Barney the Beagle–Paper Mache Replica of My Childhood pet

Papier Mache: French for chewed paper

Recently, I joined a women’s organization that hosts an annual Christmas bazaar to raise funds for education.   We are all supposed to make something to sell. I was born with very few arts and craft genes.   Since the first recorded cave art is over 500,000 years old, some of our early ancestors definitely had these genes and passed them on to a few lucky souls.  You and I all know the person who shows up  and can fashion a felt hat from a knit sweater or a gorgeous quilt from a rag bag, or takes home the hodge podge of objects contributed by parents to the school auction and produces a world class auction basket.  I stand in awe of these people.  I am not one of these people.

My freshman year in college, I took up knitting. I made dozens of extremely-long, odd- shaped scarves using the basic knit one/pearl one stitches.  Everyone I knew ended up with one of these slinky reptilian beasts.  As a child, my mother did her best to endow me with some homemaking skills.  I was enrolled in 4-H for a few years. I turned out passable aprons and gathered skirts, resulting in blue, red and white ribbons at fair.  My muffins had tunnels, little holes made by too much air–no ribbon at the county fair.  I did win the purple ribbon and best in class, one year for my meal plan.  In retrospect, this award is extremely ironic because I don’t cook much at all.

While suffering angst over the bazaar challenge, my sister, Jane, reminded me that as a child, I was a whiz at paper mache. My skill wasn’t because I wanted to produce great art.  I was fascinated by puppetry.  I’d make a variety of puppet heads with died cotton ball hair and whip up their outfits on our sewing machine. Then I would write elaborate plays for my friends and I to produce.

My first thought was there wasn’t much interest in paper mache anymore. I couldn’t have been more mistaken. When I looked up a paper mache refresher course on YouTube (source of all things educational),one sweet-looking elderly lady, Joni Good at http://www.ultimatepapermache.com  has a blog, numerous books and dozens of YouTubes.  Her recipe for paste has over a quarter of a million views. A second teenage girl has over 200,000 views demonstrating Joni’s recipe.  One man has over two million views on how to make a piñata. An attractive lady making a paper mache bowl has over 1 million views.

Apparently, there are a lot folks out there making craft items out of paper and paste. My sixteen year old daughter, Kayla, says there are just lots of people who like to watch YouTube and aren’t making anything. Surely these high numbers of viewers reflect some papery product being produced somewhere and not just viral surfers and paper stalkers. Given this huge viewing volume, I thought why not give it a try again? After all in the scope of human affairs (homo sapiens as we know them have  been around for more than 200,000 years), 52 years of not touching anything related to paper mache isn’t that long a time.

Paper mache originated in China during the Han Dynasty (BC 202 to 220). The Chinese made paper mache helmets that they hardened with lacquer. From China, the craft spread to Japan and Persia.  Those elaborate oriental masks, you see when you travel  are  paper mache.  When the art of paper mache reached France, the French, always unique, decided to create their art by chewing up the scraps of paper. Chewing paper would, of course, give you small pieces of sticky, damp paper to work with but sounds disgusting to me.  When I began my paper mache project, I rejected the French approach and used the yellow pages approach, “let your fingers do the shredding”.

After reviewing some of the videos on new approaches to paste (joint compound, linseed oil, and Elmer’s glue), I elected to go traditional. My first project is made of paste from flour, salt and water (recipe below).  A an empty toilet paper roll  and Styrofoam round ball provided the infra structure. I used newspaper for the coating.  Using household products did result in the bumps in odd places that led Joni Good to make up a more elaborate paste recipe.  But I am still taken with the more modest approach to paper mache because as a child, I remember we could just go to the kitchen, whip up paste without the hassle of gathering together a lot special stuff and have our theater cast underway in no time.  I think there is something to be said about being able to create when the urge strikes you, especially when children are involved.  In addition, the flour and water is easy to clean up with soap and water, inexpensive and very forgiving when you make errors.  Finally, it is not fast drying—a plus for joint compound and glue but a negative if you want to rip off some error you have made.

I am also taking a pottery class. In pottery, our teacher is always telling us that the clay speaks to us.  I was originally going to make a reindeer (remember this project started for the Christmas bazaar in 9 months). When I got started on the reindeer, he morphed into a beagle.

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Barney, before he got a coat of varnish, eyes and collar

I am very familiar with beagles, we had one when I was child.  For those art critics out there, I know the snout on my paper beagle is too long and his feet too big (blame the reindeer).  My sister, Jane, and I called our beagle, Barney the Beagle with the goo-goo-googlie eyes.  The entire time I was crafting my paper dog, I was thinking about Barney.  As you can see, Barney the Beagle has goo-goo-googlie eyes.

 

Barney was finished off with acrylic paints, spray-on shiny varnish, and repurposed eyes, nose and tongue from the reindeer I was trying to clone.  I found an unused cat harness in my pet drawer.  Any of you, who have read my blogs on my pets know that Satchel, the big gray Tom Cat wouldn’t be caught dead in a whoosie harness (one has to question my sanity for buying it at some point in time).  I cut up the offending harness and made a realistic collar for Barney.  Satchel was pleased.

I am proud of Barney for a first effort.

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Barney, with the goo, goo, googlie eyes!

He obviously isn’t good enough to sell at a bazaar, too many nasty little dings and bumps.  But he is good enough to give to my husband, Pete, for Father’s Day.  Pete has an office full of items the kids and I have made and seems delighted with whatever we give him no matter how low quality.

