Adventures with Art

One spring while with a group of antsy sixth graders in our old dilapidated prefab "Library" at McCandless School, the intruder alert alarm sounded.  Even when I knew we'd have a drill sometime during the day, the moment the alarm sounded it hit me in the gut like a baseball not caught.  The normally talkative wisecracking kids were suddenly silent and still.  

Cindi, my level headed assistant left her desk, checked to make sure the doors were pulled shut (we knew they were locked as long as they were tightly closed), and came back to the area where the kids and I were standing. Then I smiled at the kids and walked them between the stacks of books and away from doors and windows.  There we sat in a very warm sweaty prefab waiting out the situation.

Luckily, I sat within reach of a world of stories and ways to escape the present.  As only a librarian might describe it, I pulled a small book from the 700's, the arts, because I knew we'd only be there a few minutes and why not tease them with places in this world to visit someday, like MoMA, the

Museum of Modern Art.   Seen Art by Jon Scieszka and Lane Smith, is a humorous  picture book tour of the MOMA.  The sixth graders were enthralled.  Scieszka has a way of stealing our interest in his verse.

The story begins--It all started when I told my friend Art I would meet him on the corner of Fifth and Fifty-third. I didn't see him.  So I asked a lady walking up the avenue, "Have you seen Art?"  
"MoMA?" asked the lady.
"Uh... o, he's just a friend."
"Just down Fifty-third street here.  In that beautiful new building.  You can't miss it."
She was right.  It was a brand-new building.  I couldn't miss it. .....
"How do you like our new look?" asked the lady just inside.
"Nice," I said, "I'm here for Art."
She smiled and nodded.  
"MoMA," I added.
"Right this way," she said.  And she took me up the stairs.


In his search for Art, he admired and questioned the works of Van Gogh, Warhol, Matisse, Miro, Picasso, and more. When he stood before Dali's Persistence of Memory he said,
"What's with the ants attacking the gold watch? And time is messed up here, too.  But where is Art?"
"You said it, brother."  A painter put his arm around me.  "Is it trying to capture dreams?  Or is it making images everyone can recognized? Look at those shapes.  Are they letters of the alphabet? Are they something more?"
"I guess they could be both," I said...But I"m just looking for Art."

The students and I stopped from time to time to discuss and pull out other books on art and artist. Picture book biographies can be works of art themselves, such as, Picasso and the Girl with the Ponytail, Henri's Scissors, Degas and the Little Dancer, or Through Georgia's Eyes. 

Cindi and I began to notice that perhaps time had stopped. No one came to the door to give us the all clear. The coloring began to drain from our faces as we thought the worst.  But Art was on our minds.  For nearly 45 minutes through whispers we studied art respectfully in awe of what there is to behold in the world.   Now we had more books spread out in the rows between the stacks than we had children.  Thanks to Art no one even suggested the worst or a call for help.

At last the police and the principals knocked at our door. Since they didn't properly tell me what I needed to hear in order to open the door, we sat quietly like ghost in the snow. With a final knocking I heard the all clear words. Clouded in doubt I crept to the door.  I could see in the eyes of the children a restless fear, but an urgency to know if we were safe.  Safe we were, relieved and reassured.  With the behavior of angels the students lined up and left the prefab for the main building thanking us for the time spent.

Cindi and I stepped outside to feel the fresh air on our skin. Smiles crossed our faces with relief and new insights to children. We learned that in less than one hour a group of antsy sixth graders did indeed find Art that day.

Herstory: Shirley Curiel

Shirley, now in her studio full-time.

Her eyes often sparkled like warm sunshine on a cold winter's day, as we stood in the hallway of Prairie Hills Middle School smiling, laughing at ourselves, at our experiences, at the things that middle kids say and do.  She was the "Art" teacher, and I was the "Reading and Writing" teacher. Our few minutes of hall duty became a life saver for each of us.  Her classroom had windows that highlighted the sunshine and seasons, the colors of fresh air, and imaginative pieces of artwork; my room had orange carpet, thin walls, but immediate access to the library and a wide world of surprises.  

