Well, I'm home from rendering my dogsitting services. It was quite the experience, let me just tell you. Their dog, Allie, is a rescue beagle and she has some emotional baggage that doesn't make boarding an ideal solution for her. And anyone, who's ever loved a dog, knows that you can't really enjoy a trip if you know your pup is unhappy, so that's how I came into the picture. If anyone is well-versed in caring for emotionally needy dogs, it would be me. After all, I was Sugar's Mama for fourteen years and have always had a soft spot for the shy and nervous type.
My sweet friend, Regena, came along with me for the experience. Regena is one of those friends, who adds fun to whatever you're doing and, since she retired from Mississippi State, she's always up for a road trip. I promised a long and laid back weekend with a kind of sleep/eat theme to it, so she packed her bags without too many questions.

Between our restaurant visits, a little shopping, and catching a movie, it was on our to-do list to take the dogs for two daily walks. One in the morning and one at night. And I use the plural form of dog, because Blair and John Samuel thought that bringing Ruby would be a good distraction for Allie in her state of separation anxiety. And Ruby is kind of like Regena in that she also adds a level of fun to whatever you're doing. Well, sometimes, it might be a stretch to call it fun, but that's neither here nor there.

Anyway, each morning, well before my usual wake time, the dogs would get up ready to eat. Ruby's morning feeding is usually found on Davis' chore list, so I was missing him badly at that ghastly hour. And not long after they were done with breakfast, they were raring to go walking and would indicate this with intense barking and howling. To avoid waking Regena, I tried to get them out the door as soon as possible even though my blood wasn't quite yet pumping effectively. This seems as good a place as any to mention that Regena's little, short legs/bone spur combo was not conducive to helping me walk the hounds. We tried it once and, let's just say, it didn't go well.

Well, Ruby was like the country mouse, who'd come to town. She's not accustomed to walking on a leash or having restrictions placed on where she can and cannot conduct her personal business, so I knew walking the country mouse on her retractable leash and the city mouse on her regular leash would be an experience. Once I finally got them both on their restraining devices, I opened the front door. It was like the starting gate at the dog track as they took off at warp speed toward the big oak tree across the street to chase a squirrel. I believe I was airborne for approximately 25 yards. My feet finally made contact with the ground when Ruby, the country cousin, went around the light pole on the opposite side from Allie and me. Leashes twisting and pulling and locking up. Now, I am not one to say bad words, especially audibly.....well, unless it involves a funny bone or toe stubbing, but, as I worked to get everyone on the same side of the pole, I may or may not have used some words that are found on the list of words my mother taught me never to say. Surely, there are exceptions, though. Like when you're a night owl and it's 6:45 am and you have two barking dogs in pursuit of a squirrel, who are tied in a square knot around a pole. After much ado, we finally made it to the oak tree and everyone enjoyed smelling it and looking up into it for potential prey. With the tree well inspected, they seemed to slow their gait down a tad as we continued on our trek.
It was a lovely Saturday morning. It wasn't too hot yet and the dogs were enjoying themselves. The neighborhood was a flurry of activity even at the early hour. There were people jogging. Kids riding bikes. Golf carts buzzing. The soccer fields were filling up with uniformed kids. Apparently, these people needed someone to teach them how to relax on Saturday mornings, but I was only out there because I had no choice in the matter. The hounds were restless.
Well, we'd finally gotten leveled out on our walk. With a couple of days under our belts, the country mouse seemed to be getting the hang of this leash co-walking thing for the most part. That is, until we turned the corner and met a little girl walking her large chocolate lab and black kitty cat. "Oh, this is not good," I remember saying to myself. I believe that, perhaps, it was the last thing I remember as Ruby took off after the kitty. That's what dogs do where we live and so Ruby was unconcerned with the social norms of the city. Well, Ruby stretches out her retractable leash going after the black cat with Allie close behind. Their barking and running causes the large brown lab to snarl and growl and take off after the two hounds. The little girl runs behind him after her cat, who's now in the storm drain, and, in the process, she lets go of her big dog's leash. I'm being dragged by the hounds behind the little girl. And bringing up the rear of this circus train were the little girl's parents, who'd spotted the whole ugly incident from their front porch and were running after us all. The parents, the dogsitter, the little girl, the chocolate lab, the hound dogs, and the kitty cat. That's when Ruby and Allie, astoundingly, performed a slip knot around a stop sign and I was forced to release of one of the leashes. I knew if Allie got lost on my watch, I might as well go drown myself in the storm drain, so I let go of Ruby, who was wide open and finally enjoying the freedom to which she was so accustomed. It was like "The Farmer in the Dell" gone horribly wrong. The only thing we were missing was the cheese.

