More Fine Art America Photographs While We Wait

I'm using this post to share some more of my photographs from the Fine Art America site.  My next book, Daniel's Esperanza, is close...very close...to being published.  It's been a long wait and I see myself dedicating a post at some point in the future to this whole process.  I'll be posting excerpts soon.  However, I shall be happy to share these photos from a hobby I enjoy.  These images, and many more, can be found in greater resolution at veronica-batterson.artistwebsites.com.  I don't specialize, but take photos of things that interest me.  Nature, landscapes, travel, side trips, dogs (particularly golden retrievers)...there's a bit of everything.  Browse and if you decide to make a purchase...many thanks!  As always, I appreciate all who read this stuff.

Living with Cato

Just before Lily entered my life, I wasn’t sure I wanted another dog.  We had recently lost our previous pet to illness and it took a lot out of me.  I was drained emotionally.  Something about bringing another dog into our home so soon after a loss seemed wrong, too.  And disloyal.  I felt as if we were betraying our beloved dog’s memory and it just hurt too much.

But my husband was insistent.  A Sunday afternoon drive in the country was in order.  He knew of a place that had some golden retriever puppies for sale and he was determined to change my mind.  I grabbed some old towels as an afterthought, but forgot the small dog crate in the basement.  Then we hit the road.

I should say that our last dog was a golden retriever, too, and our family loves the breed.  It doesn’t mean we aren’t willing to adopt a rescue or look at other breeds.  We just know the golden well.  It is an obvious choice for us at this point in our lives.

Lily was born on a farm.  When my husband and I drove up the long drive to the farmhouse, I knew we were going home with a puppy.  I had no more doubts.  All it took was to see a large litter of pups lounging and playing under a huge tree to change my mind.  And she stood out from the rest.  All were friendly and exuberant, but Lily was fearless and curious, too.  We knew she was the one.

On the drive home, she sat on my lap on top of the towels I’d brought.  I realize this isn’t the smartest way to travel with a pet (she should have been secured in the dog crate that we forgot), but my husband was driving and I held her closely.  I’m glad I remembered the towels, however.  She piddled on me a couple of times during her first car ride.  The towels saved my jeans and the car seat.

The first year with Lily was an adventure.  It had been a long time since a puppy lived with our family and she kept me moving.  Puppy classes were important to us for the conditioning, so we enrolled her (and us) to refresh us on the beginning basics.  She was easy to train but a terror on a leash.  Housebreaking?  No problem.  I think she had one accident in the house, otherwise, she knew right away to go outdoors.  But walking with her on a leash?  I liken it to walking the Tasmanian Devil, that Looney Toons character.  Pulling, jerking, stopping, dragging.  She was all over the place.  It made no sense to her.   Being outdoors meant adventure and freedom to that farm dog.    And she didn’t want it any other way.  Commands didn’t faze her when on a leash, and she knows and obeys commands very well, otherwise.  Even the instructor was at a loss, murmuring, “I’ve never seen such a thing.”  I knew then walking with her might never be a pleasant thing.

Home life was an experience, too.  Lily has earned many nicknames over the years, but one that perfectly describes her personality is “Stealth”.  Or “Cato” (Kato Fong from the Pink Panther movies), as my husband affectionately calls her.  The manservant and martial arts expert hired to keep Inspector Clouseau on his toes had nothing on our hound.  She’s the master stalker and while her toys are often the target, we are always her prey.  The little girl is always lurking, ready to pounce.   Think she’s sleeping in the other room?   Just turn around and she’s at your feet staring you down, standing very still, with narrowed eyes and that stalking face.  We rarely hear her coming, that’s how quiet she is.  What she chooses to do next depends on her mood, but it’s always playfulness.  Another personality trait. 

The hound feigns hearing loss when it’s to her advantage.  She absolutely hates being brushed, which usually means I have to wrestle with her to do a little grooming.  So if she’s resting in another room and hears the word “brush”, then she remains very still, pretending to sleep.  But if a piece of food hits the kitchen floor, Stealth is suddenly there from two rooms away in search of an unexpected treat.  The word “groomer” is in her unspoken vocabulary.  She attempts to hide when hearing it.  She’d be the ragamuffin of goldens if we allowed it and just as happy.  But anyone who has a golden knows the importance of brushing because of the breed’s tendency to shed.  A lot.  So she’s out of luck with that one.  And I continue to wrestle.

