The TrIP

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Patrick Greene who is the curator at The Gallery at Avalon Island, 39 S Magnolia Ave, Orlando, FL, asked me to be a part of the TrIP Project. The TrIP Project has artists and writers ride the Lynx bus system to report on the mass transit system in Orlando. The first plan was for me to sketch Benoit Glaser and several other musicians who were going to play their instruments on the bus. Unfortunately Patrick gave me the wrong date and I knocked on Benoit’s door a day early. A second option was to sketch Genevieve Bernard‘s Voci Dance who did an interpretive dance performance on a bus. However, a close friend and artistic spirit, Mary Hill, took her own life and I needed to go to her memorial service that day. The bus tickets sat in my pocket unused for the longest time.

Finally, I saw that there was going to be a reading at The Gallery at Avalon Island called, “There Will Be TrIP” on January 14th. I decided I would take the bus downtown for this reading. When I graduated high school, I decided to go to the School of Visual Arts in NYC. I stayed with my parents the first two years and took a bus to the city everyday. The bus ride and consequent subway rides took well over three hours out of the day. Since I also had to get back, that was six hours in transit. Sketchbooks at the time became filled with sketches of fellow passengers. I didn’t own or drive a car for the entire decade I commuted to and stayed in NYC. When I came to Orlando to work for Disney Feature Animation, I got off the plane, took one driving education course and then got my drivers license at the Department of Motor Vehicles. Within the first week I had purchased my very first car, a sweet Honda del Sole convertible. Not once did I ever take a bus in Orlando.

On the morning of January 14th, I got ready for my TrIP adventure. It was raining, so I put my sketchbooks in a zip top plastic bag and put on a full set of rain gear that included plastic pants. I looked like I was ready for an Arctic Expedition. Google Maps on my iPhone said the closest bus stop would be near Universal Studios. It was a four mile hike. The reading downtown was going to be at 7pm. I left at 2pm since I had no clue what I was doing. I hiked through isolated suburban side streets and marveled at all the McMansions surrounding a lake I walked around. The rain was persistent but light. I felt a little uncomfortable walking with my hoodie up since Trevor Martin had been gunned down for walking in a neighborhood much like this I imagined. Someone was just recently shot for texting during the previews at a movie theater. People with guns are crazy in Florida.

Besides raining it was also hot and humid which meant I was getting wet from the inside out rather than from the outside in. When the rain became the faintest mist, I took off the rain jacket to vent some body heat. One of the side streets leading to the bus stop turned out to be the entrance to a gated community. I would have to walk around the gated community adding more miles to my hike. I realized when I was maybe one mile from the bus stop that, had I driven, I would already be downtown and parking,

I walked past a bustling middle school with long lines of cars waiting to pick up children. I realized this was a prime sketch opportunity although I imagined some parent might question my motives. When I arrived at the bus stop it was 3:30pm. I had been hiking for an hour and a half. Five construction workers in bright green vests were at the stop. Conversation was about car envy. A female worker lamented a friend who had a job and makes money on the side. Her friend could afford a Honda Civic. The construction workers make about $150 a day helping build a huge new motel right next to Universal. A large SUV driven by a fellow construction worker pulled up and they all piled in. The 21 bus that I was waiting for didn’t arrive for another hour at least.

On board, the large female driver had to help me figure out how to insert the ticket into the column shaped payment device. Digital lights and numbers gave me too much information to look at. The ticket got sucked in and then spit back out. On the back of the ticked, I found out I could board any bus until 3am in the evening, after that the ticket was void. On the bus, people sat in tight constrained poses clutching bags with arms crossed.  A mom boarded with her excited little girl. They likely had just been at Universal. The child’s eyes were filled with delight.  This bus trip was a fresh adventure for her. They sat next to me and I saw the girl motioning to her mom to look at what I was up to. She sat on her moms lap and watched every line and wash as it splashed on the page. At the Valencia College bus stop a gorgeous woman got on and stood right beside the driver checking her phone periodically. I sketched her quickly, so happy she had brightened the scene. Sketching on the bus got me motion sick. The bus lurched and pitched every time it stopped and it stopped 65 times on the route downtown. The driver also had a lead foot. Perhaps she had learned to drive at the Daytona racetrack.

