Rainbows by the River

Rainbows can be bridges across troubled waters. Gifts from God, from darkness into glorious light. My personal rainbow was His gift of art.

(This is a long post--please read it to the end!)

I have been drawing ever since I could hold a crayon.  My earliest pieces include childish copies of "Snow White" from an early book with stylish art deco illustrations--possibly Arthur Rackham's.  A beautiful princess with long, flowing curls and a laced bodice over her gown.  (In fact, I was so taken with her story that I begged my Mom to buy me a dress with a laced bodice for my first day at school.  It was more expensive than she had budgeted, but she did it anyway.  Lovely memories...)

Both at home and at school, I was always known as "the artist".  But, it was scoffed at as a vocation.  My Dad was proud of my ability at first, and took my art to a famous NJ artist named Michael Jacobs for a critique.  And introduced me to Jim Avati, famous for his lifelike paperback covers.  Later, another illustrator named Paul Lehr looked at my work and complimented me for my oil painting of a prospector's cabin...  Paul's friends--other freelance commercial artists--hired my Dad for remodels, and consequently I met other members of the "art community".  They encouraged me, and once gave me a small project:  Design a patch for a dog club (prophetic...)  But, I was taken out of school at 16, put to work on my Dad's jobs, placed in charge of all the farm livestock, and assigned the care of my aged grandfather.  No social life, no dreams, no future...

After years that grew more and more isolated and restricted--and filled with endless work projects--we were spending some time in an old farmhouse that my Dad had bought in Canada.  Other than the Bible, we were allowed very little reading--one approved magazine was "Sports Afield".  I think it was early 1975 or '76.  My sister was reading the newest issue and pushed it across the breakfast table to me.  "I think you might want to see this."  The article was "Sporting Art Today" featuring the new and exploding genre of wildlife art, and masters such as David Maass, Maynard Reece and others.  It was my epiphany.  My love of the outdoors, my experience with animals, and my passion for art all came together at that moment.  I knew this was my calling.

 Many fights ensued--including threats of hell for my soul.  But art was the one thing I finally fought for.  My first sale was just before Christmas 1976.  Shopping malls were a new phenomenon and invited artists to set up, to attract the public.  That first painting was a little gem--morning light on a snowy spruce outside my studio window.  I was on my way....

I believed that I could do it, and the Lord blessed me with great response.  Looking back, some of my earlier paintings make me cringe, but some were really excellent.  Ducks, deer, dogs...  Local hunters snatched them up, including some poetry/posters I wrote about the emotional experience of hunting.  "This is how I feel, Alice!  I didn't know how to say it!"

To me, this is the essence of true art.  It should not be so esoteric as to require a critic or "expert" to explain its meaning to the average person.  Art should resonate with the viewer, re-creating the depth of emotion/nostalgia/pathos/joy that first inspired the artist to paint.  

I did my first dog portraits at a sled dog race in Upstate New York.  My fee was $35...  I began to branch out into retrievers and pets, and charge higher fees.  This became my niche within the genre of wildlife art...   Soon, I was winning awards for sporting dog art--  Ducks Unlimited Artist of the Year (NY State and VA)--and my dogs appeared on the covers of magazines like American Brittany, Labrador Review and the Ruffed Grouse Drummer. And in 1978 I was accepted as an exhibitor in the prestigious Easton Waterfowl Festival, then THE premier wildlife art exhibition.  I was a recognized wildlife artist!

My confidence grew, but I was still leading a dual life.  One of cult slavery at home, the other as my own person at the shows.  Dad soon boasted publicly that he had helped me become an artist--partly true, after he saw that it was making money.  But, the fact was, he couldn't bear losing some control over me.  I let him control me and my life until God took him in 1986.  (I both loved and hated him, mostly feared him...when he died I was devastated until I realized I was free...)  Until then, the Lord was my refuge and strength, despite the raging fights, the beatings, the tears and chaos as I tried to reconcile the "Christianity" we lived and what the Bible actually said.  I knew something was terribly wrong, but could I dare to believe that my entire life/worldview was all a lie?  I continued drifting down the dark and murky River of Life passively accepting "my lot"...

Meanwhile, God gave me some rainbows, glimmers of hope and peace, until He set me free.  One was a glorious experience.  Private, between me and the Lord.  Although I called out across the field for my family to share it, none came.  It is mine alone.

