40. Forty. XL. St. Anne’s School in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania was where I began to love school. It was there I learned handwriting and drawing lines – lines that formed numbers and numerals. The shapes of letters for the American alphabet. This was my taproot  that would lead me to art. Books. Libraries. Reading. Pen & pencil. Calligraphy. Papermaking. Bookbinding. Books. Libraries.Teaching. Books. Words. Always, words.

The making of the 4 and the 0 are based upon the unambiguous straight line between two solid points and this is accompanied by the soft curve of the organic “0”. To draw this numeral one must possess the certainty of where one is going with the trust that one fluid line will begin and meet at a single point – gently and with ease.It is this form of the quantity that I love. While each of the five letters, f-o-r-t-y, can evoke a meditative state if written consecutively, line upon line, and the delineation of the X and the L can affirm the strength of will, it is the inharmonious forms of the the numbers that create sublime tension. Tension with a visceral vitality and exuding a particular beauty.

Is it no wonder then, that in this 40th year of marriage, I pay homage to this natural number. It is more than a metaphor for the two people who have lived side by side during their forty years. Years where all it represents has been tested and embraced. It is a well loved number.


Standing in front of the groom’s family home, he picked the daisies that morning from a nearby field and it became the bride’s bouquet

This post is dedicated to Michael Robert Graul, partner and friend.

small tribute


Mother's dishesSetting the table for Sunday dinners, Christmas, or Easter – the big family holidays – was always a celebratory task for this girl with pigtails. Under my mother’s supervision, together we would enter her world of fine china and etched glassware. Guarded behind the glass doors of her ornate china closet, these were thrown open on the special occasion or Catholic feast days.  Gently I lay each dish in its proper place with its proper placement. Always, the roses greeting the guest. Looking at each piece – a crescent of gentian blue forget-me-knots embracing pale pink roses bursting forth – infused me a shiver of joy and pride. Each piece became a mirror of the next, until the table was a field filled with wildflowers. Throughout the years from girlhood to adolescence, I never grew tired of this ritual. Processing around the table, dish in hand – each one an invitation – I knew in my heart that these objects held more than a meal. They held my family together.

Mother to daughter, this tradition became my world, too.  Unpacked from the brown cardboard boxes, her wedding dishes came to live in our rough, cherry cupboard – a $40 purchase from a stall at the Women’s Farmer Market. My husband and I, living far from home, began our own tradition of family dinners with dear friends and neighbors.

The wooden doors have been closed on this part of my history for some time now. The children are grown with their individual sensibilities – roses not among them. The dishes are still and silent, stacked – albeit lovingly – at the bottom of our windowless cupboard. Sentinels.  Waiting.

This year I find myself able to accept that my future and that of my children belong only to each one. Once again, I wrap each piece and fill the cardboard boxes.  They are my past, and I am letting go – releasing the objects, but keeping their love. They are ready to go elsewhere, to live another life. A new family with new traditions to grace the table of strangers.  Fresh eyes to see the beauty in the bouquets of roses and forget-me-knots. Kind hearts to infuse love into what was once, a long time ago, my mother’s best china.

Subtle message


Chrisgiftstmas. My son gives me new color pencils, ink and pens, paper of all sorts. Bright reds, blues. Shades of hopeful greens.

Upstairs, I rearranged my studio, yet again, trying to become inspired. I begin with the pencil. All browns, blacks, grays, yellows on antiseptic white paper. Hard angles. Sparse landscape. Graphite scrapes against the grain.

The school year. Entrenched. A library fills with books and laptops. Worksheets and critical thinking. All is drawn clinically. Shelves ordered and neat. Lines between the personal and professional.

Approached. Asked. Asked to teach one art class.

Tonight is for the green pencil.

The universe speaks to me where it can find me.  My son. Its voice.

A wish


bunny bluenewyear

Haiku written by a treasured friend sending her wishes to me. A Blue Bunny now shares these wishes with you.

Watercolor by Tina Hudak; Poetry by Sally A. Rieger ©2015.

An autumn day. Sugar maple yellows and reds are firecrackers exploding against the blue sky. Cool air calls for a scarf wrapped loosely around the neck, against a heavy, cable-knit sweater. A never-ending carpet of dogwood and oak leaves muffle footfalls leading from our house, today. Loading boxes in the car. Returns. Years shared, packed with haste and anger.

It has been a “summer into fall season” of heartache for our household. Not sorrow as with death, but the dull heartache from reminders of loss both past and recent. Driving down the neighborhood streets, tears fill the eyes unexpectedly. Absence of objects associated with love and friendships. Voids shout at the eye. Autumn is the season that honors loss. Blossoms die. Trees stand in their solitude, grey and skeletal. Animals begin to burrow into the deep, lining their dens for warmth while their bodies armor themselves for stillness. Slow. Patient. Warm.