For five days, we tried to perfect the walking thing. I know their neighbors were wondering, "Who on earth is that strange lady, who comes launching off of their front porch like a rocket ship, everyday, pulled by those rabid sled dogs?".....or the Hounds of Baskervilles as my well-read Regena had them named by day two. So, while the happily married couple of two years was off doing stuff like this...
After a delayed flight, the parents finally made it home to their fur baby, on Monday night, and all was right with the world, once again.
Since getting home, it's been a game of catch up at work and home and, most importantly, sleep, but thanking God for safe travels and the precious gift of their sweet marriage of almost two years.

Y'all have a great end to the week!

          

Well, my friend, Julie, and I enrolled in a short stained glass class at our local community college. I think we'll meet a total of six nights and complete a project, while learning the basics of the art. Now, I don't know the least little thing about stained glass, but I have always appreciated its beauty. Especially, on Sunday mornings. And I thought it might be just a notch or two more sophisticated sounding than my paint by number hobby, so I talked Julie into coming with me. She's very artsy and this is just the kind of thing we can do now with our nests being empty.

Last week, we just went over our supply list and picked out the patterns we wanted to use. The instructor, BJ, is a friend of mine and she suggested not doing anything too detailed for our first attempt. I took that to mean that the transfiguration of Jesus or His triumphal entry into Jerusalem would be off the table. So, I looked over all the simpler patterns provided and selected a cross. Not too ornate or curlicued or anything. Just straight lines and clean edges as I'm always drawn to the angular as opposed to curves and arches. I'm not sure what that would indicate on a personality test.
Anyway, I'd gone to the glass store, last week, and plopped down in the floor to choose the different colors for my cross. Because it wasn't a large project, I was able to go through the scrap piles to find what I needed. After finding a lot of the required tools on Amazon, I was ready to take my first step into the brilliant world of stained glassdom.

Last night, we actually got to start cutting our patterns and, once BJ got me started, I was off to the races. Trace. Score. Tap. Break. Trace. Score. Tap. Break. With only straight lines in my pattern, I was able to cut my pieces out pretty fast. Of course, they're not perfect, you understand. They'll need a lot of grinding to get them right, but they're cut out, at least. I'm one of those kind of impatient people, who likes to get things done. You might even say I can be impetuous, at times. But, the good thing about stained glass, which I've already learned, is that you have the grinder and solder to cover your shortcomings. I am partial to hobbies that provide multiple layers of coverage for my ineptness.
Meanwhile, my friend, Julie, is next to me working on something that looks like she's been commissioned by Sainte-Chapelle. She selected a large, ornate pattern that will be just beautiful, but with so many turns and twists and curves. I'm over there- Trace. Score. Tap. Break. Like nobody's business. And she's sitting in deep contemplation, trying to decide which way she wants the design in her glass to run; nowhere near ready to commit to much cutting. She's a school teacher and artistically inclined and, whatever she does, well, it's done to perfection.
I estimate Julie will be done with her breathtaking stained glass project sometime around Memorial Day after next, but it will be a show piece when she's finally finished and likely will merit a special place in her new house plans. Mine is liable to be finished in two or three weeks and will prop in my kitchen window, subject to forever being mistaken for a Vacation Bible School project. 
Next week, I learn about the grinder and wrapping the glass pieces in copper, while Julie embarks on her tracing. I'll keep you posted on further developments on this riveting story.

This evening, we plan to welcome my niece's first baby, Noah, and, on Thursday, I'm going to dogsit the granddog, while Blair and John Samuel celebrate their second anniversary in NYC, so there's a lot going on, this week. Since we last talked, I was involved in a fender bender, almost died twice of heat-related illness for the cause of college football, and discovered that our Ruby can open the door to our neighbors' house and, without so much as knocking first, let's herself in to unwind out of the heat and catch up on their latest news.

Obviously, I have a lot to address when I get home.

We'll talk, next week.

