Day 13 - A Narrowly Averted Kung-Fu Fight, A Call From The Police, Mysteries Revealed, and More Dinner

Day 13 -
I need to start this thrilling missive with what will most likely seem like a crass commercial. It is not crass, though if it serves as a commercial, so much the better.

I need to take a moment to briefly describe Chris, who, with her husband, Len, have been kind enough to open their guest home to me for these past two weeks.

They are consummate hosts: polite; thoughtful; considerate. Chris, to give you more of an idea about the kind of person she is, has traveled to Ghana on more than one occasion to personally oversee a charity she runs called ROUTEStoAfrica. She sells beautiful African baskets - the sale of each basket provides enough money to send a student to school for a year in Ghana.

1 basket = 1 year of school. So buy a basket!

I write this for two reasons. The first, to help spread the word about her good works. The second, slightly more pressing at the moment, is to give you an idea of what kind of person Chris is and to clearly demonstrate how out of character it appeared to me when she single-handedly stopped an invading army of tourists.

Kerri and I were enjoying our coffee this morning when I heard voices outside. Not unusual in this very outdoorsy town. But these voices seemed close.

Too close.

Looking out the window, I saw this:

An Asian assassin slipping stealthily from the street, through the bushes into Chris and Len's garden. The invasion had begun!

We shrugged and peered out the other window to see this:

Another Asian assassin, this one, a younger lady, complete with baby backpack and camera.

I've seen enough awesome kung-fu movies to know that something was up.

As a responsible guest in Chris and Len's home, I pulled up chairs for Kerri and myself and offered to make popcorn as we watched events unfold. Kerri thought that popcorn might ruin the taste of her coffee and suggested that perhaps I should alert Chris and Len to this infestation of tourists.

"Maybe they're Chris and Len's friends," I suggested as we heard branches crack in the driveway alongside our house. I jumped up to see the older guy, pedaling through the huge wooden gate, between our cars, and up into the garden between the houses.

Don't mind me. Just wandering through the yard.

Soon, the garden party was in full swing, the attendees posing for pictures, checking out the lovely plants and wandering down the large, wooden deck that runs from Chris and Len's house to the river.

Kerri did eventually convince me that I should probably call Chris and Len, which I did, albeit grudgingly because I was enjoying the show. I got Chris's voice mail and left a message calmly explaining that her backyard was being overrun with tourists who were surely amassing to take over Waterville Valley in a spectacular kung-fu war that none of us could possibly hope to survive.

My duty done, I sat down on the deck with my coffee to await further developments.

I had hardly had two sips of coffee when all the fun began. Chris - kind, polite, considerate, conscientious Chris emerged from her back door like this:

Git outta ma yard, ya varmints!

Kerri remembers it somewhat differently, but she's not here right now so you'll have to be content with my version of reality.

This is Chris and Len, explaining to the tourists that they are trespassing.

Git outta ma yard, ya varmints!

The people explained, rather feebly, that they thought it was a park.
"How could you possibly think this is a public park?" Chris asked. "You pushed your way through the bushes and walked through the gate and up my driveway!"

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," the people muttered as Chris did not brandish a shotgun like I wish she had.

This is the parade of would-be kung-fu assassins, slinking down the driveway in shame:

Sorry.

Sorry.

The third one skittered out so fast, she was a mere blur in the picture.

I assumed the thrills for the day would be over after that, but I was wrong.

That was just the warm-up act.

Soon, Kerri and the kids had to leave. I was naturally upset to see them go, especially because I was expecting a tour bus full of tourists to appear at any moment and I wanted someone there to watch my back.

As they were packing their things into the car, Chris called to tell me that the police had been at the Rey Center looking for me.

Naturally, I began speaking with a terrible French accent. "Marty? Ee Eez no 'ere. Ee as gone to Paree. Ooo la la."

Chris wasn't fooled and gave me a number to call.

"This is about that dead Barbie," Kerri suggested. "You're probably the prime suspect."

I tried to rush my family away so the children might be spared the sight of their father dragged away in shackles, but they would not not budge until I made the call.

Terror gripped me as I dialed the phone number with a trembling finger.

"Hello?" I squeaked. "This is Marty Kelley. You called?"

"Yeah. This is Captain Katsirebas. I have some questions about an outstanding warrant for your arrest."

I swear that's what he said.

Things got a little woozy for a moment before he laughed and said, "They told me you had a good sense of humor. Ha ha."

Turns out that Captain Katsirebas is the husband of a good friend of mine from high school, Deb.

"Ha ha," I whimpered, breathing slowly and steadily until my vision cleared.

He very kindly invited me to join their family for dinner later.

My family, seeming oddly disappointed that I wasn't going to star in COPS: Waterville Valley, piled into the car and headed home.

