I remember attending an art installation some years ago in Sydney. The title was something like ‘Little Altars Everywhere’. The artist had arranged everyday items as we might have them in our home, to enjoy small groupings, a bit like in the ‘L’il Mexico’ house we stayed in when we first moved to Adelaide. I wish I could remember the artist’s name so I could give credit. (Upon looking for this exhibition and its artist from probably 20 years ago, I’ve discovered there have been many, and a book that may have started it all) I have thought about it hundreds of times since seeing it—every time I arrange a small group of things to dust around or for a still life to paint, or just to enjoy, which is almost daily. My heart and eyes seek beauty and meaning. 

The day I rearranged roses given to me in memory of my Mother’s death was one such following of my heart. The original bouquet was too large to go in one vase so I arranged them in two. But as some of the roses deteriorated I decided to combine the fresher ones into the small turquoise glass hobnail vase that just so happened to belong to Mom.

Here is what that simple act brought to mind …

Unless it was in use, the turquoise vase sat on the bookcase in the first house I remember living in. I remember it having zinnias in it once, because they were the first thing I recall growing as a child. Mom helped me and we planted them in the side garden of the house. It was near the wall built of limestone that was heavily studded with fossils from prehistoric times. The stone lay in creek beds all over that part of southern Ohio and the original house dated back to the 1800’s. I wonder if the original builder was being frugal or creative by using the stones? Dad was a clever and creative man who, in addition to taking photos of us, was learning the building trade from Mom’s brother who was a trained carpenter. He renovated the old house into what became the favourite childhood home.

There was, what seemed to a child, a large yard. When I visited years later I was surprised it wasn’t as large as I remembered. There was a sour cherry tree behind the house. It was perfect for climbing when it wasn’t in full blossom and full of honey bees, or loaded with cherries waiting for Mom to make into pies. Her cherry pies always had a lattice top and should have won awards but she was too busy and never interested in ‘awards’ it seemed. A few decades later I practiced and was finally able to make a good cherry pie, complete with lattice top, but never as good as the home grown cherries, and love, she put into hers.

Also in the large yard was a huge pecan tree. Every autumn it would drop it’s leaves and nuts and we would all forage through the leaves for the nuts and later rake the leaves. We kids disliked this chore but we loved the pecan pies and pecan sandies (cookies) Mom would make with the nuts. I remember her sitting in the evenings picking nut meats from the shells. What a tedious job, but she did it year after year. We weren’t wealthy and those nuts were something special we probably couldn’t have afforded otherwise.

There was a corner of the yard that was trying to be a garden. It’s hard when you have a family and both parents work as well, so I don’t remember the garden being very productive. But this was farming country and at various seasons there was fresh sweet corn, strawberries, cantaloupe, beans, tomatoes, apples and peaches. It was all sweetened by the good earth in that part of the country. Mom always made a strawberry pie for Dad’s birthday which fell in the middle of strawberry season. To this day I have seldom tasted strawberries and cantaloupe that could compete.

That day felt like all my life has aligned just as it was supposed to. The memory of an exhibition years ago, mixed with a much loved glass vase, recollection of meaningful memories, a gift of roses tucked up on a hundred year old desk in the company of two of my paintings. I suppose it is our desire to make sense of life, but is so satisfying when the continuity seems to show itself and all we have to do is notice.

I hope in a couple of years when Don’s lung cancer treatment finishes and I have adapted to the limited use of my right hand, and the sting of Mom’s death has receded and we are more used to our daughter living far away we will still notice the rhythm and sense of life.