 

I have roughed out an angel and cat to see if I can’t still produce something that someone might buy. I may try the joint compound bending to the will of the masses to have a saleable product. Also from my pottery instructor, art takes time and patience.  I have nine months but at my age I’m not sure I will every produce a financially viable product.  That’s the beauty of paper mache. There isn’t much of an investment if the outcome is poor and you can also toss it in the recycling bin.

Simple Paper Mache Paste Recipe

1 cup flour

1 cup water

3 teaspoons salt

Mix together and start gluing

Most important–Have Fun!

Bicycling, Bliss in Retirement!

“Bliss” defined as finding perfect happiness, great joy

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My blue tricycle began my love affairs with bikes!

One of my first memories is pointing up at a blue tricycle, with red and white wheels, displayed on a high shelf in a Firestone store and firmly stating to my dad, “That one.  I want the blue one!”  Like most things I wanted, I did get the shiny blue tricycle. That’s when my love affair with bicycles began. The blue tricycle once purchased was stored at my grandmother’s house.  Mom and I visited grandmother every morning for coffee.  We would walk the 3 blocks from our house to hers after my sister went to school.  Grandmother’s house sat on a large double corner lot.  I was allowed to ride the trike down the driveway and around the sidewalks of the house without supervision as long as Grandpa was somewhere in the yard.  A master gardener, Grandpa was always out in the yard.  I can still feel the wind in my unruly hair as I shot down the slopped driveway towards the street.  I became an expert at making the turn right, staying within the property lines, on the walkways and avoiding the very limited oncoming traffic. Down the sidewalk I would barrel as fast as I could pedal and around the corner (no stopping for turns).  With the wind  at my back, my legs  going full tilt, no adult in sight, I remember the joyous feeling of complete freedom!  This is a feeling I have been able to find over and over again when biking for more than 63 years.

I moved up quickly from the tricycle to a small, white bike with orange trim and training wheels.  I can remember the absolute sense of accomplishment as my grandpa stood at one end holding  me up with no training wheels and pushed me towards my mom standing at the other end of the sidewalk waiting to grab me.  But no, the bike wobbled, Grandpa ran along straightening and then I was up and off right past mom!  Oh the joy of personal success.  Like the old saying goes, once you learn to ride a bike you never forget.

From the small two wheeler, I moved up to a blue Huffy, my magic horse. It had three gears, a veritable chariot. Cheyenne, Wyoming, where I grew up, is relatively flat and in the fifties and sixties, quite small. I could ride anywhere to meet up with friends.  I was frequently off to  the library (my favorite haunt), Dorothy’s, Melissa’s or Dodd’s Store for candy.  My only limitations were my imagination and my mom’s permission.

In graduate school at Arizona State University (ASU), a bicycle was my main means of transportation.  I had a elegant, 10-speed, light-weight purple road bike, a French-made Gitane. Gitane stands for gypsy woman.Coming from Wyoming, the glorious, expansive dessert surrounding Phoenix  combined with living alone in my first apartment, certainly made me feel like a gypsy on the run.  Unfortunately, ASU was a mecca for bike thieves and my Gitane was stolen.  I then purchased a burnt orange Schwinn.  It was much sturdier and better made for the commuting I was doing in a large metropolitan area.

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Thule child carrier for biking

The years rolled along and the bikes did too. The most notable change in biking patterns came when I had my son, Scott.  First,  Pete and I purchased a Thule child-bike-puller.  As soon as Scott could sit on his own, Pete would take him out in the Thule so I would have a break.  As Scott got bigger, we by-passed the tricycle route because we lived on a steep hill and busy street.  Instead, we purchased a tag-along.  The tag-along allows small children to bike behind you and pedal (or not depending on the child’s motivation that day).  The tag-along also allows the adult to get in a full-trength bike ride and helps teach children how to balance on a regular bike.

A tag-along allows a child to learn balance and an adult to ride full strengthen

I was never a good enough biker to navigate the hill we live on and pull children up and down.  But Pete, who owns 7 bicycles and might be called a bike enthusiast, has been able to haul children everywhere they might want to go.  I remember Pete was biking with Scott in the Thule.  I was trailing behind. Pete had stopped because he was winded.  I heard a little voice from the Thule shout, “Go, Daddy, Go!  Don’t stop Daddy!”  Pete and I still laugh to this day about “Don’t stop Daddy, don’t stop.”

A couple of years ago, I thought with great sadness my biking days were coming to an end.  I could no longer get up and down the mountain we live on by bicycle.  I had resorted to carrying the bike by car to the many bike paths available in Boise on flatter land.  I found as my balance declined, it was becoming difficult for me to ferry the bike down the hill, unload it and then go for a jaunt. The joy of spontaneous riding was gone.  My bliss had transformed into work and discouragement about aging.  I gave Pete an ultimatum.  We had to figure out how I could ride from where we lived or we had to move to the highly-sought-after, expensive flatlands.  As a mountain biker, the flatlands held no appeal to Pete.  But he did find us a compromise, he found the electric bike. We drove to San Francisco two Thanksgivings ago and purchased a Pedego after test riding it on the San Francisco hills.  It seemed up the challenge of Boise’s Shaw Mountain.

Spring has come–my Pedego is out and about all over Boise.  When I pull in at church on Sunday, many people come over to ask me about my electric bike.  It is heavy and not for the faint of heart because it goes fast, up to 20 miles an hour going up hill.  I fly down the Mountain, taking the side streets to the green belt from the flatland and from there I can get anywhere in Boise. I can go to coffee, lunch, church, shopping no problem. I am once again free from the confines of aging and able to feel my bliss!pedego2