Lily’s “business”…where to start?  I think she views it as a necessary inconvenience.  She would much rather explore, chase tennis balls, sniff the air, look at the birds, bark and roll in the grass or snow.  So she waits until she can’t put it off any longer; until she’s checked out every single shrub and chased every leaf that’s blown in her path.  Then it’s as if she’s thinking, “Okay, gotta take care of this.”  I’m sure she would sigh if she could.  And most dogs chase their tails.  I’m not sure why, but I know what’s about to happen when Lily chases her own.  Because she pushes the “business taking” to the limit, her tail chasing is an indication.  It’s usually a few chases and she stops, ears up and alert, eyes wide and staring at us, as if to say, “THIS HAS TO HAPPEN NOW!”  We get the message and out she goes.  It’s funny how our dogs communicate with us.

I do believe we have the only dog that suffers “business attacks” as a result of car rides.  That old story comes to mind of getting a cranky baby to sleep by taking it for a ride around the block.  You have a dog that needs to do its business?  Take it on a car ride.  That’s our hound.  And she’s turned into a difficult traveling companion because of the incessant stopping we have to make for her.  We usually visit family in Iowa on Thanksgiving and take Lily with us.  We’ve stopped more for our dog along I-88 over the years than we’ve ever stopped for ourselves.

As with all dogs, her barks have meaning.  I’ve learned what’s going on with all I hear.  Ceaseless barking, while looking out the window, usually means she sees something…squirrel, rabbit, neighbor.  Barks will end once target is out of sight, but I’ve had to shoo off a squirrel or two that dared the dog through the window, driving Lily (and me) crazy.  Announcement barks are reserved for the doorbell ringing, the UPS delivery truck, the mail carrier and any variety of noisy vehicles (trash and recycling trucks, snow plows, etc).   The one lone “RUFF” bark means she’s saying to one of us, “Now, wait a minute.  Look at me."  Then there’s the single “Whoop”.  This happens when she’s lounging in a semi-sleep state, snoring happily.  A loud noise induces one of these when it brings her back to consciousness.  I’ll just say I’ve been startled senseless when she does it. 

There’s so much I could share about this wonderful creature.  She loves the camera, probably because I’ve trained her by taking endless photos from the moment we brought her home.  She’s confident she can catch anything that wanders in her yard (squirrels, birds, rabbits, ducks) even though she never has.  Her beautiful instincts came into play last spring when she bugged a poor nesting duck under some shrubs by our house.  Tracking, flushing and chasing continued every time Lily went outside until we had to build a temporary fence around the shrubs so she’d leave the duck alone.  The two coexisted until it was time for the new mama duck and her babies to vacate. 

She loves snow, still thinks she can sit on my lap (even though she weighs about eighty pounds), sometimes uses her toys as pacifiers and has an internal clock for when it’s time to eat.  I’ve never forgotten to feed Lily because she won’t let me forget.  She has me trained well.

Age is catching up to our sweet girl, as it does with all of us.  She’s much whiter in the face but just as beautiful.  Her agility isn’t what it used to be and due to a leg injury she suffered a few years ago because she was so physically active, her retrieving days are over.  She plays with tennis balls now, instead of chasing them.  I’m her retriever as she’s happy to hide her favorite toy for me to find.  But most importantly, she makes me happy.  She’s loving and nurturing; a companion to have around and she makes me laugh everyday.    

As for those walks we never thought would happen as a puppy…I’m happy to say she did learn how to walk on a leash.  She does have an aversion for small dogs, however, as a couple of times she was bitten (once on her ear and once on her belly) as these dogs became aggressive with her while we walked.  Why is it that most folks think “small” can’t hurt “large”?  Now if some pet owners could learn dog etiquette, those walks with my sweet hound would be much nicer (but that might be another blog post). 

