ART LESSONS GRANNY TAUGHT ME (Author of Write Your Novel)   by Joan Hall Hovey

ART LESSONS GRANNY TAUGHT ME

By

Joan Hall Hovey

She was 71, and she lived alone in the cluttered attic of an old, two-story frame building with her easel, her paints, her brushes, and sometimes, me. Her name was Lillian May (Watts) Hall. When neighbors spoke of my grandmother, they said, "A nice woman." Then, frowning and in whispers, they added, "But kinda funny." And in the late forties, to the people who lived in our small, unsophisticated town, there was something indeed "kinda funny" about an old lady who sat alone in an attic room and painted pictures. At first glance, she was not unlike a million other grandmothers of her time: the same iron-gray hair drawn back in a bun, steel-rimmed glasses; a dark, high-buttoned dress with long sleeves and detachable lace collar; and a cameo brooch clasped modestly at her throat. But there was the end of similarity. Granny, a tall, angular-boned parcel of nervous energy, was not the average storybook grandmother.

Everyday Granny lost a prized possession. It might be a valued brush, a particular tube of paint, or a piece of canvas. And while I stood on the sidelines, she would tear through her private disaster area, sending papers, books, talcum-coated hairpins, an unmated stocking, and her pink garters helter skelter - all the while looking remarkably like an enraged bird. Almost always she would find what she was looking for, but occasionally I would spy the object of her frenzied search. "Here it is Granny," I'd say, proud of my Sherlock Holmes ' tendencies. She would smile sheepishly, relief and gratitude flooding her face. "Now, wasn't that foolish of me to get so upset," she would apologize. "I'm just a silly old woman, Dear. Don't pay me any mind." Then, calm and serene once more, with the canvas arranged on the easel, she would begin the gentle strokes of her brush. I often stood at the small, rickety table beside her, a piece of bristol board and a brush in front of me. I was even permitted to use the valued paints (which she could barely afford for her own work) so that I could play artist.

After hours of painstaking work, Granny would lay her brush to rest, stand back with a critical eye, and appraise the completed painting. When it had dried sufficiently, and she was satisfied that it was of some worth, she would don her coat and hat and place the painting under one arm. Then off the two of us would go, door to door, in an effort to sell it.

She walked with a brisk, sure step, and many times I found myself breaking into a run to keep up with her. But we never had to walk far before making a sale. Although her neighbors found her way of life strange, they liked and bought what she painted. The return for her efforts was meager, yet sufficient to pay the rent on the attic, buy a few groceries at the corner store, and keep the coal bucket filled during the long, winter months. I had a friend whose grandmother spun for her many fascinating tales of her girlhood. But even there, Granny fell short. In fact, our roles were quite reversed. It was I who spun the tales for her. One story still causes me to cringe when I remember it. It was during summer vacation, and I had just returned from a day at the beach. "Granny! Granny!" I shouted excitedly as I flung open the door. "A man fell off the diving board at the lake today, and I jumped in to save him. He almost pulled me under with him, but I punched him on the jaw and knocked him out, and then I swam back to shore with him under one arm. Everybody on the beach cheered," I finished breathlessly.

"Oh, my dear child," Granny said with concern. "You certainly did have a busy day, didn't you?" Then abruptly the concerned expression changed to amusement, and she broke into a gale of laughter. Rocking back and forth in her wicker chair, she laughed and laughed, absolutely delighted. Every few seconds she removed her glasses to wipe the tears from her eyes. By this time I was writhing inwardly and trying in vain to twist my story into something more plausible, but it was no use. I was caught in the web of my lie. I suspected she knew even then that I had the makings of a storyteller. And I'm absolutely certain she knows now.

As you can guess, Granny is no longer with me, at least in body; she hasn't been for many years. I was 15, working as a housemaid, when the telephone call came, telling me that Granny had been rushed to the hospital in an ambulance.

The hallway between the attic and the only exit in our upstairs room had burst into flames, making escape impossible. Granny had climbed out of the window and crouched on the ledge below it. A passerby heard her cries for help and instructed her to stay there until he returned with a ladder. Then the man fled to put in a call to the fire department. Whether the heat from the flames became unbearable or whether Granny simply panicked, I'll never know. But she didn't wait for the man to return with the ladder. Instead, she jumped from the ledge and fell in a crumpled heap to the ground below. Her back was broken. In two months, she was gone. I stumbled around, lost, for a long time. I felt betrayed by God. And then I grew up. After a fashion. But our youth never really leaves us.

In my latest suspense novel, Chill Waters my heroine deals with loss and betrayal on several levels. Following the breakup of her marriage after learning of her husband's infidelity, Rachael Warren retreats to the old beachhouse in Jenny's Cove, where as a young girl she lived with her grandmother. It is the one place where she had always felt safe and loved. But she is about to learn that 'a safe place' is mostly an illusion. And that evil can find us no matter where we go.

Jenny's Cove is located in St. Clair, a fictional St. Andrews, a small town in New Brunswick, Canada. St. Andrews lies on the Passamoquoddy Bay, and is close to the American border. A place of charm and beauty, St. Andrews/St. Clair is a magnet for tourists and artists alike. But the beachhouse in Jenny's cove is isolated. Waves crashing against the rocks, and the sudden summer storms that visit Jenny's Cove add to that sense of isolation. As a child, Rachael had found the violence of the storms and the sound of the sea comforting. As a woman stalked and terrorized, that will change. I like the blending of light and dark in a novel. Like using shadowing to enhance dramatic effect, in a painting. I also enjoy writing about women who struggle against great odds and triumph, as did my grandmother. But, as in life, it's never easy. In books, it must be even harder, damn near impossible. And in the suspense novel, there are always unseen dangers.

My own life provides fodder for my imagination. But it is my grandmother who taught me the art of concentration. When she was painting the house could have fallen down around her. You knew not to talk to her, then. Only the brushes, canvas and the work at hand held any reality for her. All else faded into the background. Her focus was that of a child's in the midst of intense 'play.' If you have ever watched a child at play, you know there is no one quite so serious. And she never stopped learning. It was not about fame or fortune for her, as it is not for her granddaughter - but about the work, and the persuit of excellence. In her seventies, she was still taking lessons when she could afford them, from a Mrs. Holt on Elliott Row, a respected art teacher in Saint John, New Brunswick.

As Mrs. Holt's lessons were important to my grandmother, hers were crucial to me. As author Willa Cather said, "Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen."

I believe that's true. Writers do tend to write again and again about certain subjects, regardless of the genre they're working in. My own books, though they be suspense novels, deal with betrayal and loss.

And always, in some form, the pursuit of excellence, through art.

NOVELS:

Chill Waters
Listen To The Shadows
Nowhere To Hide
WRITE YOUR NOVEL - AUDIO BOOK-Available at: www.joanhallhovey.com

About the Author

As well as penning suspense novels, Joan Hall Hovey's articles and short stories have appeared in such diverse publications as The Reader, Atlantic Advocate, The Toronto Star, Mystery Scene, True Confessions, Home Life magazine, Seek and various other magazines and newspapers. Her short story, Dark Reunion was selected for the Anthology, Investigating Women, published by Simon & Pierre, edited by David Skene-Melvin.

She lives in New Brunswick,