Carolyn Wing Greenlee

I first met Hal Baker at one of the events I did with Milford Zornes and his associate and friend, Bill Anderson, at the Museum of History and Art in Ontario, California. Hal, an enthusiastic, outgoing man, introduced himself to me as Maria’s husband. Maria is Pat and Milford’s daughter. Since I had given Pat a copy of every book I’ve written (because she loved to read, and because Milford shows up in most of my books), Hal and Maria began reading those books. That’s how we became friends. Maria and I found we have much in common, being the daughters of famous men with one-track minds. Our visits are characterized with lots of stories and laughter. And I felt both privileged to hear those stories and guilty because, just as when Milford gave me commentaries on his paintings, it seemed too much of a treasure to be shared with an audience of one.

At our last visit, hearing yet another Zornes story, I asked Hal if he had more of those. He said he had a ton of them. When I said I had a new website and would like to share them, he said he would send me some soon. That night I had four. They continue to come regularly. I intend to share my own as well. I also have a ton of them.

My parents used to celebrate my birthday for one whole week. In honor of Milford’s birthday, this week will be full of Zornes stories. But first here’s Hal telling how he came to have so many of them:

When Maria and I stayed with Pat and Milford at their home in Claremont, California, he would often tell stories, talk about events and tell about his philosophy. I would listen to Milford and when he was done, I would go into our bedroom and write down what he had told me as close to original as I could remember. Even if I did not get the words exact the gist of the story is what he said. My hope was to capture Milford without filters or concern that he was talking to an audience. I wanted original and not prepared comments. I also wanted to preserve those things that would no longer be available when he passed away. My degree is in history and Milford was living history that needed to be recorded. Because I am his son-in-law, I think I caught Milford at moments when he fully shared what he thought.

(now on with the stories):

One of my oldest friends, was master painter Milford Zornes—oldest chronologically because he was 100 when he died, and longest known because he was one of my father’s first patients in 1951 when my parents opened their office in Pomona, California. I worked in my parents’ office so I used to usher Milford to the treatment room and make up his herbs. Milford had been suffering terribly with stomach problems with no relief from conventional medicine when his wife, Pat, saw one of my dad’s ads in the paper and advised Milford to try “that Chinese doctor.” He told me the herbs took care of his problem so he was happy to take them though they were “bitter as quinine.”

I knew Milford for over 50 years, attended both his last painting workshop on his ranch in Utah and one of his first. My parents bought his watercolors for the walls of their offices. Once when I was home from college, my dad said, “Milford has an exhibit down at a gallery in Claremont. Go buy something.” So I brought home “Morning Sun” for $150. For 45 years I’ve kept it, through many moves and many circumstances. Now it hangs over my baby grand piano and I love it still. Really good art is like that—you never get tired of it.

Milford told me that each painting tells a story. I looked at the paintings on the walls of his front room and replied, “Your pictures say, ‘Life is hard but it’s worth it.’” He nodded. “Yes,” he said, rubbing his chin. “I think they do.”

Early in his career, after he had become famous as a member of the California School (or “California Style” or “California Impressionists”) who changed painting in the 1930s, Milford gave up a teaching position at Pomona College to be a painter. He was prolific, selling his work at reasonable prices, always aware that he had no safety net. Towards the end of his life, he told me that his colleagues had been wiser in their choices. They had security—comfortable retirements. But then he started telling me how neither he nor Pat fit in at the college functions. The first year, they were invited to everything. The second year, to about half. The third year, almost none.

I told both of them that I believed they had made the best decision for themselves. There’s something different about being a professor who also paints verses a painter whose sole income depends on whether his pictures sell. Every day you make choices in your work. Will I paint California missions because there’s a huge market for it? Will I continue to paint this style of tree because everyone likes it and knows immediately it’s one of mine? Will I paint only California watercolors because that’s what I’m famous for?

I have 15 Zornes paintings, many of which I’ve looked at every day for years. Though they date from the Forties to the new millennium and are varied in medium, subject, and style, they are always recognizably Zornes. He said self expression is not something to seek in your work, but communication—working to tell the truth of the subject matter in the lines you distill from long, careful observation—that’s communication. He never imposed a style on the subject; he always let it tell him what it was. And he painted it “as it would be if it could tell you what it wanted to be.”