At 5pm I arrived at Central and Garland Avenue downtown near Church Street Station. The walk to Avalon was less than a mile, so I figure the TrIP probably took three and a half hours whereas a drive downtown usually takes me half an hour but I park in the suburbs to avoid meters and being towed, so the walk can be an extra half an hour or so. So my assessment is, Bus = 3 1/2 hours and Car = 1 hour. The good news is that if I ever got drunk downtown, I know what bus would get me to within 4 miles of my home. But why would I get drunk downtown? Since I was early, I decided to go to Jimmy John’s to get a sandwich. I checked into Avalon where artwork and poetry was being hung on the walls. A poem by Naomi Butterfield was hung by a painting by Parker Sketch. The show is titled “I Believe.”

Memorial for Mary Hill

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On November 11th, I got a cryptic call from Elizabeth Cohen, a friend of Mary Hill‘s. Elizabeth asked if I could call her back. She said, “I don’t know if you’ve heard news of Mary lately.” The message left me uneasy and it took a while to call back. When I did call, Elizabeth let me know that Mary had decided to follow Berto Ortega by taking her own life. I went numb. For the rest of the day I searched the Internet for an obituary or any news of Mary. This couldn’t be true.

A memorial was held for Mary on November 16th at Metro Life Church (910 Winter Park Drive Casselberry FL).  Mary often spoke of Pastor Steve Horrell so it was appropriate that he officiated. The lobby of the church was crowded with the bright colors and activity of an arts and crafts fair.  This was the type of small community event that Mary would have liked. Life went on.

At the front of the service hall, paintings of Mary done by Berto were on display. Elizabeth had arranged a board in the back of the hall with many of my sketches. I had sketched Mary and her mom 13 different times. Pastor Steve related stories of Mary’s amazing ability to open herself to people and help them heal. He recited lyrics from “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?” It is true that Mary was often a clown and always behind schedule. She also changed everyone she met and no one was ever a stranger to her. That is what made her decision so confounding. The only memories of Mary’s life came from those that met her.

More people showed up than expected, and church staff rushed to get more service brochures xeroxed and folding chairs set in place. One of Mary’s brothers was stuck in traffic twenty minutes late. People from all aspects of Mary’s life got up to speak. One man with throat cancer related that he loved Mary like a daughter. It turned out that Mary did leave a suicide note. She said that no one should feel guilty for what she did. It was a decision between her and god. Those kind words however do not ease my guilt. I didn’t speak to Mary after seeing her in Berto’s studio. Crazy deadlines distracted me. I wasn’t much of a friend or comfort when she needed it.  Her friend Elizabeth did take Mary in, letting her stay in her house for two weeks after Berto’s funeral.  Mary’s mood spiraled down. Elizabeth gave Mary a comforting massage on the last day of her stay and then Mary went back to her Winter Park home alone. Labels were pealed off of prescription bottles. She slipped gently away to find her god’s eternal love. The next day friends went to Mary’s house but she wouldn’t answer the door. Police found Mary’s body and investigated the scene.  Her dog, was adopted by Pastor Steve.

Mary had  survived the wreckage of a violent childhood and had just begun her own business. She had so much faith, so her decision to end her life makes no sense. Anger and confusion muffled the services prayers and commendations. The monotone group recitation of written prayers wasn’t comforting. Not once during the service was suicide mentioned. I approached Mary’s neighbor and she simply said “Not now.” Her eyed were red and streaming. Afterwards people mingled and shared more stories.  I stared at photos of Mary smiling on more time, finally realizing I would never see her again. Terry and I slipped quietly away.

A Place to Meet

 by Mary J. Hill 

2005

Meet me…in the stillness of my touch

Allow me to feel your pain, it won’t hurt quite as much.

Meet me…in the safety of my soul

Tell me your stories, the ones you’ve dared, but never told.

Meet me…in the solitude of my heart

Lay down your sorrow, welcome healing’s start.

Meet me…in the center of the earth

Surrender to its wisdom, awaken to your rebirth

Meet me…far beyond the ageless universe

Bask in love’s perfection; nothing’s better, nothing’s worse.

Meet me when you’re willing, meet me when you can

It’s there I’ll give my best to you – my mind, my heart, my hands.

