It’s winter break for most schools in Vermont, and that means, while many arrive to ski or board, those of us who live here, migrate away for the week. Early March you would typically find me in SoCal, but as I am still in rest and recuperation mode, I decided to make like a tourist, visit my neighboring town of Stowe, and enjoy a staycation date with myself. Simply a grand idea, and one that certainly made my mood soar.
If you know me at all, you know that my father was not only a doctor of medicine, but a surgeon. I am the first to give this information out. Pride for sure directs this pronouncement, but also because the title was who he was to the world around me. His hands had that careful attention, that steady strength, a surety that I and his patients could rely on. His journey to achieve his professional status was a place of pride too. I grew up hearing stories of how his family all worked together to fund his college education, his long hours of study that earned him scholarships to medical school, his dedication to master his craft: all of it rolled into that one title added to his name, Doctor Donovan. There were odd days here or there when I’d accompany him on hospital rounds or visit him in his office at New York’s Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, but regardless of everything I thought I knew about what his professional responsibilities were, last Friday afternoon it struck me, I knew nothing.
Yes, I know it is NaNoWriMo time, and by today I should have a few thousand words written, and who knows by tomorrow I might be headed straight into some fictional dysfunction that pulls me into a whole cast of characters, but for the last few nights, with the uncommonly warm temps, I’m just too happy to still be out in the garage studio dragging my brushes across and up and down with all the colors that just hit me right.
Nine Cent Girl 