Camping Observations

A few days camping this past week has once again allowed me to clear my mind of normal, everyday clutter, and see the world around me with a fresh attitude. Simple, familiar and always welcomed experiences:

Hearing the haunting horn of a locomotive in the distance, announcing its approach, and the rumbling sound the train makes as it speeds along the tracks.

Why do the noisiest crows always sit directly above our campsite at 5:00 a.m?

Stepping outside to find the early morning dew covering the picnic table and anything else that was left outside overnight, a small and temporary inconvenience that will evaporate as the warm sun rises.

The tiny footprints left by raccoons in their nighttime search for food.

The smell of fresh coffee brewing on the camp stove, with the anticipation of holding the hot, steaming mug in my hands, and taking that first tasty sip.

The groan of an outboard motor passing by the campground just after dawn, and eventually becoming silent as it travels across the calm lake.

Chipmunks with no fear, looking for dropped morsels of anything edible.

The haze over the valley below, diffusing the scene, and usually signaling a hot, humid day ahead.

Why do mosquitoes seem to find us when we sit in the shade, and not in the sun? And, conversely, the flies do the opposite.

What is the little bug that looks like it is wearing a World War II helmet?

Dragonflies and butterflies, fluttering among the wildflowers.

The distinctive song of cicadas, enveloping the area, and accentuating a hot summer day.

The (almost) guaranteed trip to a local store to pick up supplies we forgot to pack.

Sitting around the campfire in the evening, munching on salted-in-the-shell peanuts, roasting hot dogs or s’mores, and gazing into the mesmerizing red-hot coals.

And, finally, looking up into the dark, night sky when the day is done, inspecting the heavens, watching for shooting stars, realizing how small we are, and being thankful for what we have.

Yosemite Chapel

Anyone who has visited Yosemite National Park in California is likely familiar with its countless waterfalls, the famous granite walls of El Capitan and Half Dome, and the ancient giant Sequoia trees. A pioneer landmark of which you may not have heard is the Yosemite Valley Chapel. Built in 1879, the chapel is the oldest structure in Yosemite Valley, and gained recognition on the National Register of Historic Places in 1973. With its incredible past and awesome location, it has attracted a steady stream of visitors for many years.

Four weeks ago, today, a young Minnesota couple said their wedding vows in the Yosemite Valley Chapel and began married life together.

It was the wedding of Abe and Rachel, good friends of my son and his girlfriend, which led me to do an oil painting of the chapel. They wanted a unique gift for their friends, and asked if I would be interested in painting the chapel so they could buy a framed print to give as a wedding gift.

With little time or opportunity to visit and research before I needed to begin painting, I was concerned about getting a technically accurate picture of the chapel as it might look on an early summer day. There were a few photos of the general area in my files that helped to plan the look and colors of the trees, grass and sky; and I found pictures of the chapel on the Internet, at the official Yosemite Chapel website and at several photo-sharing sites. Most of those were taken from different views and in other seasons of the year. My challenge was to make a composition that was representative of the scene and as accurate as possible, without using the ideas of or infringing on the copyrights of other artists and photographers.

Working from several views of the chapel and the surrounding hills and trees, I composed a scene that clearly depicts it as a special place. The cedar colored chapel and steeple, the serene setting, the pines trees in front and the large tree on the side of the chapel are accurate, yet I took some liberties with Half Dome. It is visible from the chapel area but it doesn’t loom over the scene quite as I painted it. Nevertheless, the painting is immediately believable and representative of the day. That was my main goal, and I have heard that the newlyweds are thrilled with their gift. What can make an artist happier?

My final brush strokes on each painting are always my signature, and a bible verse notation chosen especially for the piece. For Yosemite Chapel, I selected Colossians 3:12-17, scripture that I think speaks not only to newlyweds, but also to all of us.

Best wishes, Abe and Rachel, for a long and happy life together!

[Editor’s note: Yosemite Valley Chapel is for sale on Dennis’ website (the original, as well as giclée prints). Click here, scroll to the picture of it, and click on the image for more information.]

