding the range for a few sentences. Back to the saga.


After five years in Idaho, she moved on to Telluride, Colorado, where she spent the following five years working as a wrangler at the Skyline guest ranch. Her next stop was Reno, Nevada, where she was able to devote herself to another of her passions-carving. Her designs, mostly equine in nature, were drawn on the face of a moose antler and executed, using a Dremel, with precision and fluidity. Though one might think of antler carvings as somewhat kitschy, these are not your grandmother's crocheted poodle toilet paper holders. The forms pulled out of the antler are detailed and energetic, surrounded by a seemingly in motion negative space. She received commissions for her pieces and continued with her work until, you guessed it, she moved.


Back to Telluride for a few years, and then on to Durango, Colorado ( are you out of breath yet? ), where she stayed put for nearly a decade. She trained cutting horses, willing and athletic animals prized for their ability to separate a cow from its herd, and even went on to excel in competitions. Her days were long, and the work to maintain the barn and grounds, backbreaking. Burnout began to set in and seeking a change of pace, she took a framing job at an online art gallery. She honed her computer skills and enjoyed the camaraderie of her fellow workers. The gallery was sold a few years into her tenure, and she found herself at another crossroad. So...


This past year, she moved back to Cody. She hit the ground running, and took advantage of a myriad of opportunities. She works part time in an art gallery, took a position at a bank, and signed on as cook for several hunting camps. Not surprisingly, the bank job didn't hold her interest, but it wasn't long before she was back in the saddle again. She is now assistant to the performance horse trainer at a privately owned operation which focuses mainly on reined cow horses and cutting disciplines. Back in Cody's arms, she has built a new life filled with satisfying work and wonderful friends. It seems that my cowgirl friend has come full circle.

Welcome home, Jenny.

Leaf Me Alone

Green Acres is the place to be.
Farm living is the life for me.
Land spreading out so far and wide.
Keep Manhattan, just give me that countryside.
New York is where I'd rather stay.
I get allergic smelling hay.
I just adore a penthouse view.
Darling, I love you, but give me Park Avenue.

The chores! The stores! Fresh air! Times Square!

You are my wife. Goodbye city life!
Green Acres, we are there.


We may not be Oliver and Lisa Douglas, but my husband Brian and I did make our own foray into rural America nearly 15 years ago. Our life in Queens, New York had become cramped and congested. Even the additional storage unit we rented couldn't accommodate the seasonal pile of snow tires under our table. Reaching the "it's time to stop throwing money away on rent" fork in the road, we decided we were ready to stake our claim in the name of home equity. Our search for a house began and ended in upstate New York.


There was never any doubt that our flight from the city would lead us northward. Brian's job near White Plains ruled out a laborious commute from Long Island and we weren't lured westward by the song of New Jersey. The fond memory of day trips to Rhinebeck drew us to the Hudson Valley; it was beautiful, within a reasonable driving range and, at the time, affordable.


When asked how we wound up in Stanfordville, I laughingly reply, "By mistake." We had come to the conclusion that the village of Rhinebeck itself might be a bit pricey, so we began to look at the surrounding areas. Off the beaten path and just south of Rhinebeck, the hamlet of Staatsburg emerged as the strongest contender. It was quaint, quiet, and within striking distance of the Hudson River, which appealed to me as I had hoped to reacquaint myself with my passion for landscape painting. A listing in a local paper caught Brian's eye, and soon we were off and running towards our new life in the country.


As we followed the realtor, I was struck by the absence of a river. We had begun to head east off the Taconic Parkway, and even I, in all my directionally dysfunctional glory, was doubting the promise of a sunset over the Hudson. Sure enough, the property was listed as being in Staatsburg, instead of its actual location in Stanfordville, 16 miles northeast of Poughkeepsie, in the heart of "Hunt Country".


Keeping an open mind, we looked at only two listings before we decided that this mistake was the happiest of accidents. The second property included a well-maintained, yet simple ranch on a potentially lovely setting of 5 acres. Hidden by trees, a small stream traveled through the back yard; we were certain we would be able to clear the land to secure a view of the water from our picture window. Although the house was conceptually stuck in the seventies, we were not frightened off by the burnt orange wall to wall carpeting and the amber plastic inset into cutouts in the wall between the hallway and living room. On his first visit, my brother-in-law dubbed the kitchen's wrought-iron enclosed orb of a light fixture a fine example of "Mediterranean Sci-Fi". I think you get the idea.

