The Candy-Man
I lost Mama this past spring. Actually, I used to lose her a lot, usually in the grocery store. It’s amazing how someone who moved at the speed of shuffle could disappear–poof–just like that. I would go back and forth, back and forth, backandforth until I was nearly crazy, searching and checking every aisle and she would always be one end-cap out of sight. Just one. Meanwhile grocery disaster was occurring in my cart. Melting,wilting, bacterial breeding disaster.
But this post isn’t about misplacing Mama in the local IGA. And it’s not about food safety either. It’s about losing her one last time. Losing her to The Candy-man.
He came when she was dying. At that point in her transition when she had one foot in both worlds. He stood on the far side of her bed and offered her candy. Or so Mama said. She was the only one who could see him. Was this her guide to the other side? Jesus? Or maybe I was witnessing the origin of the old adage don’t take candy from strangers.
He came bringing Tootsie Rolls.
Tootsie Rolls? Not my idea of heaven-bait. I told her not to rush in to this candy offer. Hold out for the good stuff. Go for the yummy rich melt-in-your-mouth dark chocolate. The stuff to die for.
But don’t cross over for a Tootsie Roll. I mean, really…
And I told him the same thing. My Mama don’t come cheap. If he wanted her, he had to up the ante. Trick or Treat candy was low-ball. She wasn’t going anywhere for anything under 72% dark, 85% even better. I had been her advocate and protector for the last seven years, I wasn’t going to fail her now.
A couple days later, two weeks shy of her ninety-sixth birthday, she was gone. She died in her home, the cottage she’d rented from me the last seven years of her life, my former studio, remodeled and re-purposed as the place my mother could live out the rest of her days. We were all with her when her time came–the family, her priest and who knows, maybe even the Candy-Man.
After the craziness, the cleaning, the sorting, the giving away…the sisters returning to their homes on the other side of the country, the other side of the world, Mr. Spouse and I sat down to discuss the cottage. He wanted to rent it out. I wanted to reclaim my studio.
But for seven years I hadn’t done much in the way of making art. I’d given up my galleries and shows and hunkered down taking care of Mama. And doing my day job, teaching. Why did I need a studio?
Because I have dreams, that’s why….
We compromised, agreed on a year trial. See if I get back in the groove of making art as a living. Or not.
The first two months I did nothing. Didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what my artistic voice was anymore. More than once I thought Mr. Spouse might be right, maybe we should just rent the place out. Before I gave up I signed up for an on-line class, Plaster Studio Workshop with Judy Wise and Stephanie Lee. You can get their book here. Matter of fact, buy two. Or three. ‘Cause it’s that good. (You’re welcome, ladies) And that’s all it took, seriously, all it took to spin me around and get the art mojo going again. To start waking up HAPPY. To get my hands dirty and make a creative mess and pull paintings from the center of my soul like I have never, EVER painted before.
I miss Mama, oh, how I miss her. But it’s okay, y’know because I KNOW whatever world she’s in now there’s got to be chocolate. No way she would’ve gone if there wasn’t.
And I’m okay with that.
There’s chocolate in Studio Grande as well, but most of all, there’s PASSION. And I’m definitely okay with that.