Mary Hill

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I first met Mary Hill in 2009 at a writing workshop called, “Writing Your Life“. It was August 9th, Mary’s birthday, and she treated herself to learn something new. Mary was late to the workshop, so she didn’t end up in my sketch that day. After the workshop, we talked in the hallway for some time. She had studied healing and psychology in California. She returned to Orlando to take care of her mother who was bed ridden with fibrosis and other aliments.  Mary ultimately gave up five years of her life to take care of her mother. I visited the Hill house and sketched Margaret Hill. At the time my own step-mom had cancer and she had to be put in a retirement home. I respected Mary for the care she gave to her mom. I returned to the Hill residence multiple times, feeling privileged to get to know both Mary and her mom.

On one visit, Margaret’s breathing grew shallow and panicked. She was moved to her bed where Mary placed her hand above her mother’s chest and prayed. She would take the negative energy and then exhale it into the corner of the room. Within minutes Margaret was fine and she fell fast asleep.  This was a spiritual form of heeling I had never seen before. If I hadn’t seen it first hand, I wouldn’t have believed it. Mary felt something flow through her when she did this and she knew it was god’s healing touch that she helped manifest. Mary probably had the most faith of anyone I have ever met. At times she expressed feeling closer to god in her prayers and meditation than she did in the harsh grind of everyday existence. Angels often appeared in the art created by Mary.

We decided to collaborate on a project called “LifeSketch.” Mary would interview residents of a retirement home while I sketched. Interviewing people in their golden years was incredibly rewarding since stories and lessons learned over a lifetime often seemed to profoundly reflect what what was happening today. Mary had a natural way of getting people to open up to her which resulted in very enlightening interviews. Mary would condense the interview into one page of precise heart felt copy. That article would then be matted and framed beside my sketch and presented to client. Often multiple copies would be made for children and grand children.

When her mom died, Mary comforted everyone else at the funeral.  It was only after her mothers ashes in a cylinder were lowered into a shallow hole at Woodlawn, that Mary’s knees gave way, and grief enveloped her. She always wanted to care for others and after her mother’s death she got a state license and opened her own healing massage office. I was sure that through word of mouth, that business would grow and thrive.

Mary always knew how to make me laugh. She also knew how to listen and accept tears. I grew up in a Methodist family that hid all emotion, so it was surprising to see how she left nothing checked when she experienced the lows and highs of grief and humor. I felt that openly expressing sorrow was a sign of weakness, but she let the full spectrum of emotion wash over her.

I remember talking to her shortly after she broke up with her boyfriend, Berto Ortega. The relationship was on and off. Though separated, they still talked often. She said that she could go anywhere and do anything now that she was completely on her own.  I had assumed she would travel to an exotic country to do missionary work after her mom died.

Berto was a talented plein air painter. After they broke up, he took a trip in his truck to the Grand Tetons where he did several paintings and then shot himself. He left quite a few suicide notes for friends and clients but he didn’t leave a note for Mary. Only now can I begin to imagine the sense of grief and guilt she must have felt.

As I was sketching in Berto’s studio at FAVO, Mary came in with several paintings that Berto had left with her. She leaned over and read with some interest a suicide note full of thanks and appreciation Berto had left with Will Benton. Mary hugged me and I asked her, “Are you OK?” She replied quite simply, “No, Pray for Berto’s relatives and pray for me.” That was the last thing she said to me. She left the studio and was gone.

Berto Ortega Studio

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On August 2nd,  I visited the studio of Berto Ortega at Faith Arts Village Orlando (FAVO) at (221 E. Colonial Dr., Orlando, Florida).  We had a long talk about blogging and marketing artwork by using social media. Berto is the one artist who uses the studio in the former motel full time. Most other artists just come to the market once a month to sell their work and then leave that same night. This was also the one room where the air conditioner worked making it a studio that you would want to linger in since the other studios didn’t have air conditioning. He invited me to sketch from inside his studio but I decided to sketch from the balcony outside.

Berto asked friends what was the most beautiful place that they had ever painted. There was some agreement that the Grand Tetons out in Wyoming were gorgeous.  After finishing several painting commissions, he put notes on the paintings, left wet paint on the palette, packed supplies in his pickup truck and headed west to the Grand Tetons.  He did several paintings of the majestic mountain range when he got there. I once bicycled through the Grand Tetons. On that trip I decided to throw away the sketchbook I had at the time feeling ill suited as a student fresh out of art school to capture such beauty.

