Paint like Picasso,

Pollock, Esher, Monet, O’Keefe, Calder, Rousseau.  And more.  Actually, I don’t see a single Picasso.  I was skeptical, but look what ten year olds can do.

The model

The paintings:

This last O’Keefe is by my grandson, Francis.  He stuck it one more day, but when offered the chance to give up his paint brushes to Caroline, he headed for the exit.  He fiercely avows hating painting, but I bet he also dislikes being the only boy in a class of three. 

Caroline had a glorious two days, telling France he missed the splatter and the dribble day.  Without further ado, artists of renown, re-rendered by some enthusiastic little girls:

Oh, yes, they painted the picnic table, too.

Dr. Doug's Sunflower reviving elixir

I looked around the road garage Tuesday afternoon for something to put between the sunflower and the door and have there all day Wednesday.  Like I really knew what I was looking for.  Doug, the assistant road super, kindly steered me out of his bailiwick, telling me anything I put there would likely blow over and snap the stalk.  He said, in his opinion, it was up to the sunflower.

I pulled in this morning.

The IV is still dripping.

The sunflower is starting to bloom.

Doug is smiling.  He only hoped it would be alive, and here it is about to bloom.

No further bulletins until Monday.

CPR and an IV drip for Sunflower

I stopped at the town hall yesterday afternoon, before I picked up grandkids from their art class.  I pulled in the lower level; the back road garage doors were open and I found the assistant road super.  The one on vacation last week.  The road super, as you know, is painting his house this week.

I told Doug I’d come to see if I could have a bucket and to see where the garage door buttons are. ”Does this have anything to do with that sunflower?”

We went into the office, where he showed me the only ‘to do’ list the super left him.  He watered the sunflower before anything when he came in at seven.

Back out to the garage and he opened the door to show me the sunflower.

We were dumbstruck.

OMG, it’s 100 degrees, Sunflower faces south and is baking in the reflected heat from the white door.  We poured water on the crack with abandon.  It was so hopeless; only a tiny crack to put water in.  That’s why Tim told me he let the hose dribble on it all morning.

We did what we could.  Doug poured water on the crack and left the garage door open until he went home.  The kids and I gave it another drink in the evening.

This morning I went straight to the garage.  The white garage door is up, and Sunflower is receiving an slow drip infusion from a tiny hole in the bucket of chicken manure tea.  Doug raises chickens.  He figured it wouldn’t hurt, and with luck we might get away with being stupid.

Now to think of something to do tomorrow.  Coneing it off won’t work this holiday.

How hot was it today?

100

The local Girl Scout troup bellies up to the bar for long, cool ice cream cones, please, thank you very much!

Sunflower’s Monday

is looking good.  Four feet, eight inches.  Tall enough to ride the roller coaster at Cedar Point. 

A feast of seeds filling out.  I knew the road super will be on vacation this week.  I asked him about Sunflower, last week.

“I guess you’re in charge.”  I have to water it every afternoon, because “that south sun is hot against that white door, and it’s only growing in concrete and gravel.”  Since he’s home, a mile away, painting his house this week, I hope he takes pity on me and makes Sunflower checkups on his way to the hardware store.

I have a plan.  I sent two more grandkids off to art camp this week.  Laura and Francis, the twin cousins (born two weeks apart), will Paint like Picasso this week. 

When I pick them up we’ll nip up the street to the town hall.  Nothing like kids to enjoy hauling a bucket of water. Or three.  That's how many I'll have in the back seat.