I sadly waved goodbye and got ready to head downtown.

I was scheduled to meet Maryellen at The Rey Center to pick up the artwork that I had on display. I left somewhat early. The weather was nasty, but I had my free boat ride coupon that I had fished out of the pond the other day and I was going to use it, doggone it.

I waved my coupon around when I arrived at the dock. "I have a coupon, my good man!" I announced. "Lead me to your finest sailing vessel."

If I was expecting to pilot a 50 foot yacht, and let's be clear here–I was expecting that–I tried not to let my disappointment show when I was lead to a small plastic kayak with a damp seat.

Look! I'm on a boat, yo!

I paddled listlessly through the water, making chugging noises and pretending, without much conviction, that I was piloting a 50 foot yacht through the Mediterranean.

I was headed out toward the far end of the pond when I saw it.

The Mysterious Letter in the Bottle! It's BACK!

I paddled furiously for the raft, grabbed the bottle, and read its secrets.

I had been hoping for something a bit more... desperate sounding.

The map inside, woefully inadequate, I'm afraid.

Despondent now about: No Kung-fu fight, no family, no yacht, no desperate soul in need of rescue, I paddled around the pond a few times.

Town Square, seen from a boat.

Town Square. Also seen from a boat.

The bridge, seen from a boat.

My shoes, seen from a boat.

I was headed back to the dock when I happened upon this large, plastic culvert.

I'm fairly certain that all of you would have had exactly the same thought.

"Can I fit my kayak in there?"

 Yes. Yes, you can.

Although once in, the excitement subsides rather quickly.

It started to rain pretty hard at that point so I headed back to shore to discover that the drain holes in my yacht were perfect for letting in gallons of water to strategically soak my ankles and both butt cheeks.

It was a soggy-bottomed, cold-ankled Marty who met Maryellen in The Rey Center a few minutes later.

We posed for some pictures and I said my good-byes.

Goodbye, Maryellen. Thanks for everything!

Can you find me? I'm drying off my pants by sitting on Curious George! Maybe I'll be a new character alongside The Man in the Yellow Hat. I'll be "The Man in the Soggy Pants".

 I waddled home to slip into something more comfortable and less wet before joining Deb, John, Megan, and Ethan for dinner.

Yay! Everyone else looks great. I look like a dork and you can see up my nose all the way to my brain. Such is my life.

 It was delightful to see Deb and her kids again and to meet her husband, John. It was even more delightful that at no point during dinner did a platoon of police officers spring from their hiding places, toss me to the ground, and arrest me for the murder of Barbie.

But I still have one more day here.

Day 3: The Rey Residency - Grand Theft Adirondack

Well, after nearly getting lost forever and starving to death yesterday (I had lunch almost an hour after I normally do), I have started to settle into a routine and get a lot of work done.

I spent the morning today working on a painting for an upcoming book. I managed to get quite a bit done and I'm happy with how it's coming out.

You can see the obvious influence of Curious George, right? Right?

After slaving over a painting all morning, I biked over to the Curious George Cottage and started on a sketch for an alphabet book I'm illustrating for Sleeping Bear Press.

Having trouble with the kid in the front right. I might just change him into a fire hydrant or something. That will teach him to be hard to draw.

I also did some work on a personal project.

Don't ask.

And created a new Olde Tyme Portrait.

This is how I've been grooming myself during the residency. I look dapper.

I decided that the day was too delightful to spend all of it hunched over a drawing board in a cottage, so I biked over to the town center and hunched over a drawing board in a different location.

Work, work, work...

I was looking for a spot to sit on the delightful beach and found, to my great joy, that there was one plastic chair sitting all alone on the deserted shoreline. I quickly stripped off my shoes and socks and dragged the chair to the edge of the water and sat down to draw.

I had been working for 15 or 20 minutes when I sensed a disturbance in the force. A feeling that I was being watched.

Turning around, I saw a lady in a sun hat sitting next to the spot where I had dumped my belongings, staring at me.

Hard.

The kind of stare you give people who drive down the breakdown lane and then squeeze into traffic that you have been patiently waiting in. The kind of stare you give people who have 19 items in the 14 items or fewer line.

The kind of stare you give a guy who took your beach chair.

I patted down the hair on the back of my neck and went back to work, assuming that if it were actually her chair, she would say something. She never did say anything, and the next time I dared to turn around, she was gone.

So, lady, if it was your chair, I'm sorry, but I thank you. It was very comfortable and I hope to steal it again later today.

Eventually I tired of stealing chairs and headed back to my glorious abode to make dinner (pasta with spinach, feta cheese, and pesto if you're wondering).

Along the way, I took the time to take another picture of the inside of my pocket to share with you. Because I care.