Shirley helped me with ideas for expression of thought through art.  Words sometimes don't tell the whole picture, or perhaps we don't know how to share those feelings, but pictures and art free us to express a thought or feeling unseen in words.  When I needed a way for my students to express a book or a piece of writing Shirley had my answers.  I've been blessed with teacher friends over the years who were creative and able to coach me on how I could use art in all teaching endeavors. 

Shirley was first introduced to art when she attended private school at John Brown University.  She said, "This allowed me to hang-out around places where art was being created and exhibited on campus." Marriage brought her to Hutchinson, Ks where she and her husband raised their three children, and after the death of her sister-in-law they raised her two teenage daughters.  "With five kids, no washing machine or dryer, driving a car that I bought for $300 I enrolled in McPherson College and graduated with a degree in History, a teaching certificate and many hours of Art."  

Shirley's well lite studio where colors come to life.

Her first teaching job as an Art teacher landed her in the basement at Central Jr. High in Hutchinson where she a small classroom with pipes carrying heat for the entire four story building, regular student desks not tables, no sink, one bookcase and one old wooden chest of drawers for storage.  The kiln for firing the clay work was on the 4th floor, no elevator.  "I had to carry all the heavy clay projects up three flights of stairs and then run up to adjust the temperature from low to medium, from medium to high, and then the custodian would shout 'don't forget to turn it off after school.'  She laughed as she described the conditions in the basement,  "While the upper floors suffered from insufficient heat, we opened our windows to keep from stewing.  Because we were in the basement, the windows opened to concrete window wells about half the depth of the windows, and dirt from the ground blew in on the heads of the nearest students.  I was so happy to have a job that I felt none of this was an overwhelming problem.  I spent ten years in that room, before moving to Prairie Hills, where I enjoyed a room double the size, four sinks, a private glassed in office, large storage room, enclosed kiln, and individual storage for each student."  No wonder I eagerly looked forward to a few minutes with Shirley every day.   

One of her popular pillow paintings.

Buhler country road landscape

Even though she's painted all of her life, she did not start painting for herself until she retired in 2000.  As she told me, "I could not do two things at once.  It took all of my time and attention to do my teaching job." Before we moved away, I bought one of her Kansas landscapes. It hangs in my writing room to brighten the day, but it can also be seen from the hallway, so people's eyes are drawn toward her landscape where sunshine adds highlights to nature's colors. I'm most grateful to my friend, Shirley Curiel, for being a part of my life, and for still adding sunshine to it everyday through her paintings.   

Guard of the Plains, the Unexpected Hike

As with any drive home Jack and I became anxious to reach our home, but traveling with Lucy dog makes us always aware of how often dogs need to get and refresh themselves.  Lucy loves to doggie facebook every rest stop, truck stop,  fast food eatery, or for that matter any stop.

Letty and Lucy nearly breathless from the hike.

We were heading West on I-70 pushing our way home, when Lucy nosed us telling it was time to get out.  We pulled into a roadside stop between Topeka and Junction City and the first thing we noticed was a granite sign reading "Blue Star Memorial Highway."  Since my mother was a staunch Republican from Kansas I am acutely aware of President Eisenhower's role in our interstate highway system, and am forever grateful for his visionary ability to connect our world.





Lucy's nose took us beyond the Blue Star sign and to a hidden path in the brown bushy undergrowth on the side hill.  Thanks to Lucy we discovered the most fabulous site in Kansas that I believe many people never see. We climbed past a path that led to the parked cars for the East bound traffic, and continued spiraling upwards, in Kansas no less. This steel sculpture atop a hill of divided highways remained hidden from our sight until we stepped through the winter brown trees and bushes and emerged high over the plains.  


When at last the bushes cleared away and we stood alone on top of this brown scene, our eyes were astounded at the vistas with hawks flying below us and around us.  For miles we could see in any direction and felt as if we had discovered solitude and nature in the middle of rolling hills and roaring traffic.  What a contrast of earth's beauty from the snow covered ground in Wisconsin, to the rolling farm lands in Iowa, to the Flint Hills of Kansas.

Awestruck beauty in brown tones, as only nature paints.

Under the tower Lucy found the plate telling us about our discovery.  "Guard of the Plains" by James Kirby Johnson,  November 1970.  What a grand culmination to our Honeymoon Retirement Adventure.  I'm so thankful that someone in Kansas had a vision and believed in artwork as a way to entice people's imagination.

