“Librarians save lives by handing the right book,at the right time, to a kid in need.”. -Judy BlumeHere is my entry for #scbwidrawthis August.
Saturday, August 26, 2023
Tuesday, August 1, 2023
Last spring, we were visiting my favorite North Carolina beach on Topsail Island, when I saw two adorable corgis at the base of the entrance stairs taking a little public shower. We continued walking to the beach, and when we found a spot, realized we were surrounded by corgis! Topsail Island hosts a Corgi Beach Day at the beginning of every May. What a delight. Here is my entry for the #SCBWIdrawthis monthly challenge SNACKS, Turns out that corgis really love watermelon.
Thursday, July 6, 2023
Tuesday, October 25, 2022
Hi everyone! I have an auction running until Friday (Oct 28) on Instagram for this archival print. 100% of proceeds will go to the organization of your choice...coral reef or wildfire relief. You just put a bid in the comments (and can DM me with questions). Thanks so much in advance if you check it out!
https://www.instagram.com/tcandyart/
Sunday, October 23, 2022
Hi everyone, starting tonight at midnight through Oct 28 on Instagram I will once again be participating in the #awetober children's book artists auction. 100% of all proceeds go to the fundraiser of your choice...individual California wildfire or coral reef organizations. There are directions how to donate when the auction goes live. (You just leave a bid in the comments.) I am auctioning an archival print of this piece called "A Sky Full of Magic." There are also several other fabulous artists auctions going on this week and all month...I'm honored to be included. If you are interested, please stop by any and all of these auctions under the #awetober hashtag. My auction will be under @tcandyart. Thank you and have a great week!
Tuesday, March 13, 2018
The Train
There is a beautiful Andrew Wyeth painting called, "Chambered Nautilus" of a woman sitting up in bed staring out a window. For fun, I channeled that image for an illustration of a little girl looking out as the train passed by. That was my childhood bedroom. The Long Island Railroad Port Washington line was eye level with my window.
That sounds so quirky now. But it was so fun then.
I would hide as I changed in the morning, just in case the Manhattan commuters looked in. And although I barely heard the roaring engine, friends would bolt up when they slept over. My father told any little kids visiting that he had his own set of electric trains. He ushered them to the backyard. "I just turned on my train! Here it comes!"
Since it was up on a high wall, the train's guard railings were perfect height to attach a basketball hoop. It ensured many years of tournaments for my brothers and their friends. When I became of age, I would shoot out there for hours, until the basketball inevitably bounced up onto the tracks. The ladder reclaimed from our old picket fence was pretty scary, so I usually opted to wait until my brother Michael got home to get the ball. He knew how to scale the wall with a running start.
The sound of the train on Christmas morning was extremely special. It meant it was time to walk down the block and greet Grandma and Uncle Jimmy at the station for their visit.
Those trains were such a deep part of our neighborhood little gang of friends. We waved at them, called up to the passengers, and sang at the top of our lungs if one was approaching. One time we heard unusually loud honking and the train stopped abruptly right above us. The conductor got out and looked down on the tracks, so we had a good view of him from below. We giddily called up to him, but he had a pained expression on his face. He got back in, and slowly reversed the train. Someone had committed suicide.
As we got older, the train took on a whole other challenge: how late we could leave our house and still make it. Some of my siblings left with enough time to walk down the block for their various jobs, but Michael ran for it. We would leave the house at the same time. I made a left, running to the city bus for high school. Michael made a right, sprinting to the train in his suit. Years later it was my turn to do the train sprint when I went to college in Manhattan. I could do the long block, full art supplies in tow, but the the huge set of stairs up to the platform were a killer. I missed my train more times than I care to admit.
There were a childhood full of train rides: to Grandma’s house, parades, the circus, first dates in high school, concerts, late late night dancing, and finally to become one of those Manhattan commuters. My first apartment after I got married was on that same LIRR line, just one more stop east. My father knew which train I took in the morning, and he would sometimes sit out in the backyard holding up a homemade sign for me. "Hello, Patti!"
That Wyeth inspired illustration captures one moment and a lifetime.
That sounds so quirky now. But it was so fun then.
I would hide as I changed in the morning, just in case the Manhattan commuters looked in. And although I barely heard the roaring engine, friends would bolt up when they slept over. My father told any little kids visiting that he had his own set of electric trains. He ushered them to the backyard. "I just turned on my train! Here it comes!"
Since it was up on a high wall, the train's guard railings were perfect height to attach a basketball hoop. It ensured many years of tournaments for my brothers and their friends. When I became of age, I would shoot out there for hours, until the basketball inevitably bounced up onto the tracks. The ladder reclaimed from our old picket fence was pretty scary, so I usually opted to wait until my brother Michael got home to get the ball. He knew how to scale the wall with a running start.