I believe Milford’s work is better because of these daily choices. It shows in his growth and development as an artist and in paintings that have depth and integrity. He was impatient with those who wanted to philosophize about his pictures, searching for meaning beyond the yearning grope for The Truth of the Matter with which he approached each piece. I don’t mean to philosophize. My interest in the effect of his choice to be a painter instead of safe has ramifications for me as a writer. I have no safety net. I’m not writing sex and violence. I’m groping for the Truth of the Matter, letting it tell me what it really means to be if I’m willing to listen.

One last thought. The Chinese value specific virtues, and each virtue is symbolized in the natural world. Bamboo represents the ability to bend with the wind, but it also is hollow—able to receive. It’s not “full of itself.” Another way of saying it is “a black belt with a white belt mentality.” It means you’re willing to be taught. You don’t think you know everything there is to know, even about your own area of expertise.

I  made a special sketchbook for Milford. On the cover was one of his sketches of horses and riders (one of my favorites) and inside was smooth, creamy white, archival, 70# paper—stab bound and tied with raffia the color of wheat. On Milford’s 95th birthday, I presented it to him. He examined the cover, ran his big hand over the luscious paper within, closed the cover, reverently held the sketchbook to his chest and said, “I hope I don’t mess it up.” He meant it too.

For Christmas Hedy got a treadmill. She’s a sturdy, energetic dog and I’m a 63 year-old lady who lives in a neighborhood with very steep hills. Even though I walk her usually twice a day or more, it isn’t enough to burn off the energy of a three-year-old Lab bred for stamina and strength. I figured Hedy would be good on a treadmill because I’d seen “Sniff, the Movie,” with its collection of fascinating dogs and an extraordinarily well-done and informative section on guide dog training. In one scene the guide dog was on a treadmill.

The first day, I started Hedy on a slow speed with her leash loosely draped over the control panel. She wasn’t the slightest bit nervous, and eagerly ate the bits of raw carrot I gave as incentive for her to keep walking. She got lots of praise and attention too.

I soon discovered that Hedy didn’t need a leash to keep her on the treadmill. As soon as she heard the little beeps that signaled that the machine was on, she’d come tearing down the stairs and jump up on the belt, ready to go. We quickly built from 5 minutes to 20. Every day she walked, and every day she was just as enthusiastic about it. When I stopped the machine at the end, Hedy refused to get off. She loved it. I, on the other hand, was getting pretty bored sitting on the floor in front of the treadmill cheering Hedy for walking. She was doing so well—walking steadily with head down, ears floppy, doing the job. Even when she was distracted by the cat, forgot to walk and was carried off the back of the treadmill, she just jumped back on the moving belt and resumed her walk.

After three weeks of cheering the walking dog for 20 minutes straight, I decided to combine Hedy’s exercise with a task for me. I was trying to memorize the words for one of my songs and, because I can be very wordy, I was having trouble remembering the order of the phrases. Hedy was walking along as usual. I got up to retrieve the lyrics from the piano just a few feet away and Hedy got off the treadmill. I coaxed her back on. She walked. I gave her a bit of carrot and waited till she was walking well and then looked at the paper. Hedy got off the treadmill again.

This happened a few more times until she simply refused to get back on. There had been other times that I had to get up to answer the phone or something, and Hedy always got off, but got on as soon as I was back in place. Now she was getting off every time I raised the paper.

I’ve been thinking about this. I’m not a particularly good multi-tasker. Like my dad, I have a severely one-track mind. In fact, I can have laser-like focus when I’m working. The quality of whatever I’m doing goes down if I try managing more things at once, but I figured I could memorize lyrics and give Hedy her carrot bits without either task suffering. Apparently Hedy didn’t think so.