Birthday boy

Tonight is for family. Small. Quiet. Intimate. We are honoring a birthday. We are reclaiming one that was fraught with pain and hurt. We are owning it tonight for our son, a night that could have well been his birthday if he had not been so anxious to join us twenty-six years ago. We will share a home cooked meal – a simple one the color of autumn – carrot soup. We will have cake and gifts. Candles will be lit. We will affirm – no matter what happens in a week, a year, or in life – our family remains steadfast.




Dancing with Bastian, Artist’s Book (detail) TH1998

There is a short, paperback book of one hundred and eight pages that every so often – when the need is great – I take off of my shelf and re-read.  Every time I do, there is something from it that speaks to the moment – this moment – addressing the confusion or stress or void in my life. How do I know to do this? Because I trust the author’s experience and the words she shares with me through her experience – dated as it is. This book of worn and weathered; the spine is cracked and in areas, ripped; pages are yellowing and becoming unglued. Yet, I cannot replace it with a current edition. For as important as the author’s words are, so too are my notations and underlining. It is  historical documentation on my psychology. Inscribed by my sister to me, “Happy birthday and happy wandering,” I have read it and re-read it countless time since I received it back in the 1980s.

In her small and powerful book, The Tao of Psychology, Dr. Jean Shinoda  Bolen includes a substantive quote from Dr. Carl Jung’s Mysterium Coniunctionis (p 419-420) which I must share with you, as it is my point of reference this year:

“There was a great drought. For months there had not been a  drop of rain and the situation became catastrophic.  The Catholics made processions, the Protestants made prayers and the Chinese burned joss-sticks, and shot off gins to frighten away the demons of the drought, but with no result.  Finally the Chinese said,’We will fetch the rainmaker.;  And from another province as fried-up old man appeared.  The only thing he asked for was a quiet little house somewhere, and there he locked himself in for three days.  On the fourth day the clouds gathered and there was a great snow storm at the time of the year when no snow was expected, an unusual amount, and the town was so full of rumors about the wonderful rainmaker that Richard Wihelm went to ask the man how he did it. In true European fashion he said, ‘They call you the rainmaker, will you tell me how you made it snow?’  And the little Chineseman said “I did not make the snow, I am not responsible.’  ‘But what have you done these three days?’  ‘Oh, I can explain that.  I come from another country where things are in order.  Here they are out of order, they are not as they should be by the ordinance of heaven.  Therefore the whole country is not in Tao, and I also am not in the natural order of things because I am in a disordered country.  So I had to wait three days until I was back in Tao and then naturally the rain came.’ (p 98)”

Where I live, it had not rained for more than a month. The garden was dry despite my dragging around the hose every evening with my futile attempt to refresh the plants I so love. It is weather I hate, and also accentuated the situation at work where I was feeling “stuck.” That night I opened this book to continue reading, and when I came across this passage I all but cried – it affirmed my conflicted feelings about my job. I could finally breathe; as I did, I kid you not, it began to rain.

Bolen, Jean Shinoda. The Tao of Psychology.  San Francisco: HarperRow, 1979. Print

a birthday cake


Today is my first-born’s birthday. Suffice it to note that he is not a child or an adolescent, but an adult. To celebrate, the sons and their father went fishing; I remained at home.  After a long week at work filled with non-stop movement and interactions, I was thrilled to be alone for a respite. Quiet. No obligation.

So, I decided to bake a cake. A birthday cake. What could be more rewarding that to treat my son and family to an old-fashioned, homemade cake? A shiver of excitement and trepidation ran through my body as I pondered this. What cake? What recipe? Relying on my family history, I turn to my mother’s favorite, Crisco , and choose a yellow cake. Simple.  cookbook coverNot only do I default to a family recipe, but grab the mixer that resembles my mother’s – one that was a gift from my husband – and replaced my former, fancy-schmancy, KitchenAid. Armed with the directions and tools, I proceed to line up my ingredients – flour, sugar, butter, vanilla, eggs, baking powder, & salt.


Next, for the pans. It is at this point I deviate from my mother – I do not have 2-8″ round cake pans – any longer. This summer the spouse and I “weeded” our kitchen supplies – foodstuffs, pots & pans, dishes, & linens.  Of course, “since I never bake anymore” I gave away these needed items.  Scrounging around the cupboard, I pull out 1-13″x9″x2″ pan that we use for roasting potatoes. Despite the  warping, it is my only option. So, the mixing begins.batter mixing

All is going well. The mixture is creamy and sweet. The oven hot. The pan is greased and flour-coated.  Guiding the batter with my bright blue, rubber spatula, I  reminisce on past birthdays of my boys – cakes and cupcakes – chocolate or vanilla, sprinkles or cinnamon beads, icing in multitudinous colors  – anticipation of the evening with candles, singing, and gifts. This year holds the same anticipation. As I pull the cake out of the oven, I smell the subtle aroma and delight in seeing the golden brown edges.

baked cake

Cutting this in half and using a lemon filling between the layers, the birthday cake is complete.  No coconut white frosting an 1″ thick. While not perfect – due to the warping of the pan, the one layer is not even, so it was tricky getting it aligned – it is a labor of love, freely chosen on a beautiful Labor Day morning!


