For Mother's Day

The way we were.......

As her parents would put it, my Mom is "smart as 12 colleges", good looking, and has a great sense of humor. All came in handy as, despite a bad marriage, she some how got her four kids raised and college educated with no money but stubborn determination, sacrifice and so much love.

She produced (in birth order) a published children's book illustrator

and author, a top administrator at a major university, a greatly

respected pediatric dentist and another town's beloved general dentist.

All of whom get along, enjoy each other's company and look out for each other.

She could definitely write the book.

All the time she was also losing her eyesight to Retinitis Pigmentosa.

An inherited disorder that slowly but surely destroyed her retinas

until she was blind.

She has not been able to see anything for 20 or more years.

Not my books or the beautiful faces of her grandchildren.

I joke that she has also missed seeing her middle aged children's

silvering and in some cases, receding, hair.

Despite everything, Mom lives her life with immense grace, courage

and always, humor.

Happy Mother's Day to my dear Mom.

By A Whisker

My cat whiskers

Every once in a while, if I am careful to look 

before I sweep, I find an endearing gift left by 

a passing cat boy. A delicate whisker. 

As both Tizzy and Fred sport white whiskers 

I can not tell which one left it. I save them all 

in a lavender jasperware box.

One day I want to gather them together in

a silver ferrule. A cat whisker brush.

A souvenir of life with two generous cats.

Not PC, But CC

Sipping my morning coffee, checking 

email and listening to morning TV.

First Brooke Shields then less than 20 

minutes later, Dolly Parton touting

their new children's books. Earlier I 

read that Mario Lopez is authoring a 

children's book. I have nothing personal 

against these three or anyone for that 

matter who wants to try and write a 

children's book. There is always room for 

good new book ideas. Wannabe children's 

writers please note: Publishers pay 

celebrities huge sums that dwarf  any 

advance paid to mid list real authors.

I initiated and taught the Children's Book 

Illustration class at the University of the 

Arts, some years ago. Each student produced 

their own original picture book from 

manuscript through dummy to a finished 

art sample. Most were artists not writers, 

but with some direction  and constructive 

critiques, as one would receive from a good editor 

at a good publishing house, they produced some 

wonderful books. One, The Third Story Cat, by 

Leslie Baker, was published by Little Brown and 

won Leslie the Ezra jack Keats award. The first 

of over a dozen handsome books she published,

some by other authors. 

For some students, including Jacqueline 

Bardner Smith and Alix Berenzy, their 

dummies helped open publishing doors 

I always encourage anyone who tells me 

they have an idea for a kid's book to 

write it and if they are serious, include 

advice on professional presentation 

and finding an appropriate publisher for 

submission.

All this said, I am deeply dismayed by the 

trite subject matter and substandard writing 

in so many celebrity books. Material that 

would never be tolerated from true

children's book authors. 

The biggest losers, I believe, are children 

growing up thinking the mediocrity is literature 

and being famous is far more important and than

ideas and writing skill. 

I am also wondering how come with all the celebrity 

children's book authors there are no celebrity 

children's book Illustrators? 

Nutty Squirrel

Last week some genuine Spring in the city.

Magnolia blooms in Rittenhouse Square.

Sparrows delivering dried grass and bits of 

soft stuff to a secret nest in a niche behind 

a saint high on St. Mark's church wall. 

Washington Square, an upside down squirrel 

eating a nut on a tree trunk. Hard to swallow?

Happy Easter

Illustration by Carolyn Croll, from The Great 

Easter Egg Hunt, Mary Packard, Workman

Honoring The Year Of The Rabbit

In honor of Chinese New Year, the year of 
the RABBIT, a redux of an appropriate
personal post from April 2009.

Two kroliks......

When preparing for my trip to Russia,

a favorite Russian speaking NY editor

warned me that not knowing the language

I could go missing in Moscow.

With little time before departure, I

thought I'd try to at least learn the Cyrillic

alphabet. (after all, little Russian kids do it

all the time).

Soon I was sounding out Russian words for

ordinary objects in a traveler's pocket Russian

vocabulary book.

One day, part way through the list of food

items, I read the word кролик. Pronunciation,

krolik, English translation, hare or rabbit.

Grandfather Кролик (Crollick)

My paternal Grandfather's original name when he

left Russia in the early 20th Century was Krolik.

(changed to Crollick in England, which at some point

changed to Croll when his widow, my Grandmother

immigrated here).

Seems many family members already knew this.

Why hadn't anyone told ME?

"You never asked".

My collection of kroliks

Passover Wish

From THE STORY OF PASSOVER, The parting of the Red Sea- CC

As Passover and Easter approach, again relying 

on purposeful leadership to bring us to a promised 

land following loss, fear and distress and golden

idol worship.