I think it was July 1978.  We were at our getaway place on the north side of the Thousand Islands, Ontario, where I had a tiny front room for a studio.  The day was dreary, grey with drizzling rain.  Late in the afternoon I was emotionally spent, so put on boots and poncho, and went for a walk down the dirt road to our other old house, an abandoned Victorian farm.  Turning west on the laneway, I trudged up toward the barn--and saw a strange 'vision'.  The wild grapevines on the northeast corner of the barn were glowing!  The lowering sun had sent out some shafts of brilliant light from under the clouds, far to the west, and was backlighting some of the leaves.  I was spellbound.

Suddenly, off to my left, in the middle of the overgrown field, I realized there was a flurry of activity.  Bird wings were flashing white in the emerging sunlight, centered on some old elms and a rockpile.  They were harassing something in the brush.  Predator!  I envisioned a fox or other wild creature, so I dashed off through the thick wet weeds to see.  No fox escaped, but soon I saw something far more unusual.

There, crouched in the grass, was a young male kestrel (sparrowhawk), wings spread defensively, his huge dark eyes challenging me.  He had been bravely fighting off the flock of angry birds.  I leaned down and scooped him up, gently folding his wings against his body, and placing his little talons around my fingers.  One was dark with dried blood from a recent meal.

A wild hawk in my hands!  I was overwhelmed with awe.  His plumage was almost complete--blue-grey wings, speckled breast, rusty back, banded tail.  But the tufts of baby down at his eyebrows gave his youth away.  Even then, his eyes glared at me fiercely, directly at my face.  Almost amusing considering his fragile size.  His hooked beak was open, threatening me with certain death...

Meanwhile, the dark clouds overhead were breaking to the west.  Late golden sunlight flooded the landscape, glinting off the dead elm branches, sparkling on the raindrops hanging on the brush, gilding the huge windswept white pine on a rocky ridge to the east.

And to my further delight and amazement--rainbows overhead!  Glowing color arching high across the deep grey sky.  Not one, but double, the second a mirror image of the first. Then, echoes of tiny rainbows underneath...I have never seen anything like this day, before nor since.  I could scarcely breathe with the ecstasy of the moment.

A wild hawk in my hands, brilliant sunlight overtaking the miserable day, and multiple rainbows over it all.  A miraculous fantasy...

I know now it was God's prophetic promise to me.  A future using the gift of art He had given. Jeremiah 29:11  For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future..."

So, as I came to myself, I went back toward the old Victorian farmhouse, where I knew the kestrel family had a nest in the rotted eaves.  Before I quite got that far, I saw the female sitting in a gnarled apple tree by a shed, anxiously watching me with her son.  I threw the fierce little boy up into the air toward her, and they flew off together.   Around the barn, around the very corner which a while ago had been glowing in the darkness.  Now, all was light. 

     

  .    

Sunlight on the Surface

After my Dad died, my Mom wrote a poignant poem:
          "Love Remembered"
Remembered love is golden
Refined in crucibles of pain
Those golden moments linger
Like rainbows after rain.

God knows how much pain was mingled with the love, how much darkness overshadowed the glimpses of light our family had.  Yet there were those sweet and golden times, intermittent but treasured, like sunlight dancing on the waters of my river.

My first vivid memory of my father was a night when we were getting ready to go somewhere.  I was probably about 3.  He was leaning over me from the back in the darkness, lit by the hall light, helping me into the leggings of my plush snowsuit.  A huge dark warmness over me, protective.  How did he later become a force to fear and to dread?  How did those strong gentle hands become hard instruments of pain and punishment?

My parents bought a rundown farm in 1947.  It was after The War (WWII) and Dad had a good job for a while.  He had an Army surplus Jeep--4WD--he and Mom rode in front, my little sister and I sat on the wheel wells in back, holding onto baby David as he lay between us in a wicker basket with a big pillow for a mattress.  I remember the smell of hot sun on the canvas top, the cloudy isinglass windows, the bouncing ride down the hill through the fields to our dirt road.  We were truly living in "the country" although you could see the lights of NYC far to the north from the hill at the back of the farm.   No more dingy parsonages, no more power struggles and political manipulations by church people, no more raging arguments in the night with my grandparents while we lived in their house between churches...

They were busy renovating the neglected old farmhouse.  Planting strawberries in the front field.  Buying goats and chickens.  Making plans.  It was one of the happiest times of Dad's life, and consequently, ours.

I remember the odd little room at the top of the stairs.  Mom lovingly decorated it for me:  Pink gingham wallpaper, her own white iron bed from her childhood, a patchwork quilt from her great aunt.  And that is where she sat beside me while the others were down for their naps, sharing the quilt, teaching me to read long before I entered school. In those early years, I knew I was loved.