A September 10th a Jackson Hole newspaper reported, “Grand Teton National Park rangers discovered the body of a 55 year-old
Winter Park, Florida man Monday morning.  Alberto Ortega’s body was
discovered at Windy Point turnout on the Teton Park Road; apparently the
victim of a self-inflicted gunshot to his head. Rangers are conducting
an investigation into what appears to be a suicide and an isolated
event.  Park Spokesperson Jackie Skaggs says rangers responded at 6:15
am Monday September 9th to a 911 call from passersby when they came upon the
unconscious man lying on the ground next to his Toyota pickup truck.
Upon arrival, rangers found Ortega already deceased from a head wound
and a semi-automatic pistol next to his body. A note left by Ortega was
also located at the scene.”

This is the second time I have had to report on an Orlando artist taking their own life. This news was gut wrenching since Berto is an artist whose art I admired. Will Benton who runs FAVO allowed me to sketch the artist’s studio. A rough cross which was painted white with artist brushes, vines and a tear shaped jewel was mounted on the studio door. Inside, his paintings filled the walls. One painting of a small skiff or life boat pitched in the high seas. In the distance a sign of hope, a large schooner was shrouded in orange ocher mist.

A large portrait was left for Will Benton. It was a portrait of a man that once saved Berto’s life. He and a woman were working in a store which was held up by an armed gunman. The husband of the woman grew worried when she didn’t return home. He went to the store and managed to save Berto and the woman’s life. It is a large painting, stoic and resolved. A note written by Berto was taped to the back of the painting. “Will, to say I’m sorry for all this is furtive, but I’ll say it anyway. There have been few people who have extended themselves to me like you have, and I really like you like a brother for that. I can’t say enough how I have always appreciated you.” I searched the rest of the note, hoping to find some hint of WHY? There were no signs to explain the tragedy. All that remains is an emptiness. A lone chair sat in the corner of the once active artist’s studio.

“When I have a terrible need of – shall I say the word – religion. Then I go out and paint the stars.”

– Vincent Van Gogh

The Memory Room

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It was back in August of 2009 when I first met Mary Hill and later, her mother Margaret Hill. Mary moved from California to take care of her mom here in Orlando. For five years she was responsible for her mother’s care. Margret’s pulmonary fibrosis and other conditions grew worse until she couldn’t get out of bed. It was around this time that I did several sketches of Margaret and interviewed her about her life. She died on December 28th of 2011.

It was a bit strange returning to Margaret’s old bedroom. The room seemed immense and empty. An old Teddy Bear sat on top of some shelves. This was won at a state fair by Duane Hill, her future husband, and it was the first present he ever gave her. In a box tied with twine and labeled “Junk”, were all the letters Duane and Margaret wrote each other when they were dating. A photo of Mary’s parents was on the wall behind her along with paintings of the Virgin Mary and Jesus. This was always a religious family. Mary’s aunt was a nun.

Mary was busy trying to sort all the family photos into cardboard bins. She was trying to decide which relatives should get which photos. It seems that Margaret took more photos of grandchildren than she did of her own children. Each of Mary’s brothers had a shelf where their stiff collared High School photos were stored. So much of the family’s true story remained hidden from the staged and posed family photos. Yet each snapshot could bring back a flood of memories, clear reminders of what truly happened.

Faith Arts Village

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Faith Arts Village (221 East Colonial Drive) is a ministry of Park Lake Presbyterian Church that provides a place where the faith community and local artists can work together to share their gifts of inspiration, beauty, and spiritual expression to promote peace, understanding, and well-being in the larger community. As a ‘village’ it will emphasize the activity and integration of many constituents: local artists, church members, community patrons, schools, and civic groups. Faith Arts Village Orlando may include:

* Studio space for artists

* Green and exhibit space for community gatherings

* Meeting and classroom space

* Gallery space

* Open air markets

* Outdoor performance space

* Cafe space for refreshments

* Possible future residential space for designated guests

* Teaching art as an expression of faith

When I arrived it was dusk and the old motel loomed dark before me. Its dark iron gates made it resemble the Bates motel on the deserted side of the motel I approached from. I heard music however and then the hum of a food trucks gas generator. In the parking lot behind the motel there were folding tables and chairs set up. The ground floor motel rooms glowed warmly. I walked into the various rooms to inspect the arts and crafts. I spoke with one artist and she told me that rent for one of these studio spaces would be $300 a month. Considering she wasn’t selling much work, that price would be too steep for her. Donations were accepted for Second Harvest Food Bank.