Next year, hopefully, a rebirth of hope and inspiration 

everywhere, not just in Jerusalem.

Nice Mice

These irresistible handknit and felted catnip 

filled adorable mice from Catitude Creations

on etsy.com are made by Nikki in Vermont.

http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=6391683

Ordered the bargain priced collection including 

2 mice, one fish and something simple yet clever 

called a "beat'em up".

TZ and Fred couldn't get the mailing bag open fast

enough. (If catnip were illegal, they could get a job 

sniffing bags at the airport).

Better than television, watching the catboys

rock and roll, kick, bite and lick. 

 

Passed Over

From THE STORY OF PASSOVER, illustrated by Carolyn Croll

My picture of one of the plagues (excessive 

frogs) visited on ancient Egyptians by God 

when their Pharaoh wouldn't cooperate with 

Moses and let his people go.

Its from THE STORY OF PASSOVER, a 

children's book I illustrated for Golden Books

a while back.  The acquisition of Golden by 

another publisher just before it came out 

prevented its publication.

Books cancelled after months of research, 

design, drawing, painting, and through no 

fault of my own. Exercises in wasting time.

Nice to have an opportunity to use some 

of this art work.

Little Orphan Freddie, Part II

Following all good advice, I had intended 

to introduce Tizzy and Fred slowly. 

Best laid plans...... 

No sooner had I set the cardboard shelter 

carrier down in the apartment, out popped 

the baby! Poor Tiz. In an instant his sedate 

"only cat" life changed forever. Freddie 

immediately got into everything Tizzy thought 

was his alone. Litterbox, water bowl, napping 

spots,toys, nothing was sacred. What Fred didn't

poop in, lick or sleep in he marked with a rub 

from his little gray chin.

I heard a thunder of hoofbeats and thought, 

"Omigod, Tizzy's trying to kill the baby!!" 

Looked up to see a frantic Tizzy zoom past 

with Freddie hot on his heels.

More excitement than dear TZ had seen his 

entire life that far. At least I knew little

Fred could take care of himself.

Little Orphan Freddie, Part I

Sweet Freddie came into my life as a noisy

adorable little orphan from the Morris Animal

Shelter on Lombard St. 

I went there 6 years ago looking for a cat friend for 

3 yr old Tizzy. The kitten I originally wanted was 

already spoken for, so the volunteer led me to the 

next room. There was a great ruckus coming from 

a lower cage where an adorable bundle of gray and 

white kitten was hanging on his door with all four 

paws, yowling at the top of his lungs and sneezing.

"MEOW, MEOW, GET ME OUTTA HERE!! ACHOO! 

ACHOO!" 

Peeling him off the door, yowls and sneezes turned 

to loud purrs and sneezes. Love at first sight, from 

his chutzpah (chutzPAW?) to his little "ink smeared" 

nose and gray chin. Only his not so cute name, 

Carson, had to go. Combining my affection 

for le cose Italiane with his affection for silly puns, 

brother Ted suggested il nome, Federico Feliney. 

And so it was that next day, newly neutered and still 

sneezing, little Freddie came home.

Baby Freddie licking his tail

**Stay tuned for Part II

Tizzy's Nutty Mum

Nutmeg, Tizzy's Mum shortly after having her kittens 9 years ago this summer.

Introducing, Tizzy's Mum, "Nutty". Well actually,

Nutmeg. Nutty was hardly grown herself and about 

to be spayed, when she ran away from home. She 

returned a few weeks later older, wiser (?)and 

pregnant. That was 9 years ago in Las Vegas. 

(Details remain in Las Vegas).In her delicate 

condition, she rode shotgun cross country to 

Philadelphia in a truck driven by her human, 

Mark C. Not long after, in the back of a walk- 

in closet in Mark's Mom's apartment here on the 

37th floor, Nutty's babies were born. My Tizzy, 

brother Silver and sister Jasmine (Jazzy) and 

a sweet little marmalade sib who sadly didn't 

survive. Nutty reminds me of the Madwoman 

of Chaillot. Small, elegant with long silky black 

and brown tortoise shell fur, small black feet 

and a fabulous plume of a tail. She shuts her 

huge khaki eyes and her face disappears. 

Mysterious, elusive and beautiful.

FYI: Silver, Tizzy's huge handsome silver tiger brother, 

rules over a kitty commune at the house of Hairdresser 

Michael. Jazzy, their gorgeous tan and black tiger sister 

lives with her Mum who is only a year older. They play 

wrestle and chase each other. Great friends.

He Also Eats Grapes

Tizzybean

What kind of a cat won't touch real tuna, 

salmon, chicken or any sort of meat, but 

jumps on my knee, sticks his nose in my dish 

of GRAPES begging for a peeled taste?

There's also the dried peaches............