I took December off—to grieve, regroup, and have it out with God. When January came, I was easing into work. Then Dan set up my website and started coming up with ideas that sparked things I’d been wanting to share for decades. I was writing furiously, excitedly. The last things I’d written were obituaries and eulogies. It felt so wonderful to be sharing the tender details of life, the stories of friends, the pictures I’ve wanted to show. And Hedy, who had been my comfort and companion through all the hard stuff, was the subject of my posts, but not the object of my attention.

Today, as I sat in front of the treadmill, I looked at Hedy’s well-shaped, smoothly moving legs; her sweet little nose; her calm, brown eyes. Most of the time I can’t see her eyes—all I can see is the shine of her nose—but in that room, sitting at her height, I see her expressions. She’s looking at me, then glancing at the bowl. She’s checking to see if I’m pleased. “You’re walkin’ so good!” I told her (grammar not being an issue when you’re talking to a dog). I thought of my previous Lab, Velvet, who was almost unable to move at the end. Was it such a drag to spend 20 minutes of quality time with my very own guide dog? She’s not just a mobility tool; we’re a team.

In so many ways Hedy has forced life on me. Today I realized I needed this quality time with Hedy for my own sake. With my vision problems, it takes me a long time to really see something—to comprehend its movement and understand its shape. My friend, master painter Milford Zornes, told me that he studied the subject until he understood the truth of the matter. Then he would draw the line that said “palm tree.”

It’s such a privilege to have this unique relationship with another being. Do I really want to miss the fullness of it in favor of getting a little more done? My parents were always so busy, but at the end they just wanted time with me. With Hedy, I don’t have to wait till the end. I can watch her rhythms and absorb the sense of her. Isn’t that what makes soul mates?

The Next Day:

Sappy ending. It’s true, but trite. We all know that we need to appreciate the people we love and probably miss out on deeper times because we’re busy. I knew this post wasn’t going where it needed to be. It hadn’t reached the truth of the matter. But I just couldn’t see it. At 11:00 p.m., I gave up and headed off to bed.

This morning it hit me. I was sitting at my table, eating a breakfast of savory rice with small bits of free-range chicken with my favorite praise songs on the stereo and the windows giving the whole room lovely light. I was thinking about this post. I was wondering if I should check my email. I flashed on a picture of me sitting at my computer, balancing my nice breakfast on my lap, shoveling mouthfuls in, chewing without tasting while I clicked and moused and answered. And then I knew what it meant.

It wasn’t about the dog. It was about being present. Why do people like video games or white water rafting or jumping out of planes for fun? When you’re fully engaged you can’t think of anything else. You’re in the moment, and in the moment is where you feel fully alive.

I’m rarely in the present. I’m either reviewing memories for books or thinking about the next thing I have to do. I have so many books in the queue that, when I finish one, I barely stop to celebrate before I’m into the next. I’m rarely working on only one thing. No wonder I’m tired! No wonder I keep forgetting to shut off the stove!

But Hedy—she forces life on me. I have to take her out to relieve. Several times a day I see daylight. I walk. And when she’s walking, head down, ears soft, she wants me there too. What is it all about? Life doesn’t have to be boring trudging on the treadmill. When I’m present, paying attention, I begin to notice nuance, shades of sound, characteristic movement, unique style. Then Hedy raises her face and I see the look in her eyes that is her connectedness with me alone. I have given her my time. I have done nothing else but be there with her. Present. And that is my rest and my reward.

It was hard for me to decide what to post today. I have so many stories clamoring that they’re like a bunch of noisy, impatient, pushy people all trying to squeeze out a narrow doorway at the same time. What keeps coming up most, however, is food. These days I’m not cooking comfort foods; I’m not even cooking familiar foods. I’m tossing ingredients together in daring combinations. I’ve been pondering the reason for this. Maybe now that my husband and my father are happily in Heaven and I don’t have to worry about them anymore, I have creative energy to spare. Or maybe I’m working out a different approach to life—one which is not afraid of daring combinations. This website is one of the latest offerings I’ve cooked up.

When I was writing Steady Hedy, I chose to include the trip to Monterey that my friend Stephanie and I made after many years of talking about it. I wanted to show how the training in orientation and mobility I was getting from Blind Services was translating into a sense of adventure and enablement.