 

Front porches have traditionally been the social center of the southern home. Well, porches and kitchens. But, back before air conditioning, I understand, the porch is where you'd go to visit and hopefully catch a breeze for a little relief from the heat. Neighbors would stop by and talk and rock for a spell. That certainly seemed to be how it was in everyone's favorite TV town, Mayberry. Andy, Opie, and Aunt Bea would sit out there after dinner and, invariably, someone would stop by for a visit.
I have my own memories of a front porch. My maternal grandparents had a big one. They had porches on the front and back, actually. But, the front porch was where all the action was. There were two swings that faced each other. One on each end. In between, there were rocking chairs. After a meal, we'd all congregate out there. The cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, siblings. If it was gardening season, we'd all have a dishpan full of peas in our laps and a big sheet stretched out in the middle for everyone to throw their hulls on as they shelled them. We'd spend hours out there just reading the paper, swinging, and visiting. Nowhere else to be. No phones to check. Occasionally, someone would get up to go in for a cold drink and they'd usually get a couple of requests to bring back a glass of tea, a cup of coffee, or a piece of pound cake since they were headed that way.
We could count on the bobwhites and doves to provide background music for our conversations. Sometimes, Granddaddy's cows and chickens would chime in. Cars would pass and my grandparents would always wave at each one. Didn't matter if they knew them or not. Often times, a passersby would honk their greeting and, sometimes, they'd pull in the driveway to say hello. I especially liked to go out there at dusk when the katydids were singing. I spent many hours on that slab of concrete with my family. Swinging, rocking babies, laughing, and talking. When I go back in my mind and visit my favorite memories, many of them are right there in that place.
Davis and I moved in our house in 2004. It's hard to believe that when Halloween rolls around, it will be 15 years. Before we built, we searched and searched for the right house plan. There were certain things we wanted and some things we didn't. One thing that was a must have for me was a big front porch. I wanted one that was substantial enough to accommodate two swings facing each other and a couple of rocking chairs in between. Just like the one in my memory. We finally found the right plan and our porch set up is almost identical to my grandparents'. It's the place to which we spill out when the house is full of people. Where we view the family fireworks on the 4th of the July. Sit to watch a storm blowing in. Visit with the neighbors. It's where I'd go if I wanted to get one of our kids alone to talk. Where we greet our guests and wave goodbye.  

It was just Davis and me at home, Labor Day weekend, so we'd decided it was past time to refinish our stained porch swings and front doors. The sun, heat, and moisture really work on the stain and varnish and break them down over time. The elements just slowly melt away the warm finish and leave it dry, cracked, and uninviting. With the way the morning sun bears down on the porch, they should really be refinished once a year and, well, we'd gone beyond that. So, Davis sanded them all down and I stained the front doors and framing, which left the doors and my hands with a beautiful, deep hickory finish. He stained the swings and, of course, when we were done, we wondered why we hadn't done it sooner. The porch looked so much more warm and inviting. Like new life had been breathed back into it. A far more welcoming place for people to come.

Porches aren't the social places they once were. Modern conveniences have brought us all inside and technology has made our contact less direct. We have more options for entertainment. More doors are closed than are open. We're looking down more than we're looking out, these days. We're convinced we no longer need to touch in order to stay in touch. We don't feel like we have to meet up with each other in order to keep up with each other. Sadly, porches are more for curb appeal, these days, than for congregating. We're just too busy and too distracted.

As we've retreated from the front porch and chosen less personal ways to visit, I think we've all noticed a different set of harsh elements bearing down on us. Isolation, negativity, loneliness, and apathy seem to be breaking down our own personal exteriors and making our once smooth edges kind of jagged. We've become more rough and callous toward our fellow man. Negativity is at epidemic levels. I've seen it beat against the town where we live. We've all watched it blow across our country. Seen it heat up between strangers on social media. Witnessed it disintegrate our political process. Watched it break down morale in work environments. It even corrodes places you wouldn't expect like churches and families. And, once it starts, it has a pile on effect.

Negativity is destructive. The further we get from living life face to face, the more uncaring we seem to become and the bolder we become with it. Just like the porches on our houses need attention, the porches on our hearts do, too. I know mine does. That outer finish that we all have that tells others what we're about- we can't expect those to be constantly exposed to negative news and internet tirades and our edges not become roughed up in the process. We can't really believe that our surfaces won't become dry and cracked if left out in those kinds of conditions. Negativity breeds negativity and, eventually, maintenance is required on that part of ourselves that either invites or repels others to be a part of our lives. More importantly, a part of God's family. We can either be His welcome mat or a growling dog out in the yard. I've seen in myself that it's so much easier to jump on the dogpile of negativity than it is to be encouraging and constructive. But, I think that's exactly what we're called to do. The harder things.
  
"Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise." Philippians 4:8  
 
"And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near." Hebrews 10:24-25 
 
"Let everything you say be good and helpful, so that your words will be an encouragement to those who hear them." Ephesians 4:29
 
"So then let us pursue what makes for peace and for mutual upbuilding." Romans 14:19


Maybe a little more time on the porch would help us all. It sure couldn't hurt.

See y'all next week.

If I survive the hellacious heat of the football game, that is.    

 
                

Well, August certainly was an eventful month around here with lots of birthdays, the unexpected funeral of a classmate, moving a kid to college, lightning striking Blair's vehicle in our driveway during a visit home and about 230,452 other things in between. But, if you've read the blog for very long, you know August's end is a somewhat triumphal time for me and my heat-loathing self. The psychological victory of surviving another southern summer was won the moment I could see the words, June, July, and August, in the rearview mirror. Here is actual footage of me hurling myself into September at the stroke of midnight.

       

Well, moving day has come and gone. On Friday, the day on which the sun seemed to be no more than 43.5 yards from the Earth's surface, we moved Carson into his new home away from home. It was a furnished apartment and, with Carson being a man capable of toting his own stuff, it was just the two of us setting out for the task at hand, while Davis stayed back to work.

All week long, Carson was busy getting some last minute things done and we'd packed all of his stuff and, in the process, spent a lot of time with each other. During all the activity, while I'd quietly mull over the significance of these last moments before things would change, God, in all of His mercy, allowed Carson to use his free will to become a little mouthy. You know that kind of smart mouth-iness that makes you just want to pinch their little heads off like a crawfish. Not being the norm for him, I knew it was just his nerves getting the best of him, but, whatever it was, it certainly helped his mother to wake up, that day, with an exuberant "let's get you off to school" attitude. Not one tear has been shed. The Bible wasn't kidding when it said the Man upstairs can use all things for our good.

I knew this was going to be a different kind of move in day. Unlike any move in day with Blair. The last thing you want to project as the mother of a son is any hint of a Mama's boy syndrome, so I knew I'd just take my cues from him and the other moms who'd be there. I mean, I didn't want to cross any mothering lines that the other mothers weren't crossing, you know? But, we all seemed to be on the same page in the playbook. Being how I am about restrooms and such, though, I couldn't help but Lysol all his bathroom surfaces and wipe down the leatherish couches, on which only the good Lord knows what had transpired. One of the other mothers immediately jumped in to help; thankful that I'd made the first antiseptic move.   

We worked to get his bed made. His flag hung. A picture of his Ruby on the bedside table. Lamps plugged in. His room darkening curtains up and steamed. A poster affixed to the wall. His desk stocked. Shower curtain hung. And the hoard of clothes put in his closet. We got done and his room looked nice, but not too nice, which is always the fine line you have to walk when dealing with sons. I could tell he was proud of it, but my estimation is that the pillow shams will find themselves in the apartment dumpster before week's end. As a recovering girl mom, though, I had to, at least, be able to say that they were there when I left.
I've been looking at move in day pictures for a week now. The girls' rooms have all been adorned with inspirational canvases with uplifting words like "Dream", "She believed she could so she did", and "You got this". Not to be outdone, Carson penned his own encouragement to himself on his white board. While not as flowery or poetic, it did encapsulate the overall goal toward which he shall strive, this, his sophomore year.
I wanted to get a picture of the 4 roomies before I headed home. One was gone, so I got the remaining unexcited three to gather up for a picture. I've been photographing theses 3 together since kindergarten, so, even though I may have put my toe on top of the mother of college son line here, at least, this group has been conditioned to expect photography from me. They lined up, side by side, ever so careful not to touch one another....again, unlike all the girls I'd seen hugged up together under their inspirational signs. It was only after my coercing that they gathered in close enough to even fit within the camera's frame.
So, having done everything I was needed for, Carson walked me to my car. I hugged him and he leaned in to kiss me on my cheek. It was the kind he used to give me when he was little. In its silent and precious way, it expressed his apology, love, gratitude, happiness, sadness, and all the deeper sentimental stuff for which there are no words. I got in my broiling car and pulled out of the parking space. I could see my boy in the rearview mirror walking away from me toward his independence. Just like he's supposed to. And, as his mom, whatever I'd done right or wrong. Whatever regrets I had or things I wished I could do again. Whatever victories we'd won or lessons we'd learned. Whatever I taught him or forgot to teach him. I left it all there with him. To sort it all out for himself and move forward to the person he decides to be. Through all the parenting years of nailing it, sometimes, and screwing it up, others, one thing I left him with for sure was the confident knowledge that his Mama loves him. He will never, ever be left to wonder about that.  
       
