Kalamalka Lake by lia ry Rose (Delia Mary Doege)
I am often amazed at just how happy I am to see my student’s full face – to get a peek at what is hidden behind the mask. I am so used to seeing them in class – only their eyes revealing their focus and attention, or their drifting away – their confusion or a sudden spark. I am also intrigued at how stunned I am that their face is never, ever, as I imagined. What is that about? They always look so different. And yet, I delight in the surprise, erupt into a smile as I see their face, revealed.
Finally, my partner and I were able to go to Florida – to see my mother and my sister’s family’s new home. We had been trying for four years – first, deterred from an aged and sick dog, then Covid came and you know the story – trapped. It had been five years since I had seen my mother. Now 86, I was ready for a bit of a shock. When our car pulled up to pick her up for dinner, there she sat in the headlights – perched on the stairs of her mobile home, waiting for us.
A flash-back of my grandfather – frail with that same long and narrow Irish face. I got out to give her a hand, to help her up – and then hugged her, feeling too many of her bones. She started to walk, tilted slightly to the right and a tiny bit hunched. I could see my grandpa, just the same – walking slowly towards the barn, a slight drag of his right foot. We become those from whom we have come. Or at least, somewhat. In some ways. No hiding this truth as we walk slowly towards the car.
One day while visiting mom in her home, she brought out a watercolor painting wrapped in a white translucent sack. Through it I could see light blue water and sky, the darker blue hills. A small brown building to the right. Although I’d never seen it before, it was familiar. It reminded me of our home in the Okanagan, BC. Over the phone she mentioned it several times, this picture I sent her of our new home-land, the big body of water where we now live. It is this picture that she took to her first watercolor painting class.
When I asked her about the painting, she reminded me of the picture. A picture she now cannot find. To me, it looks like the long view of Kalamalka lake from Vernon. I’m quite sure there was no cabin in the picture. This, very likely added by her own imagination, by the strong pull of her cabin in the woods, back in Minnesota. Her soul-space. Always trees and green. But what surprised me most was when she said: “I didn’t know I could do that. I didn’t know I could paint until I went to that class.”
She went with a neighbor – rode with her from one small town to another, to a woman who was teaching watercolor painting to a small group. I have always known my mother is a creative person. Her love of music and singing, although I haven’t heard her sing often enough. I knew she could always create something out of nothing. I’ll never forget the days we spent cutting a patterned vinyl cloth to cover our doorless kitchen cupboards to keep out the dust. Imagine the creativity it takes to feed a family of seven, over and over again, on an air-tight budget.
But this painting, this is different. It is good. Really good. Beautiful, even. I wish I could capture the subtle shifts of greenish blues when the sun shines on it just so. She gifted this picture to me. After all, it was inspired by our landscape – by all the varied blues and trees. By how the water and sky can be the same color – so much so that you wouldn’t know which part of the picture to jump into for a swim. This awe and wonder of the natural world – one thing we both love, another important thing we share.
Before I would take her painting, I asked her to sign it for me. She was surprised, a bit shy. “Sign it?” “Yes please.” Days passed, and I realized I hadn’t gotten the painting back yet. It was the one thing I didn’t want to leave behind. One evening, while my wife was over at my sister’s house, I biked over to mom’s on our tandem bike for two, alone. My only intention – to make sure I got that painting. It seemed urgent, somehow, important. In her home, I took it out of the bag as we both looked on. She signed it: lia ry Rose.
“What? Who is that?” She looked at me and said: “‘lia’ is the second half of my first name, Delia. ‘ry,’ then, is the second half of my middle name, Mary.” “And Rose?” Rose was her confirmation name, important enough for her to tack it onto the end. Interesting. Her artist name. My mother, an artist. So glad this has been revealed. Another important thing we share – the creative, our need to create. No hiding this connection, this truth.
I biked away with a smile on my face. Maybe similar to the smile when I see my students unique and beautiful face, exposed. The painting tucked under my arm, secure – I bike away on our tandem bike. The back seat empty, people often joke: “Hey, your friend fell off!” My mother’s painting, or shall I say lia ry Rose’s, now framed in our hallway. With just the right slant of morning light, I notice the shifting blue-green hues that came from my mother’s brush.