Cruisin'

The sparkling clean, white ‘63 Chevy was sitting at the corner, waiting for the light to turn from red to green when the midnight blue ‘64 rumbled alongside. The two drivers gave each other a slight nod, as their respective girlfriends slid even closer toward the driver side of the bench seats. Both cars pulsated with horsepower, panting and inching forward, their drivers visualizing a drag strip: impatient with the red, anticipating the yellow, desiring the green. Onlookers on both sides of the street stretched their necks to see where the vibration in the pavement was coming from. Finally, as the two brothers of GM could hold back no longer, the glowing green appeared, and faster than a slug crawls from a garden, the monster 283’s s-l-o-w-l-y rumbled away from the corner.

What? A slug? A 283?

Well, I was in the ‘64; my buddy, Norb, was in the ‘63. Back in about 1971, we had a couple of the cleanest Impalas ever to cruise the loop of downtown St. Paul. They weren’t the big muscle cars with 427 or 454 engines, but that was ok. We didn’t race (much), but we took great pleasure in slowly cruising our favorite streets, while music from our car stereos (cassettes and 8 tracks) drifted out into the neighborhood through the open windows. We looked darn good!

Those memories came flooding back to me last Wednesday evening when Pat and I drove down to Stillwater, and dropped in on the Cruisin’ on the Croix car show. There’s nothing like a warm summer night, rock and roll music, a babe on your arm, and the explosion of open headers from a ‘68 Chevelle SS396 to bring out the kid again in every male baby boomer of a certain age! We got there a little late and missed some of the treasures on display, but we saw enough old cars to rekindle thoughts of the “old” days, before gas was unleaded, when 8 cylinders were standard, and when “green” meant you were inexperienced in the drag racing department.

I have to confess, I never raced at the drag strip, but I remember more than a few nights when my tires spun out as I competed with a friend, my brother, or a member of the dreaded Highland Raiders Car Club. You see, I was a member of The Jokers Wild, along with close to 50 friends who lived and worked mostly in or near the East Side. The Raiders were our nemesis, always looking for a drag, or a fight, or just wanting to stir up trouble. (Think Jets and Sharks on a smaller scale.) Ha! At least that's how I remember it, but I must admit that I never really got to know any of the Highland Raiders, and they probably weren't much different than us. In fact, when I think about it now, perhaps most of the teasing I endured from them was when I was still driving my ‘55 Chev, 4 door. As my first car, it was a beaut, but as a hot rod it had about as much muscle as a 2009 Prius! It’s no wonder I would hear taunts from one of their guys like, “Hey! Where’d ya get that lawnmower?” Ah, well, those were great days.

In Stillwater, we saw a few of my old favorites, including a gorgeous ‘69 Super Bee owned by my buddy, Ed. He had one just like it back in the early 70’s, but sold his “baby,” as most of us did. As luck would have it, he found another a few years ago and was able to buy it. Now, on many summer nights, Ed can be found at a car show with his teen-aged son, enjoying the Bee and passing on the car bug to a new generation.

If only we could all find and afford to buy one of our first cars, or one that we have always dreamed of owning. I'd buy a Corvette, from 1967 or before. Just imagine, a car that cost between $5000- $10,000 back then can now demand as much as $100,000, or more! Oh, if I only knew then what I know now!

[Editor's note: If you'd like a custom illustration or caricature of your own classic car, contact Dennis.]

Happy Birthday, USA!

Every year, as Independence Day approaches, a wide variety of somewhat scattered thoughts and memories again come to mind.

I remember the year that my brother almost blew himself up. If memory serves me correctly, our family was camping at a park in Ontario (or it could have been Otsego, or Osceola). He and I were about 7 and 10 years old, and we each had a bucket of fireworks. We were sitting on the beach as darkness moved in, and enjoying the fireworks of other campers when his bucket caught a spark while under him. The entire beach lit up, and he must have been lifted 3 feet into the air! Luckily, the only damage was a destroyed bucket and a hot behind.