So, until Ruby goes off to obedience school, we'll have her here, at least. I suppose I'll immerse myself in my painting....by number, that is. I finished my first masterpiece and, even though I had it done in time to fill an empty wall in Carson's new place, he chose a Psych poster over it. Psshh.

I bought a cookbook for two upon Blair's recommendation. While Davis can eat leftovers right up until the time maggots appear, I'm a bit more finicky about that. Without the boy with the hollow leg living here, hopefully, this will help.
 I have discovered a side of the empty nest that no one ever talks about, though. Nobody prepares you for it, really. It's one of those things that you don't even consider until you get back home from dropping off the last child. Who's going to get milk for us at 9:00 at night? Davis and I are left to ponder these things in our quieter, albeit neater house.
               

1)  The Situation: You don't answer her text when you get back to college to let her know you made it home safely. 
The Reason: Your roomies asked you to go grab a bite to eat when you came in and you ran out the door, leaving your phone on your bed. 
What your mother thinks:  A deer ran out into the highway and, because of your love for animals, you disregarded all the things your father ever told you and swerved to miss it. Your car is not drivable, night is falling, the temperature is dropping, and your phone has fallen between the seats just out of your reach.   

2)  The Situation:  You don't answer the phone when she calls.
The Reason:  You phone is still on silent from your morning classes.
What your mother thinks:  You walked in on a robbery in progress at your apartment and are currently tied to a chair with nylon rope, mouth covered with duct tape and two guys named Bones and Rocco, who are wearing black gloves and ski masks, are discussing how they're going to get rid of this problem that is you.         

3)  The Situation: You seem more quiet than usual and go to your room and shut the door.
The Reason: You are exhausted from a long week and just want to be alone.
What your mother thinks: You have fallen in with the wrong crowd at school and are trying to conceal your experimentation with drugs, alcohol, pornography, huffing, prostitution, online bullying, sexting, synthetic marijuana, and terrorist extremism. 

4)  The Situation:  You don't eat much dinner and she made your favorite. 
The Reason: You stopped for ice cream on your way home.
What your mother thinks: You have something weighing heavy on your mind and you don't feel like you can tell her just yet. Things like........you've flunked out of school, given up on your dreams of college in hopes of moving back home and starting a heavy metal band named Slow Death, which will practice every night in her garage, where some of your friends may need to crash until the band gets on its feet. You're not just home for the weekend. You're home for adulthood. 
   
5) The Situation:  She hears sirens and you're not home.
The Reason: Police are headed to a false alarm of a home security system. 
What your mother thinks: Police have been called to an armed bank robbery......the bank where you were headed to deposit your first paycheck from the Pizza King and are now being held hostage with a shaky gun pressed against your temple, a SWAT team surrounding the place, and a negotiator on a megaphone trying to talk some sense into the crazed freak who has nothing to lose. 

6)  The Situation: She has a missed call from you and now you won't answer.
The Reason: You had called to chat and then decided to go work out at the gym.
What your mother thinks: You are having car trouble on the side of a deserted road and you tried to call her for help. When you got no answer, you decided to accept a ride with a truck load of men, who were just released from prison, but seemed nice enough and promised to take you wherever you needed to go.

7)  The Situation:  She has a doctor's office or hospital number on her caller ID. 
The Reason:  Her pap results are in.
What your mother thinks: You are sick.  She doesn't know with what, but you are very, very sick.  She's sure of that much.

8)  The Situation:  You call and say, "Mom, I have something to tell you." 
The Reason: You have just received some great news about an application you submitted.
What your mother thinks: You have eloped with a carni who runs the Tilt-a-Whirl and have quit school to go on the road and live in his pop up camper in which you will raise the twins you are expecting and the four kids he already has.   

9) The Situation:  Your friend calls her and says, "Mrs. Miller, there's a problem." 
The Reason:  Your car has been towed and you were afraid to call and tell her yourself.
What your mother thinks:  You are unable to speak and she cannot think of one, single condition, which renders one unable to speak, that is good.

So, kids, if any of these situations arise, just know that your mother's brain doesn't work like your brain.