This particular piece looks alarmingly organic to me. Maybe my camera can see inside my spleen or something.

Then I spent some quality time working on another personal project that involves staring at my friend Dave's beard for excessive period of time.

His beard is hypnotic. Do not stare directly into it. Do not look at it while driving or using heavy machinery.

I decided to head off to bed a bit early then, because I want to get up early to go stalk chairs by the lake.

Day 2 - Lost and Starving (or at least a bit hungry) In The White Mountains

Day 2 of my tenure as Artist in Residence at the Rey Center was marred slightly by my near complete inability to locate the nearest grocery store (about 20 miles away).

After spending many tense minutes deciding which balcony I should drink my morning coffee on,  I was naturally near a state of complete mental exhaustion. (See yesterday's post for all the gruesome details.) I dragged myself into the shower, cleaned up, got dressed, and headed out to load up on provisions for the coming days of artistic solitude, which require much in the way of sustenance.

In my car, I rolled down the windows and sang lustily along with Aretha Franklin as I rocketed down the highway and right past the exit I should have taken to get to the grocery store that I was assured by the locals folks, did, in fact, exist.

I left the highway one exit too late and found myself awash in new students, eager to begin the school year at Plymouth State College. Dodging the students, most of whom seemed intent on self-destruction, lunging into the street heedless of the traffic surging around them, I drove ever onward, farther and farther from groceries.

I pulled over and resorted to using Sybil, my GPS, to guide me to the store. I entered the name of the store and was given a location 27 miles away. I cursed freely and expressively and remembered that someone had told me that the grocery store was near a Wal-Mart. I'd rather chew a handful of hobo toenails than shop at Wal-Mart, but I wasn't above using it as a means to my end: groceries.

I asked Sybil to deliver me to Wal-Mart and was directed to one a mere 2 miles away. Just down the street was the grocery store, where I shopped with the heady abandon of a husband and father who no longer has to be concerned with his family's food foibles (Wife: no seafood; Daughter: no meat; Son: nothing spicy).

I loaded up on spicy Indian food, meat, and seafood and returned to my living quarters a happy man.

I spent the remainder of the day working on art in various locations around town. I biked everywhere so I could get a feel for the town and figure out where I'm going.

This is Waterville Academy, a world-renowned ski school.

If you go to the ski school, they make you race down this ramp,  hurl yourself into the air, and land on the inflatable pillow at the bottom. Personally, I think they should inflate the pillow, but I'm not a ski instructor, so what do I know?

This is the town library. I wandered through in the afternoon. It's just as adorable on the inside as it looks from the outside. They did not have any of my books on the shelves, so I stormed out in a huff.

This is the inside of my pocket, because I am a great photographer.

After a few fun minutes deleting the 50 or so picture I had taken of the inside of my pocket, I continued my tour of the town.

This is the town square. See the tent? A carnival is not coming. Don't spend a few hours sitting under there waiting for the show to begin. Trust me.

These are some shops and restaurants and The Rey Center.

See?

This is a horrible photograph of the front window of The Rey Center, where they have displayed one of my paintings and the drawing that I donated to them.

This is how you know where you are.

This is how you know where I am. These are posters which are splashed all over town. These made me laugh. I'll stop laughing if I find out that they are actual, real wanted posters and the police are scouring the area for me.

This is the town center from across the pond.

This is town center ten feet down the road from the last picture I took, because I am such a great photographer.

I continued my tour of the town witha visit to Margret and H.A. Rey's actual cottage.
When I arrived, I met my pal Birdie, who explained that she had just stopped by to see me (I was a bit late due to my harrowing grocery-related ordeal) and that the building's alarm was going off and we would likely be swarmed by police at any second.

Birdie managed to disable the alarm, despite that fact that she steadfastly refused to try my suggestion of smashing it with a rock.

Thanks to her brilliance, I was able to tour the cottage without being arrested.

The cottage. Note conspicuous lack of police.

A nice, sunny porch.

And in we go...

Large, monkey-friendly living room.

Original art by H.A. Rey.

Back door for easy escape during impending police raid.

A great room for doing crafts with kids.

And a wide selection of children's books. None of mine, however. I'm going to fix that...

It was too nice to work indoors, so I plunked myself down on the porch outside and got busy on some art.

Yesterday's output amounted to this:

Pencil and chalk on toned paper, complete with artist's thumb. Because I am a great photographer.

Don't ask.

In the evening, after my spicy Indian dinner, I  spent some time working on painting a spread for an upcoming book.

Then a bit of yoga, some reading, and off to bed.

That is the worst ending I've ever written.
Let me try again:

As I sat at the table painting, I heard a long, low growl from behind me. I spun around and screamed...


Yeah. That's better.