Trinity Lake - Day 5 - Afternoon

 I stop for lunch.

Gradually straightening up, I'm thrilled with the progress made, having spent several hours on my large work.
All of the image transfer is now visible, and above this, (the 'sky'), the canvas has been coated with washes of paint. It lies drying in the sun.
For the next stage, I will move into drawing . I ponder the best way to tackle this as I prepare lunch - leftover bulgar casserole, trail mix, apple - and flare up the fire to get the kettle boiling.

23C
Warm and sunny.
My sweaty, grimy self heads down to water's edge while the kettle is coming to the boil. I smell like a sweaty sleeping bag. I slip out of my shirt, leggings, and holding my mop of hair out of my face, bend to stare at my reflection in the still water.
I look fit and brown for an oldish lady, the mop I am holding a tangle of long grey curls.
Fit and brown.
My breasts, falling away from my body, look younger. The mottled reflection is flattering.

And above, the sky. A pale blue, nearly white.

I think of one of my old games as a small child. A game of removing the mirror from Dennis' and my bedroom wall, and holding it parallel to the floor in front of me, peering down into it, as I walked throughout the cottage. An upside-down world. Walking amongst the light fixtures and stepping over doorway lintels. As if I were one of the cottage's ubiquitous black spiders making its way throughout.
Upside down.

Even in the reflection of the green still water, I can see a smudge of black across my cheek.

Breaking the stillness, I dive in.


                                                            *


All is still, save a gentle breeze high in the treetops. I haul my sleeping bag out of the tent, and turning it inside out, hang it from a tree branch.
I lay out my oil pastels, pencils, ruler, eraser.
All laid out, within reach, ready.

Waiting.
I decide that, before moving on, I need to view the canvas from a distance, to see what the layout looks like, if it is working.  I prop the large slightly awkward structure against a tree, and (carefully) take several giant steps backward.
All is not as it seemed. The composition is crowded, some of it crooked.
Before stepping into the drawing stage, I will need to obliterate some of the imagery, the part that is not working. 

Besides, I want the image to have a certain spareness.

A simplicity.
I sit in the sun near the rocky edge of my site. The canvas is laid out beside me, so that I can move myself around it, titanium white acrylic paint and a 1" brush in hand.

Once dry, the drawing stage begins.
I scribble, smudge, blend, layer the oil pastels, one bit of the image at a time.
The most enjoyable and satisfying part of my creative process.

I draw.

                                                            *

Thanksgiving Weekend, 1967

I had met Ginny's mother and father before, a number of times, when visiting Ginny at camp. 

They were about ten years younger than my parents, though at twelve, they just looked old in a 'someone's parents' kind of way. 
Her mother, Evelyn Woodfield Ryder, a redhead, friendly and smiling. (called 'Woody' by Ginny's father). Ginny's mother and father, both very casually dressed, I assume, in spite of being October, having just returned from golfing. Evelyn was a 'busy' person, active in the community - amateur theatre, bridge, tennis, women's clubs. She was on the board of a senior's residence, what used to be referred to as an 'old age home', and seemed to be off to a meeting or a lunch or playing bridge at 'The Club' throughout my visit. She was, (and I do recall this from that visit), an excellent cook, and as I was a child with a voracious appetite, and had a budding interest in cooking, this stuck. But in 
spite of her busy life, it was clear that family in general, (Ginny and her younger brother in particular), was all-important to her. 

That, and, she was clearly the decision-maker in the family.

Ginny's father Alex, (called 'Ryder' by Evelyn), was an executive with the big liquor distillery in Windsor. He was a large man with gentle sad eyes, but funny and warm, and obviously so proud of Ginny. 
This was somewhat new to me. 

My parents were much more matter-of-fact about any of my or my brothers' achievements. Much more low key. In their eyes, if we did well at something, we were only doing what was expected of us.
But being proud of his daughter seemed to be all that mattered to the him. In fact, both of Ginny's parents were like this. They would stop what they were doing to gaze at her when she spoke, smiling encouragement and roaring with laughter at the smallest thing. 
I think I was a bit bemused. It gave me a funny feeling deep in my being, and suddenly made me miss my own family terribly - my father probably at that very moment in a deep armchair with a crossword puzzle, his pipe, Harris tweed.  My mother, upright at her desk, in a fitted sweater, wool skirted and stockinged, scribbling in her notebook, glass of wine, the OED at her elbow.

I wasn't sure who Ginny was actually like - where she came from in this family. She had her mother's look, in a way, and her father's eyes, though in Ginny's head, they didn't look sad, but serious.  
We sat in the living-room. I remember where I was sitting - can picture it all. The living room, I suppose quite formal, furnished in such a different way from our home. For starters, no books. Everything seemed coordinated, in matching tones of beige and brown. Quite attractive, but new looking. Stiff and formal.

So unlike our home. Warm and worn. Our living-room lined with bookshelves. Deep rich colours. The walls, a dark earthy red, threadbare persian carpets, old comfy tweed covered armchairs and sofa, dark green cushions, brass lamps, soft lighting. Newspapers - The Globe and Mail, Toronto Star, Times Literary Supplement, Jersey Weekly Post. Ashtrays. Inuit sculptures. China vases of flowers.
And art. 
Oil paintings. Canadian landscapes. Pen and ink drawings.

Home.

Ginny's mother had made hors-d'oeuvres. Cheddar cheese spread, crackers, pickles. 
I was famished but, not wanting to appear so, waited.
We chatted.
They, asking about the train journey.
Me, answering somewhat awkwardly.
Ginny, smiling at my awkwardness.
And Ginny's thirteen-year-old brother appearing in the doorway.

This boy.
So unlike my brothers. He looked extraordinarily like Ginny, with a head of thick, glossy reddish-brown hair, short back and sides but longer on top, hair which hung down one side of his forehead over his brow. He had a tic, a habit of flicking his head a certain way to shake his hair out of his eyes. That first weekend, I called him 'Tic', (to myself), it happening with such well-regulated frequency. 
He still had a young boy's body, though he was about a year older than Dennis and me. Dennis being much taller, in fact, me being taller. Over the first hint of broad shoulders, he wore a green and brown flannel shirt, below, a pair of well-worn jeans. 
He mumbled something, Ginny introduced us, he mumbled something else, making no eye contact, and took himself off to the kitchen.

Bud.