Another vignette, summer of 1949:  I was in the damp cellar, watching Mom (pregnant with my second brother Paul) coming down the rickety steps from outside, carrying (I think) a basket of tomatoes.  Dad was following her, singing a song:  "I love you, a bushel and a peck, you bet yore purty neck I do!" since she had been explaining to him the difference between bushel and peck baskets.  (She had grown up on a farm, Dad just loved the beauty of the countryside.)  I think she twisted her ankle as one of the rotted steps gave way, and Dad rushed to her side.  I don't recall the ankle--she told me years later--but I vividly remember the love and joy of the moment.  Where did it all go wrong again?

Another happiness when we were small:  The Sunday drive.  No more churches.  We were free!  We children would pile the quilts from our beds in the bed of the pickup truck, set up our pillows against the back of the cab, climb in and cover ourselves with more quilts--then Dad would head out for the Colt's Neck General Store far, far away.  Mom, Dad and baby Robert in front, the four of us in back.  An exploration, an adventure, an expedition over narrow, winding country roads.  Google says it's only 13.6 miles, but it took most of the afternoon back then.

The store was huge to me.  Cracked cream paint with dark green trim.  High and wide concrete steps across the front, pipe railings to grip on the steep climb, and a rusty screen door at the top.  It smelled of oak counters, country ham, penny candy and kerosene.  We could each choose a glass bottle of soda pop from the water cooler-- I could barely see into it on my tiptoes--or the aged refrigerator with the round motor on top.  And our choice of cupcakes--a whole package each!  Two cream-filled chocolate Hostess, or three plain chocolate TasteeCakes with thick fudge frosting.  Maybe even three butterscotch for a change...  I'm sure our family seemed like an invasion to the old couple who owned the store.  But it was a paradise for us.  We sat in the sunlight on those concrete steps and feasted.  Pure delight!

Then came the all-too-familiar fights with employers, loss of jobs, Mom and Dad working day and night shifts in a sock factory to pay the mortgage; loan companies, unpaid bills; and the raging arguments and tears in the night. Dad was never wrong.  It was always someone else's fault.  Hunger, fear, anger and frustration spilled over into beatings for us children.  The woods became my refuge and I dreaded coming home at dark.  

O yes, there were good times again, then bad, in a vicious and darkening cycle.  Life slowly became stranger and more weird, until we as a family became an isolated cult.  The good memories--few and far between--were held onto with an iron grip, hoping that they were the truth, the reality, and the rest was just a bad dream.  One that lasted for 43 years of slavery...
  
Next I will tell you of my personal rainbow, the gift of God, that became my emotional bridge. Be sure to read the next episode...
 

 

Dredging Up Bones

I’m sitting again by the river, looking at reflections of the past.  Some are dark and murky.  I almost fear to dredge them up.  Rotted bones tangled in the seaweed of purposely-forgotten memories.

Bear with me as I taste the bitter waters once again. 

One time many years ago, I began an essay, “I was born into dark chaos…”  True.   By the time my youngest brother Robert was born in 1951, it was somewhat better.  Dad had worked most of the year; an addition had just been added to our home to accommodate the five children and we ate fairly well, unlike earlier days.  Robert was an apple-cheeked darling with blond curls, adored by all who saw him.  Spoiled by my parents.  Doted upon by my sister.  Yet even then, when she kneeled by the bed to tie his shoes, he kicked her in the face and laughed. 

This was written yesterday by his ex-wife, in his memory: 

“St Vincent’s Hospital, Sydney

End of an Era

After a long fight with life in general but mostly with cancer, an extraordinary genius, Robert Daniel Taylor, passed away leaving his son A-----  and others to contemplate a complicated ending to this rather unusual man's life…”

What makes us what we are?  Life is exceedingly complex, partly external events, partly internal response, and partly “what we’re made of.”  A few days ago, a friend posted a treatise on Facebook about NPD parents.    

Oh, yes, that was the story of my life, and Robert’s.  Dad’s will was supreme and never to be questioned.  Fear, uncertainty, raging anger, demanded obedience, violent beatings, unending work projects, total control in the name of religion, friends and social contacts forbidden, and loss of identity as an individual.  God must weep at what humans do in His Name.  

Why did I not leave our cult-like family?  I guess, partly from a sense of duty, partly fear of damning my soul, and partly fear of the unknown world outside our isolated circle—even though I rebelled fairly often and threatened to leave, I never did.  I had no skills, social or otherwise; I felt trapped.

My brothers, on the other hand, escaped as soon as they could.  Robert, seething with anger, left at an early age and took out a restraining order so my parents could not contact him.  My remaining family became even more ingrown and weird.  The boys disappeared into the world “out there.”