This recipe is from Crisco’s Favorite Family Foods Cookbook.  Cincinnati:OH: Procter & Gamble Co., 1973.


  • 2 1/2 cups of sifted cake flour
  • 1 2/3 cups sugar
  • 3 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 3/4 cup milk
  • 2/3 cup Crisco (I used butter)
  • 3 eggs
  • 1/2 cup of milk
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla

In mixing bowl, combine flour, sugar, baking powder and salt.  Add the 3/4 cup of milk and the Crisco.  Beat vigorously by hand or at medium speed of electric mixer for 2 minutes.  add eggs, the 1/2 cup of milk, and the vanilla. Beat 2 minutes more.  Pout batter into 2 greased and floured 9×1 1/2 inch round layer pans. Bake at 350° for 40 minutes.  Or bake 35 to 40 minutes in two 8×1 1/2 inch pans or a 13x 9×2-inch pan.

Summer’s gifts


pencil drawingHome is where I spent my summer. Obligations and responsibilities permeated the few months. Reviewing each one on my list reminds me of how generous this summer has been to me.

  • delight at a birthday dinner with my dear friend at a favorite cafe & bookstore
  • reveling in spending a day with my sons at the National Gallery, Hirshorn Museum, & Freer Gallery of Art
  • the spouse and I – driving along highways in companionable silence –  visiting family in Pennsylvania, and a day-trip to the Queen’s Anne County Fair in Maryland
  • feelings of freedom by giving away furniture, kitchen goods (pottery, dishes, pots & pans), books, & throwing out the junk
  • intense gardening and yard work leaving a sense of deep satisfaction
  • revising ZiaClara
  • thrill of splurging on the building of a small stone and slate patio & walkway
  • relief at having the piano tuned so I can finally play it
  • and, gentle minutes spent in intimate coffees at the new, local bakery or surrounded by the lush garden in mornings on the porch with friends and neighbors
  • an cozy evening spent with women friends sharing book titles, gossip, and support
  • reading good books of my choosing
  • hearing sounds of the evening cicadas and midnight  “Ooooing” of a visiting owl

As I enter into autumn and  a new school year, I have cleared away the technology – laptop, phone, cords, cables – from my drafting table. My newly purchased set of color pencils sit next to an old sketch. This room will hold the slow pace and easy peace that I am leaving behind with the dark, dry seeds of my sunflowers. I plant them here. They are in shades of blue, green, orange, violet and reds. This garden will bloom indoors during the chilling months ahead. Evening blossoms. After the frenetic push and pull of the weeks and months that I know are ahead of me, I will retreat into this room. When the cicadas lie sleeping, and the dusk quickens into night, the generosity of summer will spill carelessly into my world.

In college I read The Little Prince in French. Now, my eighth-grade students read it en français. The three, 5×7 calligraphic pieces were created by me more than a decade ago.

Working as an artist meant trying to sell work, and so the quote, being quite popular, was fair game.

Looking back, and thinking about my very young students struggling with translation, I am sad. Like le petit prince, I have the moments of disillusionment. Is the magic of words, or the intrinsic need of art-making subject to structured pedagogy and commerce  – two artificially constructed forms of human behavior? Where is the time to develop a love of reading, of experiencing words without the arduous task assigned? Where is the ability to create art without the need to produce a livelihood?small paintings

You3Have I loss my stamina for both – teaching & art – as I age?  I remember a time when being “in the act” of both filled me up. This year how do I live in the moments of these without the drag and pull into the orbits of the mundane?

While loss is my theme for this summer, pondering life on my planet sustains.

“Look up at the sky. Ask yourselves: Is it yes or no? Has the sheep eaten the flower? And you will see how everything changes…And no grown-up will ever understand that this is a matter of so much importance.”

de Saint Exupéry, and Katherine Woods, trans.  The Little Prince. New York: Harcourt Brace & Company, 1971.  Print.

Cooking: the books


Italian cookbookOne of the more mundane tasks set aside for our family this summer is downsizing..one small area at a time. It is the only way I know to maintain any semblence of good humor. Today, the spouse and I tackled the print cookbooks.  Many were “handed down” or gifted from family and friends decades ago. Moreso, there are recipes with handwritten notes and dates – or even a drawing of a “skull & crossbones”  next to a particular cookie recipe (which I will not share with you).  We sit and reminisce, laugh, and sigh. It is time to let someone else find their memories here.

250 Irish Recipes: Traditional and Modern. Dublin: Mount Salus, 1962. Print.
This was given to us by my in-laws. My father-in-law always envied those of Irish descent. So when they traveled to Ireland, this little books was carried back by my mother-in-law.  She was a fabulous cook who studied with James Beard and others. Why we have this book, I have no idea as neither my husband or I even cooked one recipe.  Perhaps it was just a reminder – a link to our parents – a time gone by, and “Garlic Cough Syrup” should we ever need it!

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