As I positioned myself at the corner of 10th Avenue and and “I” Street, attracted by the wide open spaces of the Delaney Park Strip, and–more specifically– by the reflection of the island of flowers in a puddle, I didn’t realize that the final picture would contain personal memories. My dentist’s office, the home once lived in by a now-deceased friend, and a church where our storytellers’ guild has told stories are all in the picture. There are more memories packed into the Park Strip for me, and for many others.

The Park Strip used to be the only runway in Anchorage. It is now a long, grassy island that extends for many blocks east to west between 9th and 10th. It is a gathering place for community events. (On 9/11 hundreds of people gathered spontaneously on the portion just to the left of the flower island where there is a tall American flag.)

There was a lot of activity going on in the summer sun while I sat in the car and drew the picture. There were skateboarders, a mother changing a toddler’s diapers, tourists taking photos, cyclists, a lady carrying a little dog, people flying kites. Two motor cyclists drove up and parked right in the puddle to take pictures of each other. There was a steady flow of traffic going past me. That parcel of land, does indeed contain a lot! I admit to being more at home in the quiet neighborhood next to the vacant lot, but I am certain that this was the perfect spot for me to be drawing yesterday.

I learned that NOT doing a mock-up composition ahead of time caused headaches I could not rescind once the pen was put to paper. That’s okay, I’m learning, one step at a time!

 

There’s more to a vacant lot than meets the eye. A vacant lot holds mysteries, evokes questions, offers space to breathe– space that is tempered with the uneasy feeling that it might not be there much longer. This vacant lot is in South Addition, close to where we live, and “catty-corner” from the Fire Island Bakery (birthplace of chewy slow-rising breads and buttery croissants to rival European bakeries). The side view mirror of our vintage truck/camper is peeking in from the bottom; I haven’t to date been able to go “plein air.” How will I hold up to four or five hours perching outside on a small stool with the wind tugging at the paper? That’s the question gnawing at my mind.

Our house was built in 1954 from a kit (kind of like a puzzle) in this first suburb of Anchorage (South Addition).The original owner was a first rate gardener, and the house was on the garden tour at the time.

The Sitka Rose Hedge still gets a lot of attention. Noses are stuck in it every day. The day I did this drawing a neighbor remarked, “I could stand here and smell it for hours.” Last year Brian decided to get rid of it because he has a constant battle with an invasive weed; his arms were in shreds from weeding amongst the rose thorns. Several neighbors mounted a protest, so he put down a weed mat and hoped for the best.

The sun is a door knocker, not a gate ornament. There are stars in the hedge because the roses have five petals, leaving a star shape when the petals fall off. Which is apropos because I was focusing on this quote when I did the drawing:

Peace mounts to the heavens, the heavens descend to earth, earth lies under the heavens, everyone is strong.

–Victory Song of the Morrigan, Book of Fermoy

http://www.mythicalireland.com/

There are two roads out of Anchorage, one heading northward and one heading east and ultimately south where it splits into two roads, one headed to Seward and the other to the Kenai Peninsula. The road along the Turnagain Arm is classified an “All American Road,” of which there are 31 total in the US. Brian and I parked in the pullout across the road from where we procure our drinking water, which gushes generously at all times from the mountain rock.

The guardrail for the pullout is in the lower left, and both the road and the railroad track can be seen winding their way along the contour of the mountains. The waters of the Turnagain Arm are tidal and always shifting, sometimes glistening like thousands of diamonds in the sun. The town of Hope is to the right, on the other side of the Arm. Cordova is to the southeast, on the other side of the dark mountains (see previous word portrait post).

I love alleys, and I knew I wanted to draw an alley scene. However, I just couldn’t find the “right” spot and I was tiring of driving around our area, so I settled on parking in our own little parking lot next to our garage on our own alley. I parked sideways so I could open the car window and comfortably peruse the scene. The ants ended up being out of proportion, but then, by merit of their activity, perhaps they deserve extra notice.

