I don’t know if it was a conscious decision, or just the body’s way of coping. I didn’t have the words for it then, nor the thought to question it. But within a week of moving her family from Minnesota to Texas, my Aunt Sandy adopted the southern accent. And just as easily I suppose, I changed the northern pronunciation of aunt to “ant”. And that’s how she remains.
Maybe everything is just a choice. Right down to how the day is going to be.
Each surface that I paint on accepts the substance so differently. How it holds, smooths. I can say, well, that’s not how you did it yesterday in the sketchbook. And it doesn’t care. This is how it is, it says. And so I make the adjustments. And I don’t fight the rough surface of the hand crafted paper, but it embrace it. Doesn’t it add to the character? Not imperfections, but details. And they are beautiful.
Singing along to the Spotify station in the car yesterday on a French highway, how easily I Tanya Tuckered into Delta Dawn, and I thought of her, my Aunt (Ant) Sandy. We’re all characters, rough and hand crafted, and isn’t it beautiful?!
There was a time when our socks were never meant to be seen. It was almost embarrassing if they did. This was also the time when “nerd” was an insult.
Not now. Now we put our socks and quirks on full display. Wearing our hearts not only on our sleeves, but right around our ankles. Depending on my outfit, you can tell how I vote, what banned books I read, and the music I listen to. All within an ever changing color palette.
I suppose everything changes. And it doesn’t take away from what was. There is not only one beauty. We have to find our own. Again. And again. Allowing ourselves and each other the room to change and to grow.
That’s what makes this nerd create sketchbook art from ruffled women, to hatted men. As Beyonce says, “This ain’t Texas, ain’t no hold ‘em…”, so I paint my cowboy, and put on my colorful socks and set out to find the ever evolving beauty of this world. Step by step. Out on the dance floor.
Two of my mom’s sisters ended up in Texas. Being a child in Minnesota, that seemed about as foreign as it could get. (Little did I know…) When my Aunt Sandy returned on her first visit, she already sounded different. I didn’t have the word for it then, but she definitely had a drawl. How strange, I thought. But I wasn’t that worried, until years later when my mom and I took my grandma down to Texas for a visit. Tired from the drive, I didn’t really notice when we arrived, but the next morning, there she was, my full-on Texas aunt, asking my grandma — the one that her northern children only called “mother” — “Mama, do y’all want to go for biscuits and gravy?” Wait! Mama? Y’all? Biscuits and gravy? What was happening???? Perhaps there was a slight emphasis on the word mother when they returned and my mom asked her, “Did you like the biscuits and gravy, Mother?” I was already smiling when she answered, “Uff-da, y’all…”
I can see now how it happens. Living in France. They say I have an accent. There, of course, and even when I return. We all want to belong. Be a part of something. And we gather ourselves in, word by word, bit by bit, to make ourselves whole, to find a place at the table.
Visiting the Starbuck’s in San Antonio yesterday, they were all out of the butter croissants, so I said “I’ll take the pain au chocolat.” She looked at me so strangely… Uff-da, y’all, I thought. “I mean the chocolate croissant,” I smiled. I am a part of it all.
Sometimes it’s as simple as whether the sun is out or not, but I have fallen in and out of love with cities throughout the United States. And they can change, sure, a little, but mostly I think it’s me.
Cities I thought I loved several years ago, this visit, not so much. And that’s ok, it doesn’t take away from my previous visits. I’ve also been surprised in the reverse — loving those I thought I never could. Taking the extra photos, celebrating, almost apologizing for not seeing it before. I know it’s silly. Laurel, Mississippi doesn’t need me to love it, no more than Houston was waiting for me to change my mind.
I suppose it’s the same with people. We spend so much time and energy wondering what people think. Do they like me when…will they like me if… oof, it can be exhausting. Should I change? Did they? We’re all wandering, wondering. Seeing situations and people again, for the very first time. It’s a journey. We would do well to remember we’re all on one. Knowing this, (I remind myself too), maybe we could all be a little more kind, gentle, joyful, loving, along the way. And maybe when our days and time together don’t always match up, we can smile and wave… and remember how we fell in love with Houston.
I guess if you want to be inspired, you’ll be inspired. The responsibility lies within.
Most of the towns we have visited in the last couple of days, won’t find their way into travel brochures. Some, not even on the map. I have been guilty of passing by, sure, but I want to be someone who passes through.
We have been to the Louvre in Paris, the Met in New York, so you might think that we wouldn’t stop to see the museum of art in Tyler, Texas. But we did. There was no signage for a front entrance. We walked around the entire building (to be fair, it didn’t take that long), until we found a door. There was a single woman at the front desk. She seemed excited to have us. “Take as many postcards as you like,” she said, “Magazines even!” They had two exhibits. The first was Norman Rockwell. Familiar sure. Was I a fan? That might be a stretch, but in we went. The first drawings were of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. Elaborate, beautiful drawings, depicting wonderful phrases from the books. Now, if you follow me here, you will know that just the other day I wrote of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. This is not lost on me. It felt like a connection. From the banks of the Mississippi in Natchez, to this lovely little museum on dry land in Tyler, we were connected. Entwined. Within. Passing through. I felt inspired. Back at the hotel, I took out my tiny sketch pad and made an attempt at a Rockwell character. It felt grand. Grand in the biggest way — in this tiny town, on this tiny sketchpad, it felt larger than life.