My family often went on July 4th to Lake Phalen, on St. Paul’s East Side, to sit on the shore and watch the fireworks display over the water. I have very distinct memories of those hot summer nights, and the chorus of oooooo’s and aaahhhhh’s that accompanied every colorful burst.

The sight of Air Force fighter jets, screaming above the treetops during the annual Forest Lake parade, always gives me a chill and puts a lump in my throat.

As many as a few weeks of random booms, off in the distance, seem normal at this time of year. I can’t help but compare them to a different sort of random boom that people hear from their homes in Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia, or elsewhere a war is being waged.

I admire the steady and fearless military of our country, as they protect us at home and afar, and provide the security and safety we sometimes take for granted.

When I was on a business trip to New England a few years ago, I was able to walk on some of the battlefields of the Revolutionary War. It is an amazing feeling, to gaze out on a grassy field at Lexington and imagine the conflict that took place there, over 200 years ago.

I’ve started a painting, of bold, colorful fireworks exploding over the lift bridge in Stillwater. Other work has been put in front of it, but I will get back to it and finish it in time for next year’s Independence Day celebration.

Every year, sometime during the middle of June, I glance at the cornfields along the roadways, and wonder if the small, green sprouts will be “knee high by the 4th of July.” Once the 4th rolls around, I am always amazed that the corn is knee high, and sometimes already as high as my waist.

I love to see the flag displayed, exhibiting pride in our country and its people, and reminding me of the founding principles on which the United States of America was formed.

Does anyone else have 4th of July memories or thoughts they would like to share?

On music, painting and makeovers

It’s been a busy week!

It started with a hot, sunny weekend at Apple River Country Splash, a three-day country music festival that featured Rascal Flatts, Kenny Chesney, Miranda Lambert, Little Big Town, Lady Antebellum, Darius Rucker and others. We enjoyed the music, a few brews, and some great people-watching! Especially cool? The tickets were free; my wife won them on K102 radio!

Then a week off work, allowing me to listen to the daytime radio programs that I seldom get to hear. As much as I enjoy country music, I am a greater fan of talk radio, with the information it offers and the dialogue it generates. I come away from it at once more educated, more indoctrinated and more frustrated. Enough said.

I put the final brush strokes on an oil painting that I will talk more about in a couple of weeks. A print of it is being given as a wedding gift.

I started a new, large oil painting that is planned to hang above our fireplace mantle. This one is of the golden autumn hills of South Dakota. With the necessary drying periods, it may take a month or two to complete. More to come on this one, too.

Two years ago, I started an acrylic painting while sitting at a campsite at Willow River State Park near Hudson, WI. (It's number three on my Unfinished 16 11. By the way, the list has been whittled down to five.) I am working on it this week, which also includes a little cleanup of the tree sap that fell on it during the initial sitting.

A photographer friend has given me permission to use her shot of a foggy Duluth harbor scene for a future painting. I’m really excited about this one, and anxious to get started!

I’ve been photographing the studio and contemplating my personal statement in preparation to enter Art Calendar's Studio Makeover Contest, sponsored by Blick Art Materials. Grand, Second and Third prizes include items to upgrade artist studio space with supplies, furniture, and services, and include more than $10,000 in prizes. It would be amazing and mega-energizing if I would win one of the prizes!

Cutting grass, reading, enjoying the pool, running errands, paying bills (yuk!) – all part of the week. But, ahhh, our hot Minnesota summer has finally arrived and I love it. What a great place to live!

Men of Few Words

Father's Day is Sunday, June 21. The following is in memory of my father, and my father-in-law, two men who have greatly influenced me.

Men of Few Words

At first they must seem

an unlikely pair,

a Swede and a Norsk you see.

One who washed dishes,

one who would not,

but both of them influenced me.

One struggled through life

in good times and bad;

eventually his collar turned white.

The other was steady,

with patience and drive,

and worked through both day and night.

They were always around

through thick and through thin,

when a friend was all that we needed.

Their support and wide smiles

helped bring us through trials,

with love and respect we were treated.

A necktie to mow lawns,

a joke worth a yawn,

a pipe that always smelled fine.

