Teaching art with itty bitty students, exploring creativity, finding new passions and purpose, and enjoying the progress of my three greatest works of art out there in the big world.
10/21/12
Easter blizzard of 1873
Penmanship at 74 years of age
28th Regiment Illinois Volunteers
© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder
10/19/12
Ox team mired in mud
© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder
10/17/12
A great-great-grand procrastination
© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder
9/12/12
Little Ms. Muffet finds gregarious, tufted caterpillars
MILKWEED TUSSOCK MOTH
Milkweed Tiger Moth; Milkweed Caterpillar
So, tell me again, what is a tussock?
tus·sock (t
Ms. Muffet had a tuffet. Is that like a tussock, or like a hassack? Is it a grassy hillock or knoll?
Grandma never called the hassock an ottoman. I'm sure Miss Muffet never sat on Grandma's hassock. Time for a check with Wikipedia:
A tuffet, pouffe or hassock is a piece of furniture used as a footstool or low seat.[1] It is distinguished from a stool by being completely covered in cloth so that no legs are visible. It is essentially a large hard cushion that may have an internal wooden frame to give it more rigidity. Wooden feet may be added to the base to give it stability, at which point it becomes a stool or a footstool. If the piece is larger, with storage space inside it, then it is generally known as an ottoman.[2]dral Hassock has special association with churches, as it is used to describe the thick cushions employed by the congregation to kneel on while in prayer. [3]
has·sock
noun \ˈha-sək\Definition of HASSOCK
Not to be funny, but I have been wondering who invented the term "grassy knoll", a phrase that surely says Dallas. Urban Dictionary calls the phrase, among other things, "a metaphor and a source of irony when referring to a suspicion, conspiracy, or a cover-up of some type."
Alas, I must go to work without solving the age-old question of why tuffet doesn't rhyme with buffet.
© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder
6/1/12
Decoration Day
Last Sunday evening I was trying to find old photos of hanging lamp fixtures in Carnegie Libraries. Don't ask why. Instead I tripped over this information about my grandparents from their gravestone at the Prospect View Cemetery in Pierce County, Nebraska.
Halma has been an incredible inspiration through my life as strong, smart, hard-working, creative, thrifty, perfect mother-in-law, generous hostess and cook extraordinaire. The legendary figure of Adolph has been held up to me in teaching stories of honor and principles, although it has been tough to get a sense of the man who was my grandfather.
My other grandparents are buried in Fort McPherson National Cemetery near Maxwell, NE. Fred was a First Lieutenant in the U.S. Army in WWI. We shared an interest in polished rocks and western outlaws.
1896-1977
March 24, 1896 Stamford, NE
November 7, 1977 McCook, NE
EFFA DALE GOSS CLARK
1894-1988
October 7, 1894 - February 6, 1988
Daughter of Paul Goss 1869-1951 and Minnie Rachel Wehrman Goss 1872-1959
10/6/11
Bohemian Girl
How can writing be so epic and spare at the same time? The story is an inch wide and a mile deep.
The word for today is "tableau":
9/20/11
Skinny as a rail
Last Thursday after a truly restoring walk near the creek at MY nature preserve, I startled a critter in the trees. Expecting a glimpse of a quickly departing cottontail, I was surprised to gradually focus on a long-necked and slender brown bird mincing around in the underbrush. It held its funny, short yellow tail up as it walked like the handle on a gravy boat
My photos of the mysterious bird were miserably unenlightening. No amount of zooming in or fussing with the contrast could reveal the bird's ID. Pouring over my field guides, the bird looked like a rail, Virginia or Clapper. Scrolling the bird checklists, any rail is an unlikely visitor. I know my kildeer and plovers, and this isn't one. A sora? Maybe. Not a woodcock, I think. It does not work for Mr. E. H. Harriman of the Union Pacific Railroad. Butch and Sundance are not dynamiting his train car.
This is my grandma, Halma Fern Burkhead Mastalir. Skinny, but not "as a rail". She was not a bag of bones, as she had way too much spark. She was so skinny she was nicknamed "Slats".
Do you think E. H. Harriman would get himself killed for you - Woodcock?" To get at the safe and its money, an explosive dynamite charge blows a large hole in the wall of the railroad car, injuring Woodcock. Concerned, Butch revives the bloodied agent on the floor of the car: "Woodcock, you alright? Hey! Whatever Harriman's payin' ya, it ain't enough.
This may be a combination of "skinny as a rake" and "thin as a rail".
© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder
2/7/11
Knit one purl one vote one poke one
From the drivers seat I couldn't tell if my sister was texting or knitting in the backseat. We were bringing Dad to Texas in the rental SUV. She texts faster than I ever did knit. She knits because just sitting with Dad makes her crazy. I sit slower than she ever will, but I understand the craziness of just quietly watching Dad go forward and back in his wheelchair.
Knitting needles with no yarn cast on are suspicious in airport security screenings. My sister was sure to start a knitting project before carrying the knitting needles through TSA security. This irks me, somehow. Are women who knit less likely to be terrorists than the nonknitting old ladies TSA wands and xrays daily?
My ex considered knitting a dangerous anti-marriage activity. It irked him no end when I knit through his viewings of VHS videos with gratuitous sex and violence. Knitting interferred with the worshipful and cuddly attention he was due, not that I'm a bitter former knitter.
As I've been reading about the early 1900's I imagine my great aunts, Ada and Emma, in some of the female roles. They could have been daughters of immigrants working in Tiffany's Womens' Glass Studio, and probably would have loved the challenge. Instead they taught school and made hats for women in northeast Nebraska. I so wish I could ask Auntie Em about getting the vote, prohibition, and the vintage Valentines I found in the big black trunk.
© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder
2/3/11
Cedar brakes and drum solos
I'm on the Cedar Brake Loop Trail at the Heard Natural Science Museum and Wildlife Sanctuary, a place where auditory amazement never goes back to the band bus for refreshments during the extended drum solos. The smallest breeze keeps the branches of the cedars in constant percussive improv. It is Hansel and Gretel meet Mickey Hart. Standing still with eyes closed, I tried to imagine a night in the cedar brake, but it's too scary for a young thing like me. It could be the set for a Washington Irving ghost story or Saint Saens' "Fossiles".
Wearing two sweatshirts on our third Snow Day