Majesty

By Carrie Jacobson

It wasn’t until I traveled to the west that I understood how small we humans are.

Here on the East Coast, we have built buildings and cities and skyscrapers. We have surrounded ourselves with structures that, compared to our own bodies, are enormous.

And these are what we see. These are our measurements. These and the trees, and the hills that roll us along, up and down, through our structures and our East Coast lives.

I remember standing in the sagebrush desert of Idaho for the first time, and sensing for the very first time in my life, the enormity of the sky and the earth, the incomprehensible distance between them and the minute speck of it that I took up.

Suddenly, my ratios changed. I was not 1/2 the height of one story, which was, at most, 1/100th the height of the entire building – I was 1/millionth the size of what I was seeing, 1/billionth. I was nothing.

But ah, we easterners, we city dwellers, we foolish souls who measure ourselves against our own constructions! How we are deceived.

I love the feeling of being the size of a mote of dust. I love the universe of sky stretching away overhead to some place I can only imagine, and the run of earth beneath my feet connecting me to the other side of the country, the other side of the world. I love feeling that feeling, and reaching for it in my paintings.

Mist Before the Mountains

It was a few weeks ago, a Sunday morning, that I had sudden free time, and went to paint with the plein air group of the Wallkill River School. On my way to the site, I was detoured by the remarkable morning mist. I checked out the WRS site, and it was lovely – but it did not compare to this view, this quiet silhouette.

There’s something about mist, about fog, about how interesting something becomes when it is obscured. Put a veil on it and all we want to do is see beneath that veil.

I’m reading a book that’s pushing me to be courageous, to acknowledge the fear and go on. I know from these past few years, making a living painting, what joy and exhilaration there is in doing this, in carrying the fear with me and going ahead anyways.

I will say there is also joy and security in a regular paycheck, and affordable benefits – but what we give up to get that joy and security!

Even in a life with those elements, and with far less of the freedom and liberty that an entirely self-directed day gives you, there’s plenty of fear, plenty of courage.

Behind the mist, behind the obscured, we are all creatures of spirit and emotion, passion and terror. It’s great to lift the veil now and again and peer underneath.

***

This painting, of the mountains outside Warwick, is available for sale. It is 11×14, oil on canvas. Please email me at carrieBjacobson@gmail.com if you’d like to know more about price and shipping.

Blue Spruce, oil on canvas, 10x20

This moment is already gone, taken by the wind.

The long nights take one piece. The frost takes another. The rain another. And life turns, and we are etched and carved and whittled away, until finally, we are shaped.

Sadness runs its rough hands over us daily. The beloved dog, gone far too young. The missed opportunity, recognized far too late. The sense of could have done, could have been, could have gone, could have seen – these are cold words, and coldly, they have squeezed and pushed and pulled and left their marks on us.

I believe that joy is far more precious, far more light-handed. It signs its name in possibility. It is the surprising warmth of a winter afternoon, a dog asleep in a patch of light there on the kitchen floor, this is joy, dancing its quiet dance. It is a smile from a stranger, for nothing, lasting a moment, lasting an eternity. It is a memory, dancing free and sweet across the horizon of my mind – and joy is, some days, as simple and as definite as that horizon, long and steady and beckoning.

Joy says “Come try.” Sorrow says “Look back.” Somehow, both inhabit the fall.

“Blue Spruce” was painted near the Iron Forge Inn, in Warwick. If you’re interested in buying this painting, please email me at carrieBjacobson@gmail.com for price and delivery options.

By Carrie Jacobson

Chapter 15

The story so far: Zoe and Kaja have made their way from the Pike County Humane Society shelter, across a rickety bridge to Barryville, and then south along the Delaware. The two dogs are trying to find Zoe’s owner, who had to abandon her when times got too tough. Zoe is a mostly blind, 12-year-old lhasa apso; Kaja is a big, strong red dog, a chow/German shepherd mix. The two dogs spent a night in the home of Ashton  and Samantha Morrone, but their dad kicked the dogs out in the morning. Later, he relented, but it was too late. Zoe and Kaja had gone. They holed up that night in a little cave at the edge of the Delaware.