When I found myself mentioning the restaurants, I almost cut it out of the story, but I knew those nice meals were really important to me, though I didn’t know why. Here’s where the book goes past the retelling of events into the significance of them. I call it “reading your life.” When something comes up in your writing (or you find yourself back in the kitchen again) what does it really mean? It isn’t always readily apparent, but if you’re willing to sink into the subject—observing without imposing preconceived ideas of its significance, letting it interpret itself—you’ll know. That’s when the writing helps you understand the meaning of events in your life. That’s why I find writing so therapeutic.

Here’s the excerpt from Chapter 2 of Steady Hedy:

Later in the week we visited art galleries and found terrific restaurants. Both filled our souls. There’s something about a really good meal that lifts the spirits faster and higher than just about any other daily necessity. Why is that? When my mom could still eat solid food, my dad would take her to Hometown Buffet twice a week on the days they had the barbecued ribs. Those ribs pleased her so much that even if she was in a very bad mood the taste of those ribs changed her. In a matter of minutes she’d go from depressed and frustrated to cheerful and hopeful. I had theories about the effects of food on Mom’s mood based on the vagus nerve—sort of a neurological reset—but it was different for me. When I was small, my parents had taken the family to many Five Star restaurants and ethnic holes-in-the wall so my sister and I could experience all manner of great food, know how to deport ourselves, be open minded to unfamiliar cuisine, and be comfortable in all manner of places. So when Stephanie and I sat down to fabulous food, I remembered that my world was not small. I saw the truth in what God had whispered to me on several occasions—“It’s not a box. It only looks like a box.” The walls of my future had been closing in on me. Now, in spite of (or perhaps because of) the blindness, I was going and doing, seeing and tasting the unfamiliar. Instead of being trapped in crushing reduction I was breathing in the fresh air of possibilities.

I met Judy at a gas stop when I was on a road trip to the Women Writing the West conference in Arizona. When Judy saw Hedy in harness, she said, “My husband and I donated a dog to a school for the blind.” Many people have told me they raised a puppy for service, but this story surprised me.

My husband Allan was in the army, stationed in Germany (Schweinfurt) in 1957-58 and it was there we found our wonderful Kelly, a German shepherd. When we had to return to the States, our parents told us they couldn’t find a place for us to live that would take a dog (both mothers were terrified) so we reluctantly realized we had to find a loving home for him. So beautiful and smart, we had many takers but we felt if we gave him to the Blindenhund Schule (school for training dogs for the blind) he would find a good home. And he did, completing the course in three months (very quickly, we were advised), he was given to a man who lost his sight in an accident. A year or so later we got a beautiful letter and a photo from Kelly’s new owner thanking us, saying, “”You haven’t just given me my sight, you have given me my life!” We were so happy that this could happen through our precious Kelly.

I know how devastating it is to be suddenly blind, and what it did for me to be able to have Hedy. I am grateful to her raisers, Heather and Amber Findley (and their family), for giving a year and a half of their young lives to create the kind of character and security in Hedy that makes her a confident guide dog. Kelly must have been an extraordinary animal to go from pet to service dog with no previous preparation. And it says a lot about Judy and Allan and the quality of relationship they had with their dog. But I think what touches me most about Allan and Judy’s story is that they chose to place their beloved shepherd where he would be of service to someone in need. In doing so, they gave Kelly a deeper life. I see how Hedy is—so bored if she doesn’t have a job to do, and so proud when she’s out guiding me through the obstacles in our path.

There is sacrifice in a life of service, yet when that sacrifice is made for the sake of someone else’s well-being, there is an ennoblement that can’t be fully explained—I just see it in Hedy and I’ve noticed it in my friends and family who are police and sheriffs, firefighters and EMTs, health professionals, teachers, counselors, ministers, and in the armed services. It takes a special kind of heart and I admire and appreciate each one. I truly believe they give us back our lives more often than we know. Thanks to all who serve, and thanks to Allan and Judy for their gift of love, life and Kelly to a blind man in Germany more than 50 years ago.