Over two years ago  Skagit Valley Artist Bill Slater passed after a prolonged bout with pancreatic cancer.  We had met at a party and exchanged phone numbers in agreement that I should visit his studio. Time passed and as opportunities often do ..it passed. Finally upon Bill’s death I visited his studio  sadly as a guest at his celebration of life party.

    In rememberance I photographed the whole affair and captured a number of fine portraits that I’ll be posting over the next number of days.

   Included  here is a link to a memorial slideshow I made . My ‘signature’ photo for the Cliffwalk which is the girl on the motorbike  which consequently is on my business cards was taken at this event. The author Tom Robbins “Even Cowgirls Get the Blues’ and Bill were close friends of over 40 years. Two southern gentleman that migrated to Washington State.  The cabin where this studio is located is on ‘Pull and be Damned’ road  near La Conner,Washington USA. Early on after their arrival in the early 70’s Bill was living on this site in a very rustic cabin with no electricty

 or  heat save a woodstove. Bill’s wife became pregnant and in true southern style Tom offered up his house in town so  Bill’s wife wouldn’t be uncomfortable during the pregnancy.  a good share of’Cowgirl’ was written in this cabin.

  Memorial Blog:  http://rverspirit.wordpress.com/

I found this in the little town of Sylvana Washington State USA. Though unable to prescribe to the mindset of the creator (no pun intended),   I certainly have a  soft spot for ‘folk art”  and

   can certainly appreciate  the craftsmanship and creative impulse to bring this  constuction to life.

 This was taken in  2007. I was driving home from work..when possible and time permitting  I would  try and get off on  country roads for the commute  . I came upon  a  recently burned out building ..infact it had  been a matter of days since the catastrophe took place.

  I sucummbed to a morbid lure and pulled off to the side of the road camera in hand. The lawn was strewn with  personal belongings organized by hasty retreat.It had rained overnight and every thing was damp. I suppose there is an irony in this  title……

“Rain on the Scarecrow”

 John Mellencamp

Scarecrow on a wooden cross; blackbird in the barn;
Four-hundred empty acres that used to be my farm.
I grew up like my daddy did, my grandpa cleared this land;
When I was five I walked the fence while grandpa held my hand.

Rain on the scarecrow, blood on the plow;
This land fed a nation, this land made me proud;
And, son, I’m just sorry there’s no legacy for you now . . .
Rain on the scarecrow, blood on the plow;
Rain on the scarecrow, blood on the plow.

The crops we grew last summer weren’t enough to pay the loans;
Couldn’t buy the seed to plant this spring and the Farmers Bank foreclosed.
Called my old friend Schepman up to auction off the land;
He said John it’s just my job and I hope you understand.
Hey, calling it your job, ol’ hoss, sure don’t make it right,
But if you want me to I’ll say a prayer for your soul tonight.
And grandma’s on the front porch swing with a Bible in her hand;
Sometimes I hear her singing “Take me to the Promised Land.”
When you take away a man’s dignity, he can’t work his fields and cows . . .

There’ll be blood on the scarecrow, blood on the plow;
Blood on the scarecrow, blood on the plow.

Well there’s ninety-seven crosses planted in the courthouse yard—
Ninety-seven families who lost ninety-seven farms.
I think about my grandpa and my neighbors and my name,
And some nights I feel like dyin’, like that scarecrow in the rain.

Rain on the scarecrow, blood on the plow;
This land fed a nation, this land made me proud;
And, son, I’m just sorry they’re just memories for you now . . .
Rain on the scarecrow, blood on the plow;
Rain on the scarecrow, blood on the plow.

Shapes of things before my eyes,
Just teach me to despise.
Will time make men more wise?
Here within my lonely frame,
my eyes just heard my brain.
But will it seem the same?

(Come Tomorrow) Will I be older?
(Come Tomorrow) May be a soldier.
(Come Tomorrow) May I be bolder than today?

Now the trees are almost green.
But will they still be seen?
When time and tide have been.
Fall into your passing hands.
Please don’t destroy these lands.
Don’t make them desert sands.

Soon I hope that I will find,
Thoughts deep within my mind.
That won’t displace my kind.

  The Yardbirds (makes me glad I am  a’boomer’)

The Painter of the Night

   Someone called in a report that she had
seen a man painting in the dark over by the
pond. A police car was dispatched to go in-
vestigate. The two officers with their big
flashlights walked all around the pond, but
found nothing suspicious. Hatcher was the
younger of the two, and he said to Johnson,
“What do you think he was painting?” Johnson
looked bemused and said, “The dark, stupid.
What else could he have been painting?” Hatcher,
a little hurt, said, “Frogs in the Dark, Lily-
pads in the Dark, Pond in the Dark. Just as
many things exist in the dark as they do in
the light.” Johnson paused, exasperated. Then
Hatcher added, “I’d like to see them. Hell,
I might even buy one. Maybe there’s more out
there than we know. We are the police, after-
all. We need to know.”