Fine Art America and Pinterest

I don't have a Pinterest page but I'm told a couple of photographs on my Fine Art America account have been "pinned" (admittedly, I really don't know what that means) several times.  Maybe I'm behind the times but if I can keep the social media requirements to a minimum I can get a little more accomplished, so I probably won't be joining Pinterest anytime soon.  I do, however, appreciate those who are sharing my work.  Photography is a hobby I enjoy, so I'm happy if others like the work in my FAA portfolio.  A couple of the images receiving Pinterest attention are below, with the links to them and to my Fine Art America artist account.

The direct link for the first image, "Hideout", is fineartamerica.com/featured/hideout-veronica-batterson.html, while the second image called "Big Guy" can be accessed at fineartamerica.com/featured/big-guy-veronica-batterson.html.  Finally, as I've posted before, please visit my Fine Art America page at veronica-batterson.artistwebsites.com.

As always, I appreciate all who read my blog, my fiction, poetry, books and those who look at my photographs. All work is copyright protected. 

Invisible

I've been thinking of people lately.  Not a particular person, necessarily, but in general ways.  Maybe it's due to this frigid weather we're enduring and how it can isolate everyone and intensify that feeling of loneliness some feel more than others.  Winter can do that sometimes.  We wish to hole up and nest until spring, emerging when warmth and color say hello after a long rest.  Everyone we know has something going on in their lives, good and bad.  We just aren't always aware of it and I'm guilty of forgetting that possibility at times, often wondering why a person acts a certain way.  Too often, it's dismissed as nothing but a mood, but there are reasons in some.    

I wrote this little poem recently and would like to share it here.  I'm not the greatest at attempting poetry but I think it says a lot about life.  Anyone's life, really.  At the risk of sounding preachy...kindness, thoughtfulness and taking the time with someone go a long way.  It doesn't always work with everyone, but "thank you", "please" and the polite exchanges make the world a little more pleasant.  As does tolerance.  Just my opinion.  As always, thanks for reading my blog and copyright applies (©Veronica Randolph Batterson).  Stay warm.

Invisible

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

The child was born a lifetime ago,

Making her entrance with little fanfare.

No one took notice.

She cried when hungry,

And when she was wet.

She longed to be held.

The child wanted comforting arms around her,

But she was invisible.

The baby grew into a little girl,

With ragged pigtails and mismatched socks.

No one took notice.

She cried when the bad dreams came,

And when she was slapped.

She longed to be held.

The little girl wanted comforting arms around her,

But she was invisible.

The little girl became a teenager,

With awkward movements and moodiness.

No one took notice.

She cried when she didn’t understand,

And when she was slapped.

She longed to be held.

The teenager wanted comforting arms around her,

But she was invisible.

The teen blossomed into a young woman,

Marrying a man who told her what to do.

No one took notice.

Living in his shadow, she cried silently,

And over unrequited love.

She longed to be held.

The woman wanted comforting arms around her,

But she was invisible.

The young woman matured into old age,

Spending most of her days and nights alone.

No one took notice.

She cried when her children no longer called,

And over lost youth.

She longed to be held when dying.

The woman was laid to rest in the cold ground,

Forever invisible.

 ©Veronica Randolph Batterson

 

Next Summer, You Will Dance to a Different Beat

It has been two years.  They went by quickly as all years seem to do once you reach a certain age, but my own self-imposed obligation made time appear "quick as lightning".  "Already?" I'd mutter when the calendar jumped to a new month.  Then it was time to search notes and decide on the subject of the next post.  A few months I shared short stories I'd written.  Yes, blogging is difficult for me, but I'm rather proud of the fact I met last year's resolution to at least post a new entry per month.  I've been doing this for two years, which is a big accomplishment as I never thought I'd be able to continue with it.  My goal is to carry on and if I blog more, all the better, but I'm not promising anything.