It can be a dark place, sometimes.

Bless her heart.   

And you might as well get used to it. I am 47 years old and last week, I had 6 missed calls from mine on my phone, which was on silent. She'd seen a wreck involving a white vehicle and since I am the only one who drives a white vehicle in our city and I wasn't answering my phone, clearly, it had to be me. 

Who else could it be? 

Call your mother, kids. I'm sure she's worried sick about you for some reason.

When I get to the gift market, it doesn't take too many showroom stops before I start picking up on the latest trends in the colors, patterns, styles, décor, novelties, and gadgets that are arriving on the scene for the coming year. There were those years when everything I saw had a bird on it. There was the pink and gold trend. There was the owl, then the unicorn, llama, sloth, flamingo, and cactus- in that order. There have been many years of the farmhouse-themed décor with chickens, eggs, wind vanes, and rusty pots galore- that one is still out there but, hopefully, in its golden years. The crazy socks, adult coloring books, fidget spinners, and coiled hair ties have each had their time as new kid on the block. Last year, squishy toys were all the rage. This year, animal prints seem really big, and, over and over again, I saw something that grabbed this soon-to-be empty nester's attention. They were really nice adult paint by number kits.

Now, I didn't order any for the stores, but I came home and decided I'd order one for myself and see how I liked it. Some evenings, I've found myself with more time on my hands than I'm used to with my children being grown and all. I've gotten into a couple of shows on Hulu. I have a nightly appointment with the treadmill. I try to blog once a week. And I've taken up reading again as it's been a long time since I've had time to read books with much consistency. So, in the interest of finding a new pastime or two to mix up this evening lineup, I ordered myself one of those paint by number sets like I'd seen.

I chose a beautiful fall scene. You know how I feel about that most glorious season and, as involved as the picture looked, I thought maybe I could have it done by late fall. The image portraying the glorious colors of autumn and the promise of cooler weather seemed to be an inspirational goal worth working towards. Well, it came in and did not disappoint. It was printed on a large 16"x20 piece of canvas and included everything I'd need to create the masterpiece. My creative juices don't lend themselves to free-handed painting or drawing, so this preprinted art route would be the only way I would ever be able to produce anything that wouldn't look like a kid's Bible school craft.
So, a couple of weeks ago, not sure how I was going to like this whole painting thing, I sat down with my water cup, stretched out the canvas, and pulled out all the supplies. I put the image of what the finished product should look like off to the side for inspiration. The directions suggested starting with color #1 and painting all the colors in order. The shades get darker as the numbers get higher and progressing from light to dark would apparently help with blending, so I obliged.

I got out the smallest brush, opened my first paint color, #1, and looked the canvas over for all the spaces marked with the corresponding number. It was a very light color, which I presumed would ultimately only serve as the background for part of the picture. What a bore. The faint color was barely a contrast with the ivory colored canvas, but I filled them all in with the pale hue and went back to recheck the vast sea of numbered shapes for any I'd missed. There wasn't that much to fill in for that first subtle color, but I was sure to go over them twice, so to give more coverage to the numbers underneath. An added challenge with which Rembrandt and Picasso never had to contend.

I cleaned my brush and opened paint #2. It was a little darker and gave me a little more instant satisfaction given its more visible results. I'd find a cluster of 2's down near the bottom and then a few clusters to the side of that and then there was this one little 2 in the very top right corner of the picture. It was up there all by itself among a lot of darker colors that would have to come along later. As an unskilled artist, I found it improbable that the little isolated smattering of the color that I was laboring with at that moment could possibly ever tie into the work that would be done at a later time, but, being so very unaccomplished in the art, I was careful to rely on the instructions of the professionals and not chart my own course. Bob Ross, I am not, and I knew there would be nothing happy about the trees if I tried to depict them in my own way.

As the colors progressed to #3, I opened it up and didn't consider it to be very pretty. Kind of ugly, really. I'm pretty sure color #3 could only be replicated in nature within a baby's diaper. And, while some of the shapes numbered with 3 were easily filled in with their smooth edges and predictable forms, others were quite arduous to complete. They were long and meandering and full of narrow, tight spots that were hard to navigate with a brush. Some were so involved that I'd think I'd never get them behind me. But, trusting it would all come together with breathtaking results, I kept my head down and forged ahead in my work even when I had doubts and questions along the way. After all, who was I to second guess the good people down at the paint by number factory?