Page 45 - 2016 September Voices!

at the bottom of my drawing are his words “Next hooves, pastern and fetlock were too difficult to
time, get those hooves out of the grass!” draw. I had hidden them in the grass.

“Next time? Next time! He is infuriating,” I The abrasive rock stares back at me. “There
shout. “He always writes long letters to you and are so many parts to a horse,” I tell the sandstone.
short critiques to me. And every time I work “I did master the legs, body and head though.”
hard to send him better and better drawings, I pick up the rock. Bending over feels good.
but never are my drawings good enough, Ma. I toss the rock between my hands; back and
Never! You write and tell him that I do too know forth, back and forth. The sandstone scratches
how to draw horses.” my palms in a comforting sort of way. “I have
so much to learn and even more to do,” I tell
Ma starts to speak, but I spin on my heels and the rock. I clutch the rock tightly and raise my
flee back down the path. My bonnet flies off my fist, shaking it at the hill. Then I throw the rock
head and the strings yank at my throat, but I don’t hard, far away from the hill, far away from the
feel them. Sage brush and prickly pear tear at house, far away from me. The rock lands with
my skirt, but I don’t care. Ma calls after me, but a thud and rolls in a puff of dust.
I don’t listen. In my mind, Uncle George’s words
“Next time, next time” change to different, more I finally realize my sunbonnet is choking me.
painful refrain, “No paint, no paint.” I pull it back on my head, square my shoulders
and announce to the rock “I can draw those
Out of breath, I reach the bottom of the hill. hooves!” My stomach rumbles with hunger as
Bracing myself against a cottonwood tree, I close I stride back up the hill. My steps rhythmically
my eyes. Angry tears, hot as noon, begin to flow. acknowledge my thoughts, “I will paint, I will
It’s almost dark by the time I squeeze out my last paint. . .I WILL PAINT!”
tear. The wind has died down. The cottonwood’s
leaves no longer twist above me. Lynn Deal is an artist, historian,
humanities speaker, and owner
Uncle George will never get of Quilted Chronicals. She joined
another drawing, I tell myself. Toastmasters in October 2014. Lynn
I kick the dirt with my boots.
No more drawings from me! is a member of Storymasters where she
I’m not even going to draw serves as Sergeant at Arms. Hooves in
circles in the dirt ever again. the Grass is loosely based on the life of
No sir-ree-bob! Augusta Metcalfe (1881-1971). Known as
the Sage Brush Artist, Augusta Metcalfe
I notice a rock underfoot became an oil painter of pioneer life, horses
and knock it about. The rock and animals of rural Oklahoma.Please send your
makes strange little patterns suggestions, comments, and feedback to Lynn Deal at
in the sand. I find myself comparing ideallyspeaking@yahoo.com
the rock’s patterns to my drawing. I admit,
partly to the rock and partly to myself, that the

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Volume 3 Issue 3 - SEPTEMBER 2016 45