At work Larry Loria told me about the Torpedo Factory in Alexandria Virginia. There, an old factory was converted into artists studios. Artists were only charged $50 a month, so they only needed to sell one piece of art to cover the rent. That project revitalized the historic district and now it is an expensive and exclusive neighborhood. I wondered if Faith Arts Village could do the same thing. It is located just a few blocks away from an intersection where I always see people with cardboard signs begging for money from cars at the stop light.

In another room, Mary Hill was helping children paint picture frames with bright tempera paint. I love watching kids paint. They have no preconceptions and they work with raw abandon. Mary rushed to fill cups with paint. One boy asked for gold and she was pleased to find she actually had gold paint. I leaned forward and dipped my brush into some of the bright pink paint. A little blond girl looked at me with a touch of anger, her lips pouting. “Mine!” she said. He mom coached her that it was polite to share. Will Benton, the executive director of the village welcomed me warmly. He asked me to paint something on his T-Shirt. An infinity symbol was already painted, so I added a fish symbol with a single brush stroke.

The Village seemed to have more of a flavor of a family friendly crafts fair rather than a serious place to create art. But of course that might change as the place grows and as artists start using the studios. The motel is still being refurbished and all the artists were only there for the duration of the event that night. This could be the seed of something Orlando desperately needs, a true arts district. The event was part of the monthly “Third Thursdays” downtown gallery hop but the motel is so far from downtown that it was invariably isolated from that event. As I left, a father asked if I would show his son a sketchbook. The boy was delighted flipping the pages like he was devouring a comic book. A new urban sketcher might have been born that night.

Farewell Margot Knight

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Autumn Ames called and asked me to do a painting to celebrate the ten years of service Margot Knight gave to the Orlando arts community as the President of United Arts of Central Florida. There was a farewell dinner in Margot’s honor at the Orlando Repertory Theater. Autumn wanted me to execute the sketch and bring the five foot panel to the party so people could lay in the first colors. Autumn was the first person to step up to the painting, and she painted in the red guitar. The party was just two hours long, so I knew the painting would not be finished that night. I spent the evening thinning down acrylic paints and offering suggestions to the people who painted. I didn’t put down a single brush stroke that night. In a conversation with Mary Hill, I came up with the idea of renaming all the colors after wines. I used sharpies to add the names to the cups of color. Not everyone noticed but those that did found it fun to paint a guitar with Merlot, for example. At first it was a challenge returning to the painting after so many people had touched it. Then it became liberating as it forced me to make bold decisions.

Every aspect of this painting was pulled from my Orlando sketchbooks. Most of the people in the painting were sketched for the Mennello Museum Mural. They didn’t make it onto the mural for various reasons, so I consider this painting the blooper reel. I was blessed to find that so many people came out to pose that I couldn’t fit them all on the 48 foot long wall. It is good to have too many choices sometimes.

That evening Margot brought with her all the silent auction items she had never used. We were given raffle tickets. I won an evening in a Maitland police patrol car! I can’t wait. What a great sketch opportunity! I was rushing around so much filling cups with color that I forgot to eat. I grabbed a plate after most everyone was gone. Margot and Autumn were sitting together. I got to see pictures of the beautiful rustic home that Margot is moving to in California. She is taking a new job at Djerassi Resident Artists Program in Woodside California. In a list of ten things to keep in mind about the Orlando arts community, she said, “We have some of the most out-of-the-box, talented artists. And we don’t appreciate or compensate them proportionate to their talent. Artists illuminate the human condition. We don’t always like what they show us. But they take more risks in a week than most of us take in our lifetime. They deserve our respect. They deserve to be paid.” She is a true artist’s advocate and I wish her well in her new adventure on the Golden Coast.

Next Fall

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l have begun a project called “LifeSketch” where individuals are interviewed by an author while I sketch. The sketch is then matted along with the person’s life story making a unique present and memorable keepsake. Actor and instructor Thomas Ouellette bid on a LifeSketch at a fundraiser and he won. I had forgotten about that auction item which sold many months ago, but Thomas contacted me and invited author Mary Hill and myself to a play called “Next Fall” at the Mad Cow Theater. I asked to be seated in a back row in case I needed a book light to sketch. I arrived right after work and sketched the theater which is right down the street from Avalon Art Gallery. After I was seated, I rifled through my bag looking for my book light. It was nowhere to he found.