Curiously, these dated decorations added to the appeal of the house, as did its owners. I might as well have been visiting my parents-she was sweet and personable, he was straightforward with a touch of cranky practicality. Unfortunately, this comparison may have lessened our clout at the bargaining table; we were ineffective hagglers who let sentimentality get in the way of a great deal. No matter, we had our first home.

Fifteen years, four dogs, and two cats later, we are still here. The transition from the urban center of the universe to the middle of nowhere was not as difficult as we had imagined. Brian's 1 1/2 hour commute is a straight shot down the Taconic Parkway; far less stressful than the same trip on the Long Island Expressway would have been. Initially, I worked at a succession of restaurants and odd jobs, but have dodged the full time employment bullet for some time now. My days are spent maintaining my home, my creative pursuits, and until recently, the care and feeding of elderly parents. Although I can be heard bitching about my indentured servitude as a "yard slave", I have inherited my father's pride in a well-maintained property. I suppose I can thank him for the energy I can summon up to haul 30+ tarps of leaves into the surrounding woods. I suppose I can thank him later.

My folks loved to come and visit, but would admit that our location was too rural for their tastes. There is a compromise of distance and convenience; Mom would have found it difficult to indulge in her shopping obsession with a 40 minute drive standing in the way. The closeness of neighbors comforted them, while I prefer to hide my quirks behind a tree line.

When someone would ask my father where I lived, he would tell them "Hooterville". I rarely corrected him and had my own chuckle as I saw the irony in such a jab coming from a man who had lived nearly his entire life in a town called "Trucksville".

Back at ya, Dad.

The Seven Year Bitch

Dateline- Brewster, N.Y. November 17, 2002... An expectant Golden Retriever paces and paws in a classic nesting fashion, and when the moment is right, she settles down for the blessed event. Hours of exhaustion, elation, and suspense bring a healthy and beautiful litter of pups. Mom kicks back while the kids begin to nurse; it's been quite a day.

Happy Birthday, Gracie.

Seven years old, the canine equivalent of my fifty, she remains svelte and sassy. This is in no part due to the practice of moderation, mind you. Ms. G. is the ultimate party girl and has no concept of when to stop. There are never too many tennis balls, no frisbee game is long enough, and petting sessions should last until the cows come home and go back out again. She does her time on the couch until the rustling of a coat or the turn of a knob promise a new adventure and propels her toward the front door. The destination has no bearing on her level of excitement- the Vanderbilt mansion, Petco, the front yard. She is the ultimate optimist. Or her closeted marijuana habit has taken its toll on her judgement and short term memory; I'll let you know if we catch her in the act.

I look at Gracie and I see a timeline of years that have passed so quickly. She has helped me through the mundane and the monumental. At times her sense of humor makes it possible to hold on to my own. Few things can bring you out of a funk like a dog parading through your father's kitchen with a thong in her mouth. Or a bra. Or a box of tampons. Her inappropriateness has no boundaries- she accompanied me to meet with the pastor scheduled to speak at Dad's funeral, and managed to steal a donut off the desk of one of the women in the office. My embarrassment was momentary, as the ladies, all dog lovers, burst into laughter and invited her to drop by anytime for another donut. She may not have been an obedience school valedictorian, but she was, and is, the class clown with honors.

My first Golden Retriever, Emma, was not yet five when I lost her to liver cancer. Within two days of her passing, I had an eight week old Gracie in my arms. My parents, saddened by Emma's death, had helped me pay for her medical expenses. Feeling a little guilty that I had turned around and spent more money on another dog, I didn't tell them right away- a fine example of a middle-aged woman resorting to teenage white lies.

About a week passed before I decided to take Gracie home to Pennsylvania to meet the grandparents. Bonnie, the notorious Scotty/Jack Russell mix still lived with me, so I told them I was bringing her along for a visit. I turned onto my folks' street and imagined my father telling me what an idiot I was to take on a puppy and the subsequent bills. Instead, when I walked into the dining room where Dad sat in his lazy boy, he took one look and my golden ball of fluff and yelled to my mom, "Rose, take a look at this."

With respect to the wall-to wall carpet in the rest of the house , we barricaded Gracie in the kitchen, and laughed out loud as she went through her repertoire of puppy antics. As I smiled and let go of any concern for my parents' assessment of my sanity, my father turned to me and said, "Honey, it was the best thing you could have done."

Thanks, Dad.