imagine | Magpie and Muttonfly

Learning from Grandma Moses

13 December, 2012 by moi

She was born Anna Mary Robertson September 7, 1860 in Greenwich, New York. The third of ten children, she attended school in the summer months and helped work the family farm as soon as able. At twelve she began working at homes near the farm–a ‘hired girl’–to earn her keep. Despite the fact her parents were not wealthy my material means, they instilled a love of the finer things–art and history, community and conversation.

Perhaps those were the very things that drew in her future husband. Thomas Moses, a farmer worker, took Anna’s hand in marriage and together they settled on a farm. Much like her parents, they brought ten children into the world. They worked, side-by-side–Anna using her artistic skills to make their house a home.

All in all, she lived through one civil war, two world wars, and a great depression. She buried five babies and her husband. She had to give up work on the farm and her love of embroidery due age and a touch of the Arthr.

But give up, she did not.

With each change, each setback, she kept moving forward. When one door closed, she looked for another. So that, in her late seventies, with embroidery no longer an option, she set her hand to painting. She paid no mind to her age or the fact she hadn’t any professional training. She didn’t look to trends or consult focus groups. She certainly didn’t focus on despair. She simply tried. She began copying works she admired; then she began trying her own–happy memories from a simpler time. She gave her paintings to friends and family; she displayed them in the window of a family store . . . where she happened to be discovered.

And that’s how a country girl grew up to become “Grandma Moses” to people the whole world through. She produced well over a 1,000 works of art which graced greeting cards, calendars–even Gimbel’s Department Store. She appeared on the covers of Time and Life magazines, served the subject of numerous interviews and television shows, and earned honorary doctoral degrees. President Truman invited her to tea, entertained her with a private piano concert, and awarded her the Women’s National Press Club Award for outstanding accomplishment in art.

Not bad for the last quarter of her life.

Like any grandmother worth her salt, she continues to teach us to this day, despite the fact she’s been gone for decades. You see, another year will soon be behind us. Whether 2012 served well or wretched, it matters not. What does matter, is how we head into the new year . . .

Stout of heart

22 March, 2012 by moi

magine a boy, born in Monmouth, Illinois March 19, 1948. Named after his father’s commanding officer in the Mexican-American War, the boy’s life was anything but placid. Throughout his early years his family moved from place to place. His father was convicted of bootlegging–eventually sued for debt and tax evasion. Their home and various properties were auctioned off to cover expenses. With the start of the American Civil War, the boy ran away to join his brothers in the Union Army. His father tracked him down and hauled him home. The boy kept trying; the father kept bringing him back.

Eventually, the family made it to California. It was there the young man fell in love for the first time. He married, bought a parcel of land, and lost his wife and unborn child to Typhoid fever all in the same year. Within the next two years he was arrested once, sued twice, escaped from jail, and arrested three more times.

So it was, at one time or another he was a farmer, criminal, bouncer, teamster, miner, gambler, bar-keeper, and boxing referee. It’s been suggested, he was even a pimp.

He was also a gunslinger–and a Deputy US Marshall–known most for his exploits in a little place called Tombstone.

Because of that, Wyatt Earp corrals a vast expanse of our imagination. The very mention of his name, brings visions of this. In that, it’s often hard to distinguish fact from fiction. We know, like many others, people loved him or hated him. We know he traveled frequently (including to Eagle City, Idaho–not to be confused with the Eagle we currently know and love, mind you–where he and his brothers opened a tent saloon called the White Elephant, filed on several mining claims, and were accused of claim jumping). We know he was determined; he was loyal, brave, and cool under pressure–even to the point of standing down a lynching mob.

Was he perfect? Most assuredly not. But good or bad, right or wrong, he serves a good reminder: life is rarely what we see on the big screen. Even when Hollywood manages to get it right, it’s but a glimpse of the whole picture. In between those bright sparks–those life changing moments and monumental wins–lies the mundane. It’s housecleaning and laundry, schoolwork and overtime. It’s taking kids here and there and trying to find a job when there are none to be had.

It’s continuing to work and trust for gold, even when the sweat and muscle yield little more than rocks.

You see, it’s what we do in those in between moments–those moments of boredom and tears, disappointment and frustration that nobody sees–that determine whether or not a story is worthy to be told.