The Mad Cow Theater will soon be moving to Church Street so “Next Fall” would be the last show produced in the Magnolia Street address. The theater was small and intimate with the audience sitting on opposite sides of the central staging area. Next Fall was a beautifully structured play that was non linear. Thomas played Adam who didn’t believe in religion yet he fell in love with Luke who was a firm believer. Adam would constantly poke fun and even denigrate his partner’s beliefs. When Luke is in an auto accident, Adam finds he can not visit him in the hospital because he wasn’t “family”. He shouted, “I want more time!” I welled up. A young woman seated directly across from us was also in tears. Seeing her reactions often pushed me over the edge. The actor’s every step and breath was deeply felt in the intimate setting. I’m glad I wasn’t sketching, because it might have distracted me from the overwhelming emotional force of the play.

Luke’s father was a man’s man who refused to admit his son’s sexuality. He loved his son however and when he collapsed in grief, it was Adam who held him, comforting him with Luke’s words of faith. Perhaps Adam had a deep well of faith that he chose to ignore but tragedy brought that faith and hope to light. When the lights came back up, I had to wipe my eyes.

After a standing ovation, the actors sat center stage for a talk back. They confided that they talk about the audience backstage. We were a particularly engaged audience that laughed loudly when things were funny. They knew we might be devastated when they dropped the boom.This play, written by Geoffery Nauffts, started in a tiny theater similar to Mad Cow. Elton John went to see the play and he was so moved by the production, that he decided to invest six million dollars to bring the play to Broadway. It is success stories like this that keep some actors in this business, whose main rewards are emotional, rather than financial. So many times I am finding my mission to sketch people every day has caused me to care deeply for the people I observe. In this way, artists are blessed.

22 Sandwiches

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Terry and I planned to go out Sunday afternoon to watch a football game at a bar. Before we did we went to visit Mary Hill at her mothers home in Winter Park. I had not gone to the reception after Margaret Hills funeral. Instead I rushed home and started to write. This was the first time Terry had visited Mary at her mom’s house. When we arrived Mary offered us drinks and sandwiches. Mary’s neighbor Phyllis Miller was there and she used a portable grill she had bought from home to toast our sandwiches so they were nice and crunchy like Panini’s. This was the first time Terry really had time to get to know Mary and they really hit it off. Mary’s friend Elizabeth Cohen showed up soon afterward. Terry and Elizabeth had many things in common for instance they had both lived in Israel for a while so they were like two peas in a pod.

After Phyllis left, Elizabeth and Mary started a sandwich production line. Elizabeth smeared on some mayo and then Mary put on cold cuts and cheese. Mary had so many leftovers from the funeral that she wanted to make sandwiches and hand them out at Lake Eola, in her mother’s memory. I warned Mary that there was a law on the books that said no one could feed more than 25 people in a public park in Orlando. In all they made 22 sandwiches. Terry was touched by this generosity and at first she wanted to go to Lake Eola to help hand out the sandwiches. Then Elizabeth got a call and realized that she had totally forgotten about a social engagement she had made. After Elizabeth left, Terry decided we should go with our original plan and we soon left to see a playoff football game downtown at Wild Side. Mary packed all the sandwiches into a fabric reusable grocery bag.

After Terry and I left for the bar Mary headed down to Lake Eola. The bar was really crowded but we muscled our way into a room with a large wide screen TV. I can’t really relate the details of the game because quite honestly I wasn’t paying much attention. I do believe the Packers won because I like the bright colors on their uniform and there was plenty of cheering whenever the bright green jerseys ran into the end zone. It was towards the end of the game that I got a text from Mary saying she had finished handing out the sandwiches.

Later I learned from Mary that this simple act of generosity was moving on so many levels. Everyone she approached was honesty thankful. One woman related that it was impossible to find food on a Sunday. She approached one group of 3 men and had two sandwiches in her hands. Two of the men stood side by side and the third was a few steps further down the trail. When Mary asked if they would like some sandwiches the first two men of course accepted her offering. The third had trouble walking and he hobbled closer. The man standing closest to Mary looked at his sandwich and then at the man hobbling closer to him. He paused and thought to himself before he decided to give the struggling man his sandwich. He looked down afterwards certain he must have made a mistake since he might have to go hungry that night. After a moments pause the man finally looked up at Mary. Luckily she had another sandwich in her bag and he was truly grateful. Mary was moved close to tears by his act of selfless giving on his part.