While keeping this blogging commitment, other things happened in my life.  I finished the manuscript of my third book and one particular literary agent, who asked to "read a full", still has it.  It has been with the agent quite some time and while I try to remain positive about the situation, realistically the odds are it will be rejected.  I'm almost to the point of wishing it would happen just so I could move on to the next step and publish it myself.  Those who have submitted manuscripts to agents and publishers probably know what I mean.  The wait and unknown are brutal, the end result the same.  I won't get into specifics now but maybe it'll be the subject of a new post this year.

The year 2013 was good to my family.  My youngest daughter graduated from college summa cum laude (I can boast).  My husband and I traveled to Hawaii, visited with old friends in Philadelphia, met a new one in Sedona, Arizona.  I saw the Grand Canyon for the first time in my life and it was as emotional as I thought it would be.  The vastness and beauty are breathtaking.  Las Vegas and seeing the Hoover Dam rounded out that trip and I must admit Vegas wasn't my cup of tea (but I didn't expect it to be).

A lifetime "to do" list included seeing the Eagles in concert and I crossed that off as an accomplishment last year.  I saw them perform at the United Center in Chicago...a great three and a half hour show.  It was wonderful and I was happy for days afterwards.

My Fine Art America account proved a little profitable in its first year of existence.  I made some sales of my photography prints and if anyone is interested in checking out some of the photos, here is the link:  veronica-batterson.artistwebsites.com.  I attended some local author fairs throughout the year and also accomplished: the start of a new manuscript for the next book.  Short stories continue. 

A few months ago, after a nice dinner of Chinese food, I opened the obligatory fortune cookie.  It read, "Next Summer, You Will Dance to a Different Beat".  The only thing at this point that I know will happen in the summer is my daughter's wedding.  I liked the prediction so much that I chose to make it the title of this post because of its quirkiness.  Something to potentially write about, I guess, but an exciting expectation for the new year...along with all of those resolutions to keep.

While I didn't mean for this post to be a recap of what happened to me or "a year in the life of...", that's how it developed, unfortunately. It reminds me of those letters people used to send with their Christmas cards, explaining everything that happened to them that year.  Sorry, everyone.

In closing, a toast:  I hope all of you have a wonderful 2014, full of promise and good health.  May your expectations be hopeful, your outlook bright and may you all dance to a different beat.

Peace

May you have warmth in your igloo, oil in your lamp and peace in your heart. - Eskimo Proverb

This weekend, I saw the movie, The Book Thief, and my thoughts have been with it ever since...similar to how it is for me when I've finished a great book and can't get it out of my mind (of course, the movie was based on the book).  While I've seen many films set during the Holocaust and World War II era, this movie's message has stayed with me, perhaps for the meaning of hope, the importance of peace and how words factored into survival for the characters.

As a writer and someone who loves to read, I enjoy words that give me peace and make me think.  I especially appreciate poetry and lyrics which paint a picture of contemplation and expressiveness (think paint to canvas).  In my opinion, one of the great lyricists was the late Dan Fogelberg.  Ironically, today marks the anniversary of his passing six years ago and, while this post isn't meant as an homage to the late artist, I think it warrants a mention of how great a poet he was.  It's something special when lyrics read as poetry and have meaning.  While the music adds to the beauty, the words stand alone.  Dan Fogelberg had that gift of creativity.  Some of his lyrics follow this entry...forget why or how he wrote them and, for the time being, silence the music that accompanies them. Just read the words.

As I write this post, the snow is falling outside and my dog is resting at my feet...a peaceful scene.  In closing, I wish all a relaxing Christmas and holiday season. Share with all you love and find meaning and purpose in what you do with your lives.  Do well and be kind.  Peace to all.

