Where I grew up, there was, around the corner, a town park (officially named War Memorial Park, much to the dismay of those of those of us who came of age in the late 60’s). It was very close to my parent’s home, so close that you could hear the rush of the Nunketesett River over the dam in early spring if there was enough rain. So close that you could smell its distinctive metallic odor if your bedroom window was open and the wind was just right. So close that it was a de facto backyard to all us kids in the neighborhood. There we played (irony!) war games, held egg fights at Halloween, floated crude rafts and fished for perch and bluegills. We fell in often, returning home covered in mud. We lost countless bobbers in the overhanging tree branches. And, later in our teen years, we snuck off to for a surreptitious toke of skunky weed or nip from a bottle of Ripple. We made out with our girl friends there, in the bushes behind Pulpit Rock. It was a humble little playground that was a big part of my world back then.
During the pandemic, when we all were seeking safe places with few people and something other than a screen to experience, I found myself making the twenty minute drive back to the park, to walk with my wife. Providing the combination of nostalgia, fresh air and gurgling waterways, it was a comfort and a haven of sorts. It was also a peaceful environment of just the right size for my wife to navigate as her disease progressed and her health declined. We spent many afternoons eating a picnic lunch next to the iron-gold waters and strolling amongst the WPA-constructed stonework. Seemingly, the Town Park had re-established itself into my life, just when needed.
I’ve continued frequent visits to this special place quite a bit since my wife passed last May, and though the events of the past few years dampen my childhood memories, I still enjoy the calmness there. The river that runs through the park is particularly swollen right now and its meandering path through the tunnels, canals and over waterfalls is on full display. It twists, snakes, and plummets. It divides, many times over into bypasses and swirling pools, then reconnects on the other side, and rolls onward toward its watershed. Full of life at the moment, in July it will be but a trickle, but it will always be on the move.
Preview
Farm, 2024 - 12 x 24, oil on canvas - $800
In response to inquiries about my studio work. I have been painting a lot. Much more than in recent years and with a renewed purpose, spurred on, no doubt, by my trip to Iceland. The piece above is a small preview of the direction I appear to be headed. Much more on the way, but still in process. I hope to mount a showable body of work by the end of the year. We’ll see. In the meantime, thanks for your words of encouragement and support.
Pax vobiscum.