When the dogs awake, it’s raining. They leave the cave long enough to find some McDonald’s food that someone has thrown from their car. By the time they’ve eaten, they’re so wet and cold, they go back to the cave.

They sleep for the whole day, curled around each other for warmth.

And while they sleep, the rain keeps falling.

It falls harder and harder. It falls in huge, wind-driven drops. It falls in sheets of rain that blow against the mouth of the cave and drive the dogs to the very back.

The rain falls with a fury, and as Zoe and Kaja sleep, the river rises around them.

The light is going from the sky when Kaja feels the water. She’s curled up with her back to the river. Zoe is nestled between Kaja’s chest and the cave wall. And the water is touching Kaja’s back.

She jumps up, waking Zoe. The water rises. In a moment, it’s covering the floor of the cave. In another moment, it’s covering the dogs’ feet.

The rain is still falling, but it’s slackened enough that Kaja can hear the river, running high and fast. The water is halfway up her legs now, but it’s all the way up to Zoe’s belly, and it’s picking the little blind dog up.

They have to get out of there. They have to get out of the cave.

Kaja grabs Zoe by the back of the neck, and drags her toward the mouth of the cave. The little dog fights. She can hear the river. She can hear the roaring. She can’t see anything, she can only feel the cold water all around her, and she knows the big dog is dragging her toward the current.

She fights and squirms, and at the very mouth of the cave, she wrests herself free of Kaja’s grip.

The water takes her, just like that. It grabs her and shoots her downstream. Her head goes under, and she gulps water, and then her head is above the wave, and she’s floundering, paws and legs churning. She bangs against a rock and goes under again. The world is a swirl of noise and cold and water and speed, and the little dog has never been so scared, never felt her heart beat so fast. She bangs into another rock, and this time, it knocks the wind out of her, and she goes under again and comes up gasping air and water, and she hits another rock, but this time, it holds her fast.

Her feet scrape something. Sand. Slippery rocks. The water beats against her, coming in waves, pounding her face and her nose, but she feels this sand, and it’s going up. It must be the bank of the river, and she lunges up the slope, kicking and scrabbling until she’s out of the water –

And on an island. She’s not on the bank at all, but on a tiny spit of land and rocks and sand five yards from the shore. There are limbs and rocks and branches and driftwood on the island, and above the roaring of the storm and the rain and the river, Zoe can hear Kaja baying, and she barks back, barks as loud as she can, and when she stops, she hears the rain and the river and Kaja – and something else.

A cat.

Carrie can be reached at carrie@zestoforange.com

By Carrie Jacobson

How can you not love a beagle? It’s a huge dog in a tiny dog’s body. This one is baying to the top of the moon. It’s part of a series of 12 dogs I’m painting for a gallery in West Hartford, Conn. Contact me if you’re interested in price information. Contact the Wallkill River School (click on the link, on the right-hand side of the Zest page) if you want to learn to paint dogs and cats. I’ll be teaching workshops there this week and again in November.

Carrie can be reached at carrie@zestoforange.com

Oil on canvas, 16x20. For price and shipping information, see carriejacobson.blogspot.com

By Carrie Jacobson

The storm moved in over the Black Dirt region as Gene Bove and I painted there last Friday. The sky looked marbled with dark and light, and the fields lay mostly empty, harvested and waiting to be planted again.

You can see more of my paintings this month at the Wallkill River School Gallery, Route 17K, in Montgomery. For hours and directions, click on the Wallkill River School link to the right.

By Carrie Jacobson

Chapter 14

The story so far: Zoe and Kaja are trying to find Zoe’s owner, who was forced by economic circumstances to leave Zoe, his old, mostly blind lhasa apso, at the Pike County shelter. The dogs have crossed the Delaware on a rickety bridge, and ended up in Barryville. There, they were found by Samantha and Ashton Morrone, children of Pete and Angie Morrone, who run a hotel at the river’s edge. The kids wanted to keep the dogs, but Pete said no, and turned them out, early in the morning. The kids and Angie were so upset that Pete relented and he and the kids set out to find Zoe and Kaja.