Welcome Spring

watercolor, Carolyn Croll

                                                                                                     

La Mia Epifania Italiana

On the way to my epifania, that day in Spoleto.

One day on my first visit to Italy (the now 

famous one-time-only trip led by Tomie 

dePaola that included a stop at the Bologna 

Book Fair), our gruppo had gathered in a 

small piazza in Spoleto to rest and enjoy 

some gelato.

I began watching two old Italian men talking

to each other. The first ended his comments 

to the other with a poke in the chest asking, 

"Capisce?"

The other replied then poked  his comrade

in turn, repeating,"Capisce?"

In a flash it dawned on me...... capisce must be 

an ITALIAN word, not Yiddish as I had always

believed.

Now wait.... I came by this life long delusion 

honestly. My Grandparents' generation

spoke Yiddish to each other (especially when 

children present were not supposed to 

understand). I had the sounds of all the 

kinahoras, shana maidelas, zhi gazindts, 

zhi gezundts and mishagases planted 

firmly in my head.

It turns out that when my Mother was a girl 

and her parents ran a corner grocery in their 

immigrant neighborhood, my Grandmother 

freely added words she fancied from other 

people's languages to her vocabulary 

without attribution. 

Thus, in my late 30's, 3500 miles from home 

and anyone familiar with this back story, my 

dear grandparents long gone, I had one of the 

biggest heartfelt epiphanies and knee 

weakening laughs of my life.

Later, I asked Mom why she never told me 

about capisce being Italian. She replied, 

"You never asked!"  

Pardonnez-Moi

Yesterday, a neighbor stopped me saying, 

"You speak French don't you?"

Have NO inkling what gave her THAT idea. 

She needed something pronounced correctly. 

Yikes!! I can make true French speakers cry 

with my attempts.

Only on rare extreme emergency occasions

have I jumped a language barrier, tossed 

syntax, case, tense and shame to the wind. 

Like that day tour to Oxfordshire and Blenheim 

Palace from London some years ago. 

A French family, une grandmere, grandpere, 

petit-fils et une tante were on the bus

and clearly didn't understand an English word 

our guide spoke.

At first, I kept silent, only wanting to enjoy 

the trip. But the guide was brusque and 

increasingly agitated at French family 

members quietly chatting while she held 

forth about the sights.

When we alit just below Bladon Church, 

where Winston Churchill is buried.

The French folks were clueless. 

No idea where we were or why. 

Sidling up to the Aunt, as we walked up 

the hill, I tossed caution and pride to the wind.

"Excusez moi, Madame" I said. "Winston 

Churchill est mort dans cette eglise"

("Winston Churchill is dead in this church.")

OK, I just couldn't remember the French for 

cemetery -cimetiere - on such short notice. 

La Tante immediately spread the news and 

much to the disgust of our British guide, 

I became the French family's new 

best friend.

At Blenheim Palace I related how "La Reine 

Anne d'Angleterre a donne cet chateaux aux 

John Churchill, le premier Duc de Marlborough 

pour (hmm, how do I say "defeating"?) drawing my 

finger across my throat - les soldats de Louis XIV!!" 

My reward for courage and nerve was 

an ice cream cone avec mes nouveaux amis

and un grande "MERCI !" as I left the bus 

at Marble Arch back in London.

Who knew 2 years of barely passed high school French

would come in handy one day.

Wherein, Of The Green...

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face:

the rains fall soft upon your fields and until 

we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

Old Irish prayer-

One of my favorites..........

Modern Life Lesson

Turns out the problem was not

the need of a new mouse.

Computer Mortis set in yesterday.

Do not ignore slowdowns and freezes.

Lesson learned.

Too late happens without further notice.

My unexpected contribution to the

struggling economy.

First post on my shiny new Mac.

A Cat & Mouse Tale

Sweet Fred to the Vet first thing this gray misty morning.

Not happy confined in his wheeled carrier.  

Plaintive cries advertising his misery through the town.

Stopped at the Apple store on the way home. 

"Need a new mouse," I told the man.

"Meow!!" wailed Fred.

A quizzical look.

"For my Mac, not my Fred".   ;-)

    

First Sign Of Spring

Hungry baby pigeon chirped loudly, giving away its

hidden nest among some pipes near the ceiling in the

Whole Foods parking lot.

One feathered parent fed the big noisy baby.

The other stood guard below.

Shoppers passed by, thankfully, paying no attention to all

the chirping.

For The Birds

This charming Russian folk art bird house 

found while I was preparing to illustrate

The Little Snowgirl.

An enchanting home for any little bird that fit 

through the hole under her chin. 

 Pavel, the Woodcarver, made one of his own.

Then the birdhouse stood outside his and 

Caterina's house and a bird moved in.

None of this is in the written story. 

Something to entertain myself and maybe

the reader.