Mary had not had the chance to relate to anyone why she was handing out sandwiches at Lake Eola. When she handed out the last sandwich in her bag, the man thanked her saying, “You must be an angel, I was just standing here thinking to myself that I was an idiot for missing the food line earlier today and I would have to go hungry tonight. Then here you are handing me a sandwich!” He asked why she was here alone handing out sandwiches and she was able to relate her story of the leftovers after her mothers funeral. She said her mother was a generous person and she was giving away the sandwiches in her honor. The man said, “Your mother is still teaching you lessons isn’t she?” “Yes, she certainly is and I’m sure she will for many years to come.” Mary said.

In Loving Memory of Margaret Ann Hill 1932-2010

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Margaret Hill, who I had visited and sketched a number of times, died December 28th in her home on Baffie Avenue in Winter Park. Her daughter Mary Hill had taken care of her for over two years. The memorial service was held at Saint Charles Catholic Church not far from the home. When I entered the church there was a large group of people standing in the entry lobby. I noticed several of Mary’s neighbors and said hello. Mary was being greeted by family members and after a few moments I was able to offer her my condolences. Actually, as I think back, I might not have said anything that would be considered a condolence. It was more the opposite. Mary hugged me and thanked me for being there, and she even offered encouragement and gratitude that I had decided to sketch the service. The service began with one of my favorite hymns, “Amazing Grace.” It is always reassuring that there is hope for a wretch like me. When I hear, “I was blind, but now I see”, I am always certain I never see, feel or express things clearly enough.

The sermon was conducted by Father Augustine Clark who had visited the Hill house often and therefor he knew Margaret well. Whenever I visited Margaret there were always social workers, hospice care nurses and clergy on hand. Mary had a way of always addressing the spiritual needs of her mother as well as her physical needs. “Tears are just a way for the heart to heal itself silently without words.” Father Augustine was saying. He then related a story about the romance that blossomed between Margaret and Duane Hill. They both worked at Swift and Company in Orlando and there was an immediate attraction. Margaret’s father however didn’t approve of the relationship so they had to court each other clandestinely. They would leave love letters under a desk mat so they could secretively communicate. When she turned 21 Duane married her. The priest pointed out how much Margaret loved to garden and her amazing collection of orchids in the back yard. Whenever I spoke with Margaret in the final year, she would grip my hand tightly never letting go. She gripped on to life just as tightly. Margaret always made me laugh, she had a way of smiling slyly as she offered some barb of humor.

Margaret’s ashes were buried at Woodlawn Memorial Park. I went to a Woodlawn Cemetery and walked around for some time looking at headstones decorated with angels and some with wind chimes. A dog started to bark at me from a home on the edge of the cemetery. When no other cars arrived I started to think I might be in the wrong place, so I did an internet search and found out that the cemetery I was supposed to go to was a few miles further up the road. I arrived there at the same time as Mary’s oldest brother, Jean, and I walked with his family to the interment site. There was a small plastic plaque with Margaret’s name on it and a shallow hole which I didn’t notice at first glance. Pastor Steve Horrell said, “The fever of life is over for Margaret. We need to bury our regrets as we forgive others and forgive ourselves.” He asked family members for any memories they might want to relate. Jean’s former wife said Margaret was good with a hammer and saw, that she had helped build a skirt around the base of a trailer that they were living in at the time. Jean related that the family often went to Gator Land on Friday afternoons to catch feeding time.

As Mary placed the gray cylinder containing Margaret’s ashes in the ground, she kissed her fingertips to her lips and then rested them on the cylinder’s lid. It was after she pushed some dirt over the container that grief enveloped her. She had been organizing, supporting, greeting and welcoming people all day. Several family members held her as her knees gave way and she sobbed. Mary was able to embrace and express her emotions openly. I have always had trouble doing that, and emotions hit me when I least expect it. The most important lesson learned from this day for me is that we should be grateful for the fragile gift of life. We should be quick in giving and receiving love and always work to create new memories. Recently I heard a saying that most people sleepwalk through life while the few that do not, live in wide eyed wonder. I want to strive for that feeling of wide eyed wonder everyday, to drink it in and share what I can in my way. Seize the day and live with boundless compassion. On the drive home, my heart filled with joy remembering times spent in the Hill home and yet for the first time, my eyes started to burn.