Seamstress in Repose, resting my toes...

Henry Gallery, University of Washington, dress and sweater hot off the press for my trip to the wedding of my niece, Lucinda Dunlap and her husband, David Cox. 

The sweater and dress fabric are both vintage pre-1990 made in Fall River, Massachusetts- 100% cotton knit. Perfect for the day in airplane and the next day, too. Photo sneaked in by my sister, Hope Dunlap.

Dress is Simplicity 8046
Sweater is McCall's 7290

The dress is shown as much shorter on the pattern photo but I am very much medium size and I left it ankle length to keep warm on the plane.

August 23, 2018

Landing in Montana

1975, late September, I flew out on the plane from Rhode Island to Belgrade International Airport, twelve miles from my destination, Montana State University in Bozeman.  I had one suitcase and two cardboard boxes.  In one box was my bicycle and the other contained various necessary items.  I was in proper travel attire: full-length skirt and blouse.  I believed I was sophisticated.  I knew not!

I was initially greeted by a large sculpture of a big bird made of huge hammered nails.  An eagle is not a friendly beast.

I parked myself out on the drive in front of the airport.  I sat on my suitcase and wondered when the public transport would loop around.  It would not.  However, a kind-hearted woman about the age my mother would have been, if I still had one, asked me if I needed a ride to town.  I jumped on her offer  and climbed into her station wagon.  She tossed my suitcase and boxes into the car as though they were bales of air.  She brought me directly to my dormitory, which was complete with cowboys lassoing bulls' heads hanging out of dorm windows.

I thanked her profusely for the ride.  She invited me to come visit her at Big Sky and told me her name was Tippy Huntley.  

While I immersed myself in my studies of medieval literature, Montana history, and the Beat generation, I thought of riding my bicycle out to Big Sky to visit Mrs. Huntley.  The snows came.  My bicycle and me were grounded.  There was no public transportation.

RDB

6-18-2017

DeBlois Gallery Opening

Still Life

My friend Patricia is a painter. 

Waiting on Route 2 in Exeter for Triple A to come resuscitate her old car,

she sat in the sunny back seat and painted the yellow birches

in both watercolors and pastels.

It really is a blessing that Triple A is so slow

because the resulting painting is quite lovely.

Plein air painting is for the birds.

Painting while standing on one's feet for hours is literally numbing.

Georgia O'Keefe did it right.

And so does Patricia:

Front seat, back seat,

Getting down the bones of the landscape and filling it all in from the comfort of one's own car.

This really is as good as it gets.

RDB

December 4, 2016


*Artist is Patricia Szydlo

My Most Memorable Thanksgiving

A Rhode Island born and bred girl, I went far away for college in the big wide-open state of Montana.  I knew not a soul within 180 miles of Montana State University in Bozeman.  I didn't have a car, just feet, legs and a bicycle for locomotion.  My second year of college I moved off-campus and shared a basement apartment with a girl I'd never met in my life.  This turned out to be a good choice: Cathy Buck was very welcoming.

When Thanksgiving rolled around, Cathy invited me home with her to Geraldine, Montana.  It was a long ride in a big blue comfortable gas guzzler car.  It was 1977.  The ride itself took almost all day.  I don't remember much about the ride.  I don't recall the food we ate.  What I remember is our arrival at the Buck Ranch.  There was a large arch of a sign over the driveway that proclaimed 'Buck Ranch' at the top of it.  For all intents and purposes, the driveway was a road, about 1/4 to 1/2 mile long, deep in snow.  Cathy looked over at me and quietly said, "Hold on."  We flew over the top of the snow till we got to the house.  Her family welcomed us inside: 5 kids, 2 parents- like mine in number.

I slept in the same room with the 3 sisters and her brothers slept outside in the bunkhouse with the ranch hands.  The next day, Thanksgiving, we must have eaten.  It was grey. It was snowing.  I could see the butte out the kitchen window, an amazing geological outcropping.  After dinner the radio blared "Bad weather, icy conditions- stay home and stay safe."  The phone rang.  Next thing I know we're zooming off to Fort Benton to meet Cathy's cousins.  We played pool, drank beer, and shut down the bar.  Then we played crack the whip on the street in Fort Benton, Montana.

And that, Dear Reader, is my most memorable and wonderful Thanksgiving!

Early One Morning

Early one morning at Sunnyfield Farm in Middletown, Rhode Island, the cows were ready for milking.  Two farm hands were missing.  The other two men milked as many cows as they could.

It was still dark outside and it was autumn cool.  It was many decades ago and one of the farm hands was my step-grandfather, who told my father this story.  Both are gone now, so I am telling you the tale that happened so long ago.

If you tell a person that they cannot do something, they will always find a way.  The era of Prohibition made many men wealthy.  It was all about connections: knowing the able bodies, the empty barns, the source of the liquor, choosing the right boats, time and place for pick-up and delivery.

On an island as Middletown is on, one fellow would call the police, distracting them to the opposite end of the island, while the crime was being committed.  For whatever reason, the ploy did not work out this particular morning.  The delivery was intercepted just before landing at Third Beach boat ramp.

One man evaded the police by jumping out and swimming away in the dark, while the other man, who did not know how to swim, was apprehended and taken away in handcuffs to do time in jail.

The swimmer had not planned on being late for work.  He ran two and a half miles up the road, through the fields,  to Sunnyfield Farms, drenched to the bone, to milk his share of the cows.

It always pays to be able to swim.

RDB

November 17, 2016

Super Moon

The moon is a celebrity tonight.

larger than life,

closer to earth than in most of our lifetimes.

It rises up over Newport Hospital,

then majestically over Mrs. Williams' house,

like a huge honey lollipop in the sky.

We can't quite get our tongues around it

but we devour it with our eyes.

The next morning it's image is front and center,

above the fold of the Daily News.

The night after is even better:  I'm driving.

No, I'm moon-gazing. 

No, I'm driving. 

I'm driving across long narrow bridges spanning the Narragansett Bay,

the still-huge moon shining through transient cloudscape:

Peaking, hiding, beckoning with a half-smile like the Mona Lisa,

all while I've floated across the bridge at a slow steady speed.

Home safe, here is the moon next door, hovering over Mrs. Williams' house again.

RDB

November 15, 2016

Stains are Our Enemy

The laundry became my job at age 8 or 9.

Every other day, before or after school, I would pile clothes for 6 of us into the machine, using Tide, which promised that no stains would remain.

It was the mid-1960s.  Our clothes were all colors: handmade white blouses, a red corduroy jumper, and every color of the rainbow in between.  I never noticed that anything and everything began looking rose-colored.  Nor did anyone else in our house.

I did notice when the blood stain on the knee of my pants did not disappear in the wash.  I re-read the detergent box.  I had clearly followed instructions.  I tried again, washing them a second time.  The pants still sported the ugly stain.

I sat down and wrote a letter to the Tide people, letting them know that their product, which we had used for years for our large family, had failed me.

Several weeks later, when I came home from school, my mother showed me the large box addressed to me, filled with a year's supply of Tide detergent.  I don't remember if they sent an apology.  My mother was flabbergasted at the results of my silent effort.

My life of correspondence had begun!  My father gave me free reign to the postage stamps and my letters remained unedited.

RDB

November 14, 2016