Missing my dad

Last weekend I bought a few watercolor brushes and paints, thinking I’d start to play around with learning the techniques. And when I asked about a case for storing brushes, the clerk showed me a matchstick mat with a cotton lining, individual stitched pockets for brushes, and an elastic tie to hold it closed after rolling it up. And I realized the purpose for the rolled up matchstick placemat that we found with Dad's painting things.

I keep trying to remember more about his art and painting, but the memories are faint. How carefully he packed the army day pack with his supplies, everything in its proper place with no room to spare. Using an old drafting board to mount his paper, instead of a new lightweight masonite board. The way he carefully attached a piece of kraft paper to hang down and protect the painting in progress. I wish I’d paid more attention to how he mixed paints, and the colors he kept in his kit, and what brush types and sizes he had. I wish I’d realized how expensive paper and paints and brushes were, and that maybe the reason he didn’t paint more was because the money went to raising his daughters.

It was during my high-school years that he got involved with Allied Arts, helping to set up their art shows, serving on the board, and submitting paintings. Two of the paintings that my sister has, the shore birds and Tipsoo Lake, I remember winning awards at Allied Arts shows. One of the shows was in the brick bank building in Old Burien, and during the evening, one of Dad’s friends drew a pencil portrait of me (which I disliked, because it was pre-contacts and I didn’t think to remove my glasses). I can’t remember what happened to this sketch; hopefully I have it tucked away somewhere.

My strongest memory of my dad painting is sitting with him while he painted the lighthouse on Whidbey Island, which to this day I persist in calling the Fort Casey lighthouse, not the Admiralty Head lighthouse. This painting is hanging in my living room. I also remember spending an afternoon with Dad and Laurie, sketching a scene along a river (can’t remember where). He said we needed to draw the scene first, then we could paint it. I never made it past the drawing stage.

It’s nice to know that the places he painted live on in those paintings, even though we don’t remember where some of them were. The grey farmhouse that hangs in my bedroom and the red building next to the railroad tracks are surely gone forever, but the lighthouse will always be there. The scenery pictures take me to those places whenver I see them. The shore birds, the windswept trees will always be Beachside State Park. I never visit Tipsoo Lake without thinking about that painting and the missing mountain, and how realistic it is... most of the year, the mountain hides behind the clouds.

I know he was proud of each of us, and loved us, but do you think he was ever disappointed that none of us followed in his footsteps and became artists? Between us we learned so many other art forms, and he was right there with us: sewing, stained glass, batik, photography. I think he would have loved quilting... choosing colors and design and making it all come together would have been right up his alley.

I miss him.