"Shallow rivers run between us where a stone may never sink
Though we taste, we are left thirsty for a deep and soulful drink
Narrow channels, barely open, fraught with dangers out of view
In the current, we are helpless - still I cling to you..." - Shallow Rivers, Dan Fogelberg

"Stood out in the rain
Let it soak me down
Before I called you...I called you
Didn't see me there
Hidden by the rain beneath your window...but I saw you
Putting on your face before the mirror on the wall
Dreaming that the looking glass was me..." - Stars, Dan Fogelberg

"I was born by a river rolling past a town
Given no direction...just told to keep my head down
As I took my position, a man fired a gun
I was so steeped in tradition I could not run
I was raised by a river weaned upon the sky
And in the mirror of the waters I saw myself learn to cry
As the tears hit the surface I saw what had been done
I gave feet to my freedom and I did run..." - The River, Dan Fogelberg 


"I saw you running
Ahead of the crowd
I chased but never thought
I'd catch you.
You said you loved me
But you had to be free
And I let you.
Why did I let you?
We walked together
Through the gardens and graves
I watched you grow
To be a woman.
Living on promises 
That nobody gave
To no one.
They were given to no one..." - The Last Nail, Dan Fogelberg

Dance of the Blessed Spirits

I'm not sure where I was going with this short story, but it ended up as a dream sequence.  It's a strange, little flash fiction piece I wrote that I'd like to share.  As always, copyright applies.  (©Veronica Randolph Batterson)

Dance of the Blessed Spirits

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

The man took the path.  He had three from which to choose and selected the one closest to him.  The rays from the sun slanted through the tree branches and made natural spotlights, lighting his way in the beginning.  Birds chirped and leaves rustled.  The breeze touched his skin.  Glancing at his bare arms, he noticed the gooseflesh appearing but didn’t feel cold. 

He began to walk.  His natural gait was off and he felt his body gliding along the footpath.  He saw his legs take steps, but couldn’t feel the ground under his feet.  Images started moving before his eyes, as if being controlled by a slide projector.  Image.  Click.  Image.  Click.  He could even hear it.   There he was as a child, with his first pony.  Then a sour-faced teenaged him replaced it.  A still of his wedding appeared.  He was happy, but she was there in the background, smiling at him with his new bride.  The sight of her made him catch his breath.  His heart ached. 

The photos ended and he found himself in a forest.  It had grown darker and quieter.  A stained glass window suddenly appeared, blocking his path, but he couldn’t stop himself from moving toward it.  Rays of light broke through the trees and played upon the panes of red, yellow and green.  The shafts of colored light danced across his face, making it difficult to see, but he knew he was heading right for the glass.  He braced himself for the impact, but felt nothing.  The glass shattered all around him, never cutting his skin but shards covered his body. 

Suddenly the forest parted before him and the path opened to a meadow.  The shards of colored glass rose from his skin and flickered in the sky, painting the arch of a rainbow over the blue.  Flowers appeared, dotting the green landscape as if being applied by an artist on canvas.  He watched the scenery come to life then he heard a breath being given to what he saw.  The rush of a brook as the water skimmed the rocks, the screech of a hawk spotting its prey and the doleful howls of a pack of wolves. 

Movement near a copse of trees made him jump.  She was pale, her body translucent as she stepped forward.  A crown of flowers rested on her head; the gold of her hair played down her back and over her shoulders, covering the white dress she wore.  She stared for a moment as if he looked familiar to her and then turned away.  He cried out but made no sound.  Oh, how he remembered her. 

The woman then turned and walked toward him.  She was close and he could remember the attraction and love.  Her blue eyes were inviting as he leaned close to kiss the spirit, to recall what he missed.  But the trusting eyes saddened as she stepped away.  Her form became smaller but other spirits appeared in his vision.  People he knew.  Some he’d forgotten.   

The sight of them caused a conflict of emotions.  Sadness, remorse, shame, yearning, happiness.  These souls had been part of his life.  Some he’d treated well, others he hadn’t.  Why were they here now? 

The woman looked over her shoulder at him.  He wanted her to come closer again, but she raised her arms toward the sky, swaying to music only she could hear.  The others followed her and slowly they disappeared from sight.  He tried calling out again, but his voice failed.  The blessed spirits of his life were gone.

Darkness replaced the bright colors.  He couldn’t see anything but felt his body moving, then dropping suddenly as if in a freefall.  He became dizzy and closed his eyes, fearing what might appear before them.  Abruptly, he stopped and the only sound he heard was his own breathing.  Steady and calm.  Over and over.  Then he slept.   

©Veronica Randolph Batterson