The Windy City and Me

The roots of Chicago stay with you, no matter how many miles or years pile up. For me, that footprint started when I was eleven years old, living for four unforgettable months on South Kedzie Avenue with my Gramma Mary. Down on the Southwest Side, near Gage Park and Chicago Lawn, the city had a distinct, working-class grit. At eleven, that stretch of Kedzie was my entire universe. It was a world of brick two-flats, corner stores, and the constant, lively hum of the neighborhood. It was an eye-opening introduction to the real heart of the city. 

Years later, I returned to Chicago as an adult, but this time, the city showed us a completely different side of its character. 

Pocket-Sized Masterpieces: The Joy of ATCs

There is a quiet magic in creating something beautiful with your own two hands, but there is an even greater joy in sending that piece of your heart out into the world to make a brand-new friend. This is the beautiful essence of Artist Trading Cards. These miniature works of art, affectionately called ATCs, carry a delightful tradition where the only strict rule is their size; every single card must be exactly 2 ½ by 3 ½ inches, which is the precise size of a standard baseball card.

Within those tiny dimensions, the creative possibilities are absolutely endless. You can use any medium your heart desires, whether that means drawing intricate patterns with white gel pens on dark paper, blending watercolors, or layering bits of vintage paper and ephemera for a beautiful collage. Because they are so small, there is no pressure to create a massive masterpiece; instead, you get to experiment with colors and textures, making each little card a unique expression of your imagination.

Why I Write

Ever since penmanship stopped being a burden and became something that I could do well (around the age of 12, I was a late penmanship bloomer), I have been an avid writer. It did not come easily, though.

I remember suffering over "Creative Writing" exercises in 4th, 5th, and 6th grades. Being told that I was not writing poetry correctly because my poems had neither rhyme nor meter, being told that my choice of subject matter was uninteresting, being told that my stories lacked (pick something)..

Penny for your thoughts

When I was ten, I made my artist grandmother a cross for her wall by cutting a couple of chopsticks into shorter pieces with a steak knife, using a leather bootlace to bind them together, and then I used Elmer's glue to attach pennies up and down the stake and the crosspiece.

I remember having to prop the pennies so they would stay still and let the glue dry properly.

Gramma Mary hung that cross on her wall in Chicago, and then took it to California when she moved there when I was about 20. It was still hanging on her wall when she passed away, about twenty years after I made it for her.

It was kind of gimpy, but she loved it, and loved that I had spent time and effort making it for her.

I miss you, Gramma.

My Private Sanctuary of Ink and Paper

When the four walls of my home start to feel less like a shelter and more like a boundary, my creative rituals become my doorway. Being housebound can easily make a person feel adrift, but for me, passing the time isn't about killing hours; it is about reclaiming my soul and keeping my sanity intact.

Ink, Strings, and Serenity OR Happy Little Clouds

There is a specific kind of silence that happens the moment I cap my pen after finishing a Zentangle. My hand is usually a bit cramped from the precision of the patterns, but my mind is finally quiet. To keep that peace from evaporating, I reach for my ukulele. The transition from the visual rhythm of ink on paper to the literal vibration of strings against my fingertips is where I find my center.

It’s a world of tiny, deliberate wonders. One hour I’m watching a Shrinky Dink curl and toughen under the heat, and the next I’m assembling an angel keychain, bead by bead. These aren't just crafts; they are anchors. In a world that feels increasingly loud and disposable, these small acts of creation are how I claim my space.

The Holy Trinity: Why I Keep Buying These Same Three Records

 

Most six-year-olds in 1971 were vibrating to "The Wheels on the Bus" or whatever upbeat nonsense was playing on the radio, but not me. No, I was already deep in the trenches of acoustic melancholy. I was sitting there in my kindergarten class, probably staring at a pile of blocks, while the haunting melodies of Joni Mitchell’s Blue, the earthy warmth of Carole King’s Tapestry, and the gentle drawl of James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James played on a loop in my head. 