Zoe and Kaja turn away from the road almost immediately. It’s just too dangerous. The cars go too fast, and the road is too narrow. Kaja leads Zoe through the woods toward the river.

There, at the edge of the water, animals and fishermen have worn a thin path. The dogs walk along it and make good progress south. In places, it’s easy to walk, and they can trot or lope along. In other spots, it’s rough going, and they pick their way over rocks and driftwood and fallen tree roots and exposed tree roots and an amazing amount of trash.

The morning is cold. The dogs’ breath stands white in the air, and cold seems to be coming off the river itself. Zoe feels especially cold after spending the night in the house. She thinks about her old house, and her old bed, and her humans, but the thoughts make her feel colder, and she loses her footing. She slips, and falls onto rocks. Her head hits one, her ribs hit another, and she falls into the river and goes under.

The water is warmer than the air, and it’s moving, but not so quickly, and little Zoe crashes into another rock, but this one stops her, and she’s able to get her head above the water. She floats downriver for a piece. Kaja races along the bank, parallel, and then she leaps in and swims out to Zoe. She puts her teeth softly on the small dog’s neck and pulls her to the shallow edge. Zoe stands and picks her way up the bank to a sunny, grassy spot.

Zoe shakes the water off, and lies down in the sun, and Kaja licks the little dog’s ears and face, and they rest.

By now, the road is far, far above them. There’s plenty of flat space along the edge of the river, but then the land rises quickly, sharply, so it’s nearly a sheer cliff above their heads.

When the wind isn’t blowing and rustling the tree limbs overhead, they can just hear the sound of the cars passing on the road up there. But they don’t hear the sound of the Morrones’ car, or of Ashton and Samantha calling for them.

Pete drives, and the kids lean out the windows and holler, and whenever he can find a place to pull over, he does, but they are few and far between.

He turns into Dan Foster’s driveway, and pulls in under the pines. Dan’s wife, Anna, is crossing the yard, carrying something, and walks up to the car as it pulls in.

“Hey, Pete, no work today?” she asks.

“Later,” he says. “We’re looking for a couple dogs.”

“I didn’t know you had dogs,” she says. She and Dan have lived here for as long as he can remember.

“They’re not really ours. Not yet at any rate.”

“Is one big and one real little?” Anna asks.

“Yes!” Samantha nearly shouts. “Foxy, the red one, she’s big, and Peanut, the little one, she’s teeny and old and blind.”

“Well,” Anna says, “I saw them go by a while ago. They’d been walking on the road, and then they cut down through the woods there, and that’s about all I saw. They were headed toward the river. I didn’t pay them much mind, really.”

“Can we go see?” Samantha asks.

Anna looks at Pete, a question in her eyes. Pete nods a tiny nod.

“Sure,” Anna says. “Just be careful.”

The kids run off toward the river. The pass the Fosters’ house and run down the path through the woods. But at the river, there’s nothing. Just water and branches and a couple of ducks floating downstream. They walk upstream as far as they can, but they don’t see anything. They call and call, and they walk downstream, but still nothing.

Finally, they walk back to the car. Anna has gone back inside the house, and their dad is waiting. He drives them south on Route 97 for a while longer, but the bank is high over the river, and there’s no way to search. They call, but the wind flings their word away. They are dejected. Pete turns the car around and they head home.

Zoe and Kaja rest for a while, and then get up. Zoe is sore, but not enough to keep her from walking. When they’re thirsty, they drink from the river. They’re getting very hungry, when they find a place where a rafting group has stopped. The trash cans are filled with half-eaten sandwiches, and hot dog buns and apples, and the dogs scavenge and eat until their bellies are full.

By afternoon, Zoe has gone as far as she can. She needs to rest. Her legs are sore, her feet feel bruised, her ribs and her head hurt, and she’s just tired. This is hard work, and especially hard for a little blind dog who tumbled into the river. But Kaja has seen and smelled signs of bears and coyotes here, and so she pushes them to go farther, find some safe hiding place.

Downstream, at the very edge of the river, she sees a tiny cave. Some creature – a fox, she thinks, or a raccoon – has lived here. But today, it’s empty. Inside, there’s just room for the two of them, and they curl up beside the river and go to sleep.