A limp in his walk,

and a fire in his talk,

are all fond memories of mine.

A farmer at heart,

who never could sing,

and lived his life with zest.

From the sea to the shore,

across highways and trails,

his toys were always the best.

A wink or a stare

or an angry cold glare

spoke volumes from the eyes of a dad.

With so little said,

we knew what they meant

when we were being good or bad.

No one is taller

than those who will rise,

when a young voice cries in the night.

And listen to fears

or troubles or cares,

with answers that always seem right.

Skills and abilities;

one many, one few.

They always did their best.

From pounding a nail

to baiting a hook,

at last it’s their turn to rest.

As years have gone by

we have learned to understand,

the words that so seldom were spoken.

We remember their best

with pride in our chest,

though now sometimes our hearts are near broken.

With favorite old chairs

and newspapers near,

they hardly got to know one another.

It’s comforting now;

their unspoken words

will always be heard by the other.

The memories we treasure

of grandpa and granddad

are those that will never depart.

Kind words and blue eyes

will always be warm

in the depths of nine young hearts.

And so we remember

while each their own kind,

with few common bonds week to week.

Their volume is sure,

their wisdom is pure,

when men of few words choose to speak.

Father's Day 1982

Here fishy, fishy

A Minnesota version of “The Deadliest Catch” took place this past weekend, as I traveled north with friends to Lake Vermilion for the annual walleye challenge. The fishermen are challenged in many ways, while the walleye are only challenged by how best to avoid us, and insure that we’re cold, wet and frustrated.

I have fished Vermilion with my friends, Ed and Gary, for many years; you would think by now we would be experts. Well, we may know our way around the lake, but we sure can’t seem to hit the right weekend, nor find hungry fish. I remember when we first started fishing Vermilion, over 25 years ago, and arrived in the Iron Range town of Tower to visit our friend, Ol’ Johnny. That year, and every year until he moved away, he would greet us with comments like, “You shoulda been here last week, eh.” Or, he’d offer this opinion, “Weather’s bad, eh. I bet they’ll be bitin’ next week, eh.” We always seemed to miss the best fishing by a week. Eh.

In those early years, there were as many as 14 of us, in 5 or 6 boats, equipped with CB radios, plenty of gear, and as many cases of beer as we could haul out to “our island.” Camping in tents, we fished as much of the day as the sun would allow, cooked our food over fire or camp stove, and slept soundly each night lulled by rolling waves, just a few feet away. They were great trips, and to this day we still reminisce about the many adventures we had. There were sunburns and snowstorms, flipped boats and broken props, drunken sailors and constipated newcomers. We saw it all.

Slowly, over the years, many of our fishing friends dropped out. Family demands, career moves and personal priorities took their toll. Camping on the island eventually gave way to the local park campground. Then, as the group shrunk down to just the three of us, we first tried a couple of different cabins, and for the last 4-5 years have been staying at the casino hotel. Instead of parking the boat among the jagged rocks that line the island, it now gets safely tucked into a slip at the marina each night. Instead of planning meals for cooking over a fire, we now simply check the menus at the two restaurants in the hotel. If the weather is uncooperative, instead of hiding in damp tents or huddling around a fire for warmth, we now use the down time to watch a movie, try the casino, or sit in the hot tub. And, instead of determining how many cases of beer we each will need for the trip, we joke about whether the three of us can finish even one case between us!

We have had occasional good years, when weather was on our side and limits were achieved, but I would hate to have to depend on our prowess to provide a steady diet of fish. It’s almost like there is a walleye god who sees us arrive and decides to send in a cold front, or coldly laughs as he sends the word around the lake that the city boys are back – GO DEEP! It seems like the fish we do catch must be the stupid ones who don’t understand, or the teenage fish that don’t listen!

Nevertheless, we always go back. We always have a good time, and we always laugh about how we should have been there the week before. The food is good, the friendships are solid, and it just doesn’t get any better than fishing on a northern Minnesota lake.

Heading for Home, by Dennis Sterner. Pen and ink with acrylic.