I’ve owned these albums on vinyl, 8-track, cassette, CD, and every digital format known to man; at this point, the only thing missing is a reel-to-reel copy, and frankly, my wallet is grateful for that one omission. 

And now, the albums.

The Great Kitchen Standoff: A Bubbly Backwash Production

Left to right: Romeo, Connor, Cubby, Rocco. Cats in order: Not Bob, Mary Ann, Ada

I’m currently living in a low-budget nature documentary where the dogs are hairy potatoes and the cats are fuzzy dictators. Between Not Bob’s entitlement and Romeo’s vibrating tail, the kitchen has become a high-stakes war zone. Send help; or bacon.

I now present a world premier: The Great Kitchen Standoff: A Bubbly Backwash Production

Reclaiming Joy: From Chronic Pain to Creative Flow

It’s been years since I felt this kind of creative spark, and honestly, I’m just wallowing in it.

For a long time, I let hand arthritis convince me that my crafting days were over. I packed up the beads, put away the clay, and assumed that part of my life was a closed chapter. 

The Dog Who Broke My Heart and the Dog Who Put It Back Together

I didn’t go looking for Lulu. She found me. She was five years old when I got her, already past the puppy chaos, already herself. The first time I saw her, she walked straight over, climbed into my space like she belonged there, and rested her head on my heart. Not my lap. Not my hand. My heart. I said her name and she responded instantly, like she already knew it was hers. From that moment on, she was mine and I was hers.

Creating, Growing, and Returning to Life

For a long time, I thought my creative life had gone quiet. Not dead, just sleeping under a pile of exhaustion, pain, and the everyday grind of being a human with a body that doesn’t always cooperate. But lately something has cracked open again. I’ve been wandering back into the arts like someone returning to a house they used to live in. Everything feels familiar, but also new in ways I didn’t expect..

The Voice I Thought I Lost

 

Me, 17 years old

All my childhood and teens I sang, sang all the time. Played guitar. Music was the thing that brought me to life, and I wanted nothing more than to buy a PA system and join a band. The singers I listened to shaped my style. Grace Slick, Tina Turner, Ann Wilson, Janis Joplin, Janis Ian, Joni Mitchell.

My dad always encouraged me in my music, always asked me to play and sing for him, always got happy when I learned a new song or wrote one. He especially loved that. He gifted me my Harmony Sovereign for Christmas when I was twelve and paid for guitar lessons twice a week for several years. He was my biggest fan.

When I was fourteen I won a school wide talent show singing the 59th Street Bridge Song by Simon and Garfunkel and accompanying myself on my Harmony Sovereign guitar. That was the kind of kid I was. Music was where I lived...

New Art

 

There's a WHOLE bunch of new art inside...

Who has time to be bored? Not me!

Today was not really an art day. I diddled around with the Gimp for about an hour, then my writing muse slapped me upside my head. I have written six articles for my blog today about all kinds of things:

• Impeaching Trump 
• Chicago and Music being in my bones
• A bit about a portmanteued proverb I love 
• One about nicotine addiction
• One about god, or the idea of god, or whatever
• And this one, which only kind of counts

It was a productive day.

I really am an eclectic freak. Playing uke and recorder, doing digital art and zentangle and making jewelry, and writing from my gut. Between all that, I talk to people, make new friends, share a gazillion memes, play computer games, and more. And when I go to bed, I read for at least an hour before turning out the light.

I don't have time to be bored. Considering that I'm basically housebound and can't really leave my bedroom due to the difficulty involved in hauling my carcass from room to room, my life is incredibly rich and full.

I am a very fortunate old crone.

Proverbs and Portmanteaus

 

Years ago, I intentionally combined two sayings into one portmanteau proverb:

If wishes were fishes, then beggars would ride.

A combo of "If wishes were fishes we'd all cast nets", and "If wishes were horses then beggars would ride".

I say it a lot, so much so that my kids use it frequently.

Chicago: Where the Music Took Hold - TWICE

I am willing to bet good money that the first music I ever heard was my mother singing to me in Chicago, the city where I was born and where I lived for the first three months of my life before we moved to Boston. 