After my Dad’s death in 1986, my mother took courage and found my scattered brothers.  David, once part of Jimmy Carter’s administration, was VP of Global Communications for Ciba-Geigy International; Paul was an “old hippie” living in Australia, a builder of exotic off-grid housing and a respected consultant in permaculture; Robert and his wife had a commercial construction business in NY City.

Sounds good, doesn’t it.  “And we all lived happily ever after…”  Not true.  A river, once deeply polluted, seldom recovers, and poisons all it touches.

Our oldest brother, self-centered, rich and once-powerful, now struggles like a child with severe brain damage from an automobile accident.  The second brother lives a secluded life along the Australian coast with his final (and at last, sensible) girlfriend, drowning the pain of the past in pot and New Age Buddhism.  In fact, my Mom and most of the family turned to Buddhism to flee as far as possible from the bitter aftertaste of “Christianity” falsely so-called.  Then, there is my sister, permanently damaged emotionally.  Almost 20 people in three succeeding generations now swirl, lost, in the downstream eddies of the river of my past.  Far from God, refusing to discuss Jesus, unaware of His love and salvation.

Meanwhile, Robert and his wife had outstanding lawsuits with most of their New York construction clients, including a group of nuns.  Anger, bitterness, and “self” had become generational.  They immigrated to Australia in the ‘90s, after borrowing all of Mom’s retirement funds--I won’t go into all the legal battles, estrangements, etc that ensued. Robert sued her for money since he was never sent to college (neither was I.)  Mom never met her grandson, and I was cut off from further contact after Robert found out I had shown her photos of the baby.  Life was all about Robert, and the world owed him.  He hated our Dad the most, yet was the most like him.

About a year ago, I saw his name on Facebook and tentatively contacted him.  Somehow, the few conversations we had were civil.  He was in Colombia, working on mining and humanitarian projects—and very bitter about the lack of sufficient gratitude from those he was “helping.”  He had told me previously about construction projects in Virginia where he had problems which became violent.  It was always “their fault.”  He was always of the utmost integrity and could not abide others’ lack of it.

Then, he admitted he was fighting cancer.  He demanded I raise $96,000 for his treatment in Bogota.  I was floored.  $96 maybe…  Russ and I were still struggling with Russ’ medical disasters, living on Social Security.  “You raise money for India, do it for me!”  We had never raised anything near that much, and I certainly couldn’t ask our mission donors to help a relative whom I had barely known for years, and whose track record had been less than spotless.

Feeling a sense of obligation for a sick family member, I posted his plight (in general terms) on Facebook, hoping to raise some funds.  He was outraged that I had gone public with his “private” affairs and lashed out at me mercilessly.  I told him I could not/would not put aside my life and husband to fulfill his demands, and that he had options:  Return to Australia for free medical care; swallow some pride and ask his ex-wife for help; or move back to the US to collect his compensation from a lawsuit against the government due to his work in a nuclear lab years ago.  Again, he cut off communication from me. 

Then one day he found us on Skype; friendly, personable, speaking of his future plans and his high level of integrity.  Next, he asked if I would lie and say he lived at our address so he could collect his financial settlement.  His “crooked American lawyer” would not send the money out of the USA.  Again, I refused, saying I had hoped that our renewed conversations did not have an agenda…which they always did.  Me, me, me….

Soon, I began seeing posts on his ex-wife’s Facebook page that Robert was back in Australia receiving medical treatment and spending some time with his now-grown son.  What he never mentioned, despite his professed “integrity,” was that he had been involved with a 20-something lady in Colombia, had two young children with her, and was now married to her.  It was a huge surprise to everyone that knew him.

After receiving help from his ex-wife in Sydney, he moved out of her apartment, cut off all communication, and threatened her with police if she contacted him.  History repeats itself…

Sooo, the tragic ending to the bitter, angry story of his life—a reflection of our father’s legacy.  A few days ago, I heard he refused to go to his doctors’ appointments and “lost it.”  They took Robert to the ER at St Vincent’s Hospital, Sydney Australia, on Monday January 5, 2015; knowing there was nothing more anyone could do.  At 3:50AM January 6^th, Australian time, he passed into eternity.  Leaving dark chaos in the hearts and lives of his son, his ex-wife, and his siblings--and a new wife and little children, stranded on a sandbar in the middle of a lonely and unfamiliar river….

So the River of Life flows on, into eternity, into God’s own hands.   May the Lord have mercy on his soul.  I weep for what could have been...