Carrie can be reached at carrie@zestoforange.com

As summer draws to a close, mackerel skies hint of rain and autumn and the end of the growing season. Come to the Wallkill River School Gallery in Montgomery this month and see paintings from near and far, of summer and winter, by Carrie Jacobson and George Hayes. The show is open through Sept. 30; an artists’ reception takes place Saturday, Sept. 12, from 5-7 p.m. For information and directions, see the Wallkill River School site, in the list of links to the right.

By Carrie Jacobson

Chapter 13

The story so far:

Zoe, a mostly blind lhasa apso, ended up at the Pike County shelter when her owner lost his job. Kaja, a big red dog, has helped Zoe leave the shelter and set out toward Middletown, looking for her home. On the way, they have encountered Samantha and Ashton Morrone, who live in Barryville, and whose parents own a hotel there. Sam and Ash have prevailed on their parents to let the dogs in for the night, but in the morning, Pete Morrone, their father, made the dogs leave.

Zoe and Kaja walk along the riverbank in the crisp morning air. Spending the night in the children’s house has made Zoe a little sad. It’s made her remember the life she used to have, and remember how much she had loved it. She had had a house with rugs, and a soft sofa, and a fenced-in yard. She had had fresh water, and food on a schedule, and dog cookies pretty much whenever she wanted.

She longs for her home and her humans, and so she trots quickly beside Kaja, following the river along.

It’s not a good day in the Morrone house.

Samantha comes downstairs first.

“Where’s Foxy? Where’s Peanut? Mom, where ARE they?” Samantha wails, looking under the table, out the door, everywhere.

Ashton is there, too, suddenly, howling and crying.

Angie looks at Pete, and he can tell she’s angry. She’s as angry as he’s seen her, and he knows then, knows somehow deep inside, that this was a mistake, making the dogs go. It was wrong, and he feels it in his heart. He looks at Angie, pleads with his eyes.

“Kids,” he says, “I told your mother the dogs had to go.”

“NO!” Samantha shouts, crying, too, like her heart’s breaking. He bets it is. His is.

“Honey, we really can’t have two dogs. We have a -”

“Hotel to run here!” she wails. “I know. I know. But we have a family, too, and those dogs were our family, they were. They WERE our family! And now they’re GONE!”

She is out of control now, and Pete knows he should shut this down, but he can’t. Guilt sears him, and he tries to pull her close and shush her, but she pushes him away and runs to Angie, who drops to a crouch and hugs Sam, and then Ashton is with them, and he’s crying, too, and Pete is just standing there in the kitchen, feeling as bad as a father can feel.

“Kids,” he says, “I made a mistake. I should have let you keep those dogs.” Even as he’s saying this, even as he knows it’s right, he can’t believe he’s hearing his own voice say the words. What will this mean for the hotel? How will he handle it with the state? He doesn’t know. All he knows is that kids need dogs, and those dogs were sent here for his kids, he’s sure of it, as sure as he can be – and he sent those dogs away.

“Kids, I was wrong. Come on, now. Those dogs haven’t been gone long. I bet we can find them.”

And so, they pile out the door, and start walking, calling for “Foxy” and “Peanut.”

They search the front yard and the back. Nothing. They scramble down the bank to the Delaware. Nothing.

They walk up to Route 97, and carefully, carefully, walk up the shoulder of the southbound lane, then cross and walk the shoulder of the northbound lane, passing the hotel, then crossing again and walking back.

Nothing. No dogs, no tracks, even.

In the kitchen, the mood is muted. Sad. Pete heats the coffee. He and Angie pour cups for themselves, and Angie makes toast and gets cereal for the kids. They eat a mournful, silent breakfast.

Afterwards, Pete pushes the chair back.

“Come on, kids. We’re going to get in the car and go look,” he says, and they nearly race out the door. Angie says she will stay, clean up, deal with guests. And maybe, she thinks, the dogs will come back.

“I’m sorry, Ange,” Pete says. “I’m sorry.”

“Get going,” she says, and though her words are harsh, her voice is not. She sees his anguish, his contrition. “Get going. Find them.”

Carrie can be reached at carrie@zestoforange.com