The year I was eleven, life went pretty cattywumpus. I'd been living with my mother for the previous year, and that pretty much imploded due to my special needs as an undiagnosed bipolar person. I returned to my father's home, and since he was in the middle of relocating across town and setting up housekeeping, he asked his mom, my Gramma Mary, if I could come to Chicago and stay with her for a month or two. Gramma said yes...

The Dogs Who Built My Life - A Poem

Connor in front, Romeo behind

I was raised in a house where dogs

were not pets but storylines.

Flockie, fierce little guardian,

patrolling the borders of childhood.

Ollie, the Wonder Dog,

half giant, half myth,

all heart,

the one who walked beside me

like he had been assigned the job by the universe.

Heidi, wild and bright,

a fugitive with sheep’s wool on her breath

and summers in Nova Scotia in her bones.

Gunther, the one puppy miracle,

proof that even small dogs

can write big legends.

And then came the ones who shaped

the in between years,

the ones who carried me forward

when life shifted under my feet.

Lulu, my heart dog,

the little dachshund who loved me

with a devotion that left a hollow

when she was gone.

Her absence was a wound

I did not know how to close

until Romeo arrived

and stitched it gently,

one heartbeat at a time.

Murphy, the tiny poodle

with the soul of a knight,

who lived twenty one long years

and would have taken a bullet for me

without hesitation.

I loved him,

but not the way he loved me,

and that truth still tugs at me

like a thread I never tied off.

Sid Vicious,

whose name was a lie

and whose only violence

was the ferocity of his fetch obsession.

A dog who believed joy

was something you chased

and brought back proudly

again and again.

And now, the pack that fills my home

and my days

and the spaces I did not know

were still empty.

Romeo, my heart dog,

the one who looks at me

like he remembers every lifetime

we have ever shared.

Cubby, my little buddy,

joy wrapped in fur,

a shadow with a wagging tail.

Connor, my sweet and fragile boy,

who learned safety in my hands

and taught me softness in return.

Rocco, borrowed but belonging,

folded into the pack

as naturally as breath.

These dogs,

past and present,

are the chapters of my life.

They shaped me,

held me,

trusted me,

and taught me what loyalty feels like

when it curls up beside you

and falls asleep.

I did not just grow up with dogs.

I was raised by them.

And I am still being raised

every day

by the ones who walk beside me now.

Not Bob: The Orange Cat Who Thinks He’s a Dog

 

Not Bob isn’t just a cat. He’s a phenomenon in orange fur, a walking burst of confidence and questionable decisions who somehow manages to charm every creature in the house. He talks constantly, a running commentary of meow, meOW, MEOW that sounds less like a request and more like a declaration of his own importance. And the dogs believe him. Romeo drags him across the room by the scruff like a beloved plush toy, and Not Bob just goes limp with the blissful trust of someone who has never once considered the possibility of danger. He lets the dogs groom him, shove him, nudge him, and he returns the favor by inserting himself into every canine moment like he was born into the pack. He isn’t a guest in the dog world. He’s a citizen. Maybe even a diplomat.

The little beast has one, POSSIBLY two, brain cells...

His hobbies include locking himself in the bathroom by pushing the door shut, then immediately complaining at full volume until someone rescues him. He also has a long‑running feud with the floor vents. Not Bob has pulled them up, chewed through tape, defeated glue, and ignored every deterrent except bricks, which he is not yet strong enough to move. He would absolutely appreciate a set of weights for his birthday so he can train for the day he reclaims access to the heat‑duct underworld.

There’s no dignity in him, no hesitation, no fear. Just pure, unfiltered orange cat energy wrapped around a heart that believes every creature is a friend. In a house full of dogs and stories and history, Not Bob has somehow carved out his own legend simply by being exactly who he is: loud, fearless, affectionate, and absolutely convinced he belongs everywhere.

More Zentangle

 

Mogen David's for Donna Zentangle