The day I drew this picture, I knew I wanted to draw clouds. I also yearned to be close to the water. So I ended up at the well-worn vista overlooking Susitna. I quickly drew the basic composition so I could have time drawing the clouds. Once I figured out that little dots were the way to go, the clouds began to create themselves on the paper. They took most of the rest of the time. I was grateful that the magpie showed up, very stern indeed, and just a couple feet from my face, to add an element of interest. Appropriately, he is semi-transparent because his presence was fleeting, if powerful. The other signs of life were airplanes taking off and landing at the Anchorage International Airport, and a lone small watercraft whizzing by in the distance.

Still a bit jet-lagged, I opted for familiarity and comfort, and returned to Side Street, which has just the best coffee in a coffee-inundated town and a hospitable and  laid-back atmosphere. I was trying to take the perspective of remaining aware of the space around me, and it came out in this way– the hanging objects, plus the cloudy-day sky above the ceiling.

[audio:http://www.pammcdowellsaylor.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/whipporwills.mp3|titles=Whippoorwill]

Little did I know that when 11 years ago I thrashed about “Lot 11” at the gated equestrian community of the Highlands, Grandma, Kathy and Daddy would soon be going to the other side. Or that my mother would subsequently sell “Leatherwood Retreat” and build a house on “Lot 10” of the Highlands. At the age of 80, grieving the loss of her mother, her daughter, and her husband, she chose a home design for the lot and supervised the building of the house “on the lip of the gorge.”

I had fallen in love with the place because of its raw beauty, the constant sound of a waterfall cascading into the deep gorge, and the presence of what appeared to be a deep cave in the far wall of the gorge. Now we take the long flight to Knoxville, the long drive to the Highlands, and sit in the sun room at my mother’s (and sister Chrissy’s) house. I draw the scene I love while listening to that waterfall (to the left of the picture, not visible except during the winter when the leaves are off the trees).

The objects in the “yard” are benches that Brian built several years ago. It was our idea that there could be benches at various spots from which to behold this view worthy of a national park. Seen from the sun room or back deck, the benches seem to have an identity of their own that goes beyond being just something to sit upon. They remind us a bit of Stonehenge.

The drawing was done over a period of about four days. The sun is setting in a clear sky. The robin in the foreground represents the robin that came to me each morning at sunrise on the other side of the house. The “time and space stretch” enabled me to include the robin. (When we returned to “Leatherwood Retreat” after my dad’s funeral on March 5, 2003, there were hundreds of robins standing at attention on the lawn. Ever since, I think of my dad when I see a robin, and feel somehow that he is close by.)

Click on the arrow below the picture to hear the sound of the whippoorwill.

Mother is bouncing back like a cat with nine lives from a major medical treatment of chemotherapy, radiation, and radical surgery. Her “recovery nest” has served her well. She still spends a lot of time there, but is now more and more her old self, ranging farther afield. She has shown decisiveness and fortitude in her fight against cancer– which was her attitude throughout. My sister Chrissy has been her constant companion and caretaker. The Highlands of the Big South Fork of the Cumberland River are the ever-mysterious wild and natural landscape in which her recovery has occurred.

Daddy’s recliner is in the picture. He passed away in 2003, taken from us swiftly and unexpectedly, right after having his morning coffee. I remember his hand working the lever on the side of the recliner. He sits there vividly in my memory, clear as a bell.

[audio:http://www.pammcdowellsaylor.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/tunebird.mp3|titles=Tunebird]

Edisto Island is thick with live oaks draped with Spanish moss, loblolly pines, and palmetto trees. It is flanked by the Atlantic Ocean and marshes teeming with wildlife. It is a mysterious place that holds the secrets of the Gullah people and allows for us outsiders to wonder about their history and lives. The time share condo from which I drew this picture was purchased after years of a family tradition of vacationing in Edisto. This tradition began when Aunt Mary Siddall Logan came in the 1930’s as a child with her parents, who built a beach house that still stands by the sea. The marshes and forest that magnetized my attention are in the central “peephole” in the background of the picture.

Click on the arrow below the picture to hear the “tune bird.” (This bird has a definite melody that it repeats over and over– haven’t yet identified the real name.)