Lucy found the path and the dedication.

P.S. My friend Chi Chi Allen found this marker of the Guard of the Plains and shared her picture with me.

Up the Tree (First Contact continued)

Our street ends on the North with a country road. As my friends who’ve visited here have noted, “You really do live at the edge of town.” It is on this edge that my dog, Lucy, and I frequently walk.

Because she runs along the hedgerow with her nose to the ground, we often stir up rabbits, quail, squirrels, stray cats, and some unpleasant critters. Only a few nights had passed since we’d

made “First Contact” with the new cat in town when “Lucy the flying goose” as we sometimes call her, disturbed a cat hiding in the hedgerow and caused quite a ruckus in the neighborhood. Molly the blond lab, Finn the golden retriever, Zoe and Gracie the pound puppies across the street often send out the word that Lucy’s on the run. Their barks cry, “Go Lucy Go. We’re your cheerleaders, wish we could be your backup J.

It was an ever so slight rustle in the bushes then suddenly, the chase was on. I’ve noticed that dogs

Cat is one jump higher on left.

bark with zeal as they chase, but cats reserve their energy for the climb or confrontation. This time the black cat found an old cottonwood with a low outstretched arm. With the grace of a sprinter the cat clawed its way up the tree and then stopped. At another “Y” branching limb with room to perch the cat turned to face the barking chaser.

One heart beat behind Lucy raced, while I jumped and ran with the grace of a cow. Lucy reached the tree barking, then circled it twice giving herself time to create a strategy. I stood a bush away watching and waiting to see how long Lucy would circle and bark. The black cat blended in quite well with the spring branches and leaves. The story might have ended here had the cat not risen on it’s legs, arched it’s back, and hissed.

The challenge was too great for Lucy to ignore. She leaped like a fox straight up into the first fork of the heavily barked old tree. From her new vantage point she could see the

cat. Forgetting that she was a dog she climbed that ‘Y’ shaped branch. Then like the cat a few nights before, she slid back down.

By now the corner neighbor ventured out to see what the commotion was about. “Well, I never seen a dog climb a tree like that,” he laughed. Over and over Lucy climbed, slid, fell to the ground and started again. The cat now in a perched position continued hissing tease and seemed to watch the show with glee.

My mind flashed back to a scene from Where the Red Fern Grows when the boy tried to call off his dog from the treed raccoon. I saw that determined look on Lucy and at last walked over to her. “That’s all girl. Let’s go. You did really well. I’m safe.”

Game is over.

She stopped barking. I put the lease on her collar. This time Lucy walked off with her tail wagging, leaving the cat to watch her swagger.

First Contact

Recently, one of our lazy wistful walks woke the neighborhood with barking that translated to “I’m here! I’m here! I’m here!” And hissing that screamed, “Stop or take a slash.” As if the poor black cat that was dumped on our country road didn’t have enough problems, he was now face to face with Lucy again. But this time we were on his turf.

Our first encounter with the black one came a few weeks ago at three o’clock in the morning. Lucy, our devoted Blue Heeler, woke me to warn me of an intruder in her backyard. The whining and abrupt cold nose on my arm roused me to the situation. Since she seemed so intent on saving me from the critter outside, I thought I could at least get out of bed and act concerned. Looking out the window into the moon brightened night I saw the rather large black animal crouched by the hot tub stairs. I checked for a possible white stripe or strange “tale” and saw none. I assured her that we were safe inside the house, but Lucy continued her pacing until at last I opened the door.

The chase was on with lightning speed until the large black cat could not jump or climb over the fence it had once casually crossed to enter our backyard. In a sudden turn of events the cat took a hissing swipe at Lucy then raced, not to the nearest tree, but to a large tall cottonwood tree toward the back of the yard. With Lucy on his tail I watched as the cat climbed straight up, and then in slow motion slide back down toward Lucy’s barking jaws.

When I realized that Lucy might actually catch the cat, I raced to the tree wearing my twenty year old Halston’s blue night gown, screaming nonsense garble like “stop, no, wait!” As the cat’s haunches hit the ground I dove for Lucy like a tackler downing the quarterback making full contact with the dog just seconds before first contact (the bite).

