Phoney boloney

I got back from Paint Snow Hill tonight. Right now, though, I'm pretending that we're not moving to the Fig Point house this week because moving is overwhelming. Any way you look at it. So instead, let me tell you a little about the weekend.

Nothing makes me feel more like a big fraud than a communal painting event. There I am, knowing just enough about painting to be dangerous, surrounded by professional artists. These are people who paint full time. For a living. It is their livelihood. I literally had to dust off my paint tubes before hitting the road. I had not done a thing since my manic painting jag back in January when I made 5 paintings in less than a week. And there are 3 more waiting in the wings for me to finish them already. Back to my charade... It's the worst when strangers approach me while I'm working. "How long have you been painting?" Oh, about fifteen years. I DID find an acrylic still life dated 1996. Then a traditional plein air painter asks, "What made you decide to paint the buildings as geometric shapes?" Well, that is my usual style. As if I paint often enough that any technique could be considered usual.

It reminds me of an orientation luncheon at Bridgewater College. I was seated with other incoming freshman in my major and Dr. Galloway, an English professor who, if I recall correctly, can be persuaded with macaroons. And by persuaded I, of course, mean bribed. The only student I remember from that table was John Shirley sitting with his mother and probably his sister. John turned out to be a sweetheart, but my first impression was that he was kind of a snot. It was because he was so sure of himself. Dr. Galloway asked John about his interests, and he replied that he wrote poetry. Frankly speaking, on the day that John was born he sprang fully formed from his mother's head and immediately began jotting down lines of poetry. Most of those lines were about the Civil War. The War weighed heavily upon him, and he turned it over in his palm like a stone, hoping to eventually wear it smooth from the frequent handling.

He said, "I write poetry." And I met his eyes and said to him, "That's wonderful. I write short stories." My mother almost choked on a cherry tomato. Her eyebrows went up so fast they ricocheted off her hairline and dropped back into their rightful place. I'm sure there are moments in every parent's life when they let their child run with the rope of a lie just to see whether the outcome is a hanging or perhaps something more entertaining. Especially when one's child is a major wiseass. *salute* Major Wiseass. That I wrote short stories was certainly news to her. It was news to me as well. Although it seemed perfectly plausible when the sentence came out of my mouth. I was convinced. And I aimed to be convincing as I shoveled my way through the followup questions. I wonder if Dr. Galloway or John remembers that conversation. Mom certainly does. And it makes her roar with laughter.

On second thought, John probably remembers that conversation because he never really took me seriously in an academic sense. I can't blame him since our first meeting involved me blowing a lot of smoke his direction. His poetry writing made me want to compete with him. But there was no competition really. John was a poet. I eventually wrote some short stories in college, but they were light on the plot, light on the point. I expect Stan Galloway remembers that luncheon, but I doubt it impacted his opinion of me. He was quite fond of foolishness. Eventually I was voted Class Clown of my college graduating class. My parents wondered what exactly I had been doing for four years to earn such distinction. Heh. But I thought it was sad, sad that I was the funniest girl around. No one else among my classmates was as funny (or as glorious) as me. How sad for them. And the boy clown was not funny at all. His friends voted him in as a joke, which was kind of funny, but did not quite, you know, measure up to my very high standards.

About the same time I was crowned Class Clown, I had to take my comprehensive exit exam for English literature. The exam covered everything under the sun. Lesley and I studied together for weeks in preparation. Then several more weeks passed before the scores came back. Our performance was compared to English majors at countless other colleges, and Bridgewater required us to come in above the 35th percentile in order to graduate. I remember standing in the post office looking at the half sheet of paper with my score handwritten on it. Nine. Eight. Nine. Eight. What does nine eight mean? Holy crap. I was in the 98th percentile. In four years I had forgotten my competitive impulse towards John, and I was utterly beneath his consideration as a potential rival. But then I came out of nowhere to wallop him in the end. He was three percentile's behind me. Imagine everyone's surprise when the dark horse got the highest score in the English Department on senior comps! I beat John Whitman Shirley bases loaded in the final inning. And I did not even know that I wanted to beat him until the moment I heard the rumor mill describe him as "furious." Priceless.