 

I made these "Little Snowgirl" matrioshka dolls.

They go with me on school visits. 

Starting with Pavel, the children like 

to guess who is the next doll nested inside. 

The last 2 are the hardest to guess. 

The birdhouse and the little bird.

Kitty Crochet

I should be writing, but I've been crocheting.

Something I haven't done for a long time. Very Zen.

Here's my attempt at a little cat for a new baby

I know who is on the way.

I could do this every day............

What Is It With Cats?

Need to catch a cat? - lesson #1

Place some clean laundry (you don't need much)that needs folding on any surface, a bed will do. Turn away for just a second. Voila! A cat will be sleeping on top of the pile when you turn back.

Speaking of cats, English artist Judith Glover just sent Tizzy, Fred and me this charming piece from her new collection with Paper Rose. 

They Grow Up So Fast

Fred at 4 mos.

Frederico Feliney is 6 years old. 

Freddie is a very sweet and helpful cat. 

He taps me on the knee or arm when he 

wants my attention. 

If he draws blood and I leap out of my seat, 

I also know his nails need clipping. 

Many mornings at 3am he'll gently tap on 

my shoulder, asking if I'm not quite asleep 

might I rub his belly? He walks round and 

round till he finds the right position to 

flop down, over and belly up. Too funny 

and sweet. OK, so he's trained me perfectly!  

 

Fred is also interested in Physics. 

Not a day goes by that he doesn't 

experiment with gravity, pushing 

objects off flat surfaces with his nose,

filling the newly created vacuum 

with himself. He will also go to any 

lengths (and/or heights) to explore 

the mysterious moving light reflected 

from my watch face in late afternoon 

when the sun is in the west window.

Freddie is modest. Never seeks 

the limelight, just a few Whisker Lickins 

crunchy snacks. When not in scholarly 

pursuit he can be found sleeping in a 

window high above the city or beneath 

the fold where the bedspread meets the rug. 

His retreat revealed only by an exposed tail. 

Buon Compleanno, mio gattino!!  =^..^=

Pam And The Tizman

Speaking of my talented friend, Pam Newton and portraits........

I love this portrait she did of my boy Tizzy Cat.

Just One More..........

I really thought I'd come to the last of the P-J Redoute portraits, when this popped up. Haven't yet identified who painted it but this one is from Redoute's home town of St. Hubert, Belgium.

It is hung in the Centre Redoute across the Rue Redoute from a small empty lot where Redoute's childhood home stood until 1944. During the Battle of the Bulge, Americans fired on the German headquarters. Missed by about 200 yards leveling the Redoute house.

Redoute's childhood home

drawn by Abbe P. Chalon

Feeling I ought to apologize, I was assured

with great bonhomie that we had been forgiven long before.

The Centre Redoute is now housed in

the old German Headquarters across the street.

One of the best "portraits" of Redoute I found was in the person of the town historian, Abbe Prosper Chalon. Abbe Chalon, my guide, a Roman Catholic priest, art historian, artist and a descendent of Redoute's mother's family.

. Remarkable resemblance.

See What I Mean? (see Jan 25, 2009 post)

Portrait of many (but not all) of Napoleon Bonaparte's

artists, painted by and including Louis-Leopold Boilly

as well as Redoute, Gerard and Isabey.

I rest my case.

Tricks Of The Trade

Early in elementary school, my favorite (and ONLY) niece, Anna asked me how come her water color paintings got all wrinkley while mine were flat? 

So I introduced her to good watercolor paper, coldpress (rough texture) and hot press (smooth texture) and showed her how I tape or staple gun down the edges to a board before beginning to paint so the paper dries tight like a drum.

The only kid in her class to know how to stretch watercolor paper.

Nothing's too good for my favorite niece. ;-)

My illustration from Questions, by Lee Bennett Hopkins,

HarperCollins

A Love Story

Spent Valentine's Day at a Memorial Service for noted Children's Book Illustrator and Teacher, Beth Krush. 

A sad way to spend the day set aside to celebrate romantic love. However, the day turned out to be a profound celebration of enduring love, romance and devotion between Beth and her adoring husband and professional partner of 66 years, Joe Krush. 

Joe, in his inimitable way, told of their romance from when their eyes met the first day of art school in 1935, the first time he kissed her (on an outing to paint watercolors near the Delaware River), through 66 years living and working together, raising their son, Jay, then kissing Beth for the last time February 2, 2009 the day she died, age 90. Emphasizing many fortuitous coincidences in their lives over the years, ending with this farewell service on the most appropriate Valentine's Day.

Not a dry eye in the house.

Happy Valentines Day!

Trying to tie up loose ends, I suddenly ran out of January.

So, before February disappears under similar circumstances, I am sharing this Valentine I made a while ago, but still like.

Love, C