The sound of the train on Christmas morning was extremely special. It meant it was time to walk down the block and greet Grandma and Uncle Jimmy at the station for their visit.
Those trains were such a deep part of our neighborhood little gang of friends. We waved at them, called up to the passengers, and sang at the top of our lungs if one was approaching. One time we heard unusually loud honking and the train stopped abruptly right above us. The conductor got out and looked down on the tracks, so we had a good view of him from below. We giddily called up to him, but he had a pained expression on his face. He got back in, and slowly reversed the train. Someone had committed suicide.
As we got older, the train took on a whole other challenge: how late we could leave our house and still make it. Some of my siblings left with enough time to walk down the block for their various jobs, but Michael ran for it. We would leave the house at the same time. I made a left, running to the city bus for high school. Michael made a right, sprinting to the train in his suit. Years later it was my turn to do the train sprint when I went to college in Manhattan. I could do the long block, full art supplies in tow, but the the huge set of stairs up to the platform were a killer. I missed my train more times than I care to admit.
There were a childhood full of train rides: to Grandma’s house, parades, the circus, first dates in high school, concerts, late late night dancing, and finally to become one of those Manhattan commuters. My first apartment after I got married was on that same LIRR line, just one more stop east. My father knew which train I took in the morning, and he would sometimes sit out in the backyard holding up a homemade sign for me. "Hello, Patti!"
That Wyeth inspired illustration captures one moment and a lifetime.
 |
| Andrew Wyeth "Chambered Nautilus" 1956 |
Tuesday, January 30, 2018
The Cartwheel
In grammar school, I had a sweet and quirky friend named Margaret who told me she was only able to do a cartwheel if she heard the song, "My Sharona."
If only I was so lucky. My Sharona didn't help my cartwheel. But it didn't stop me from constantly doing a terrible one.
On the first day of the fifth grade cheerleading team the coach had us sit down around the mats.
"Who can do a cartwheel?", she called out. Lots of girls got in line. When everyone was finished, I whispered to my friend Meg, "Maybe I should try." She encouraged me, and I raised my hand as a late entry.
I walked over to the now very quiet front of the mat. I lunged forward and landed on my knees with a loud grunt. When I sheepishly walked back to my spot, Meg said kindly, "I've seen you do better." I wasn't chosen as captain.
My friend Carol got to go to a gymnastics class. She would come back each week executing splits, back bends, and front walkovers, all perfect.
Carol and I made up a game we called Olympics. We'd each take a turn doing our routine, two cartwheels one way, and two back. Then we'd walk back to our imaginary coach who'd yell at us in fake Russian, Chinese, German, whatever we were that day. We'd switch and play the role of the upset gymnast, out of breath and nodding their head while being reprimanded for poor performance.
Of course, Carol would do perfect one handed cartwheels, and I'd attempt awful regular ones. The pretend coaches yelled at us equally.
And here I am, many decades later. If there's someplace pretty, my husband and daughter know the drill. I'll do my sorry cartwheel, and they will take enough shots so I can find the one that kind of looks right. I even still do the grunt.
If only I was so lucky. My Sharona didn't help my cartwheel. But it didn't stop me from constantly doing a terrible one.
On the first day of the fifth grade cheerleading team the coach had us sit down around the mats.
"Who can do a cartwheel?", she called out. Lots of girls got in line. When everyone was finished, I whispered to my friend Meg, "Maybe I should try." She encouraged me, and I raised my hand as a late entry.
I walked over to the now very quiet front of the mat. I lunged forward and landed on my knees with a loud grunt. When I sheepishly walked back to my spot, Meg said kindly, "I've seen you do better." I wasn't chosen as captain.
My friend Carol got to go to a gymnastics class. She would come back each week executing splits, back bends, and front walkovers, all perfect.
Carol and I made up a game we called Olympics. We'd each take a turn doing our routine, two cartwheels one way, and two back. Then we'd walk back to our imaginary coach who'd yell at us in fake Russian, Chinese, German, whatever we were that day. We'd switch and play the role of the upset gymnast, out of breath and nodding their head while being reprimanded for poor performance.
Of course, Carol would do perfect one handed cartwheels, and I'd attempt awful regular ones. The pretend coaches yelled at us equally.
And here I am, many decades later. If there's someplace pretty, my husband and daughter know the drill. I'll do my sorry cartwheel, and they will take enough shots so I can find the one that kind of looks right. I even still do the grunt.
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