Wandering

White Wolf is a portrait created a decade ago by Dawn's 85 year old father. Foster is a mild mannered man who delivered mail for 35 years, worked a second job as a doughnut maker and retired from biting Wisconsin winters to a condo is Sun City.

In my urban trading post back in the 90's it was a signature piece.

For one, the business was called White Thunder Wolf Trading Co. In a naming ceremony by a pseudo Native American pipe carrier-one of those new age wannabes- she looks at me as the pipe passes around the circle and says, "Your name is White Thunder Wolf. If you accept that name repeat it back to me." In a typical Gavrillo faux pas I reply, " White Thunder Wolf?" I forgot that ironic skepticism can't be conveyed like it can be in print with a large question mark at the end of the phrase. Subsequently, I was renamed by a real Native American. I used the flat lander name for the business.

The second special feature of the painting is that the eyes follow you as you walk through the store. Yes. I'm not being sarcastic. Straight out of Hairy Potter( deliberate typo).

I've been in La-La land. I use the phrase to denote anyplace but here. Time is of the essence today. I have all the time in the world and none at all. I'm astounded for the lack of a better descriptor at the unique, interesting and creative posts at several blogs I'm following. I miss being apart (deliberate typo) of the creative online energy of these people. Tunnel vision in February causes me to scoff at my stupidity. I complain about missing a trip to the town dump to attend a wine festival at the Wollershiem Winery. In the overflow parking lot below the winery facilities, I do a Gomer Pyle gape...Golleee, at a woman in tight black stretch pants and high heels walking toward the limestone buildings straight out of Tuscany. "I'm so deprived." I tell the person standing next to me. In my part of the world, the requisite day wear is muck boots and sweatpants(denim if it's really cold). He replies, "I'm not stopping you from wearing women's clothes." We share a hearty laugh.

I must go. I'm leaving the cape and red tights in the closet for now. The only one leaping any buildings in the immediate future will be The Pooch showing off in late afternoon as he jumps from the wood piled at the rear of the lawn shed; skirts the 12 inches of snow on the steel roof and looks longingly at the black walnut trees next to the shed. He calculates the speed and distance needed to reach the lowest fork of the tree and decides it's safer to jump on my shoulder.