Poor Lucy didn’t know what hit her, and I certainly felt surprised finding myself on the ground. With three of us huffing, puffing, and hissing the chase had ended. The dog and I sat safely by the tree as the cat flipped his tail high and marched off like he deserved a round of applause.

Little did I know that Lucy would once again come face to face with the black cat, but that’s another story.

S'No Golf

I've spent the day standing, sitting, starring out the window as the snow accumulates. In a more positive mood I jumped out early this morning to shovel snow from the backdoor to the hot tub and out the front door to the drive. Silly me. The blowing snows of blizzard conditions quickly covered my hard work. The noon forecast still read 2-4 inches of snow and we had seven inches already on the ground. So once again I'm content to read in the warmth of my home or to listen to the jazz music in the background and reflect on other snows and memories.

Without hesitation my first memory of living in Hutchinson was the winter we moved here in 1996. I spent our first snow storm unpacking, the second storm was pure wind chill and a touch of snow that set me to peeling baby blue wallpaper from the dining room. The third snowstorm I just stood at the five paned front window starring out into snow that never touched the ground. It went straight south for hours until I discovered the term snow drift! I called my family in Oklahoma numerous times that winter to give updated weather reports from Kansas (not unlike today and other days this winter). Without a job to pull me out of the house I was beginning to think of Michener's book Centennial and the isolation of the dust bowl.

At last in mid February of '96 the sun rose warmly one day. I called the Highlands Golf Course, where we had joined but had not visited, to see if any women played golf there and whom I might meet. The pro said he'd call a lady golfer to get in touch with me. Within hours a delightful exuberant lady name Trish Becher called me and invited me to play the next day if the forecast was true that it would be in the 60's. On that warm winter day I arrived at the Highlands with a small bag of clubs, no handicap, and several layers of clothes to play golf with new people in my life. For three or four days in that week we played golf in February. I was thinking Kansas wasn't so bad after all.

My first and most lasting memory of the Highlands Golf Course was playing hole six, a severe dog leg right, over water if you weren't careful. But on the first two days I was inaugurated the water was frozen, and so those little colorful golf balls (mine being pink, of course) just bounced out on the ice and sat there. Oh, how tempting to walk out on the frozen pond to collect golf balls. I even ventured down the bank one time in a vain attempt to reach a ball, only to figure out it was frozen into the water and probably every foolish golfer who had walked by that day had made the climb downward to retrieve one lonely ball.

The last two days we played there in February the water was thawed except for one small frozen island in the middle of the pond. It had only a few balls sitting on it, but it would have been a great camera shot with the correct lens, fresh pond water lapping at the edges attempting to wash the balls away. In the background a brown bank and trees awaiting spring. Little did I realize that March would soon blow for thirty-one long days and it would be April before I played golf again.

I can see for miles across the prairie.

The few days of golf that February gave me hope that Kansas would be a good place to live for a few years, thinking always that we would move on to somewhere else. Here we are fifteen years later. The wallpaper has all been peeled, we repainted every room twice, the kitchen is new. Gone is the robin egg blue toilet, sink, and tub along with the rose colored toilet and sink from the two bathrooms. Hard wood floors gleam where old Berber carpet had lain. Our new insulated windows keep out the bitter cold allowing me to now sit and watch the little birds fluttered in the snowy wind, and as we learned a few springs ago, the windows are so well insulated that we have to bend an ear to even hear the tornado sirens.

In Kansas it's important to hear sirens and keep out the cold. The weather keeps us on our toes, always alert to changes, always looking ahead to the future forecast. Next week, they say, the highs will be in the 60's. Golf weather for some of us. But in the meantime, I'd like to think I've learned how to enjoy each and every day. And as for Kansas, it passes the test. We've enjoyed these fifteen years and oh, so many friends who have come and gone through our lives and those who grace us with their friendship, laughter, and stories. With any luck at all this frigid winter weather will break long enough to find me out on a warm golf course for a day or two with friends. Out of 150 years Kansas, we've enjoyed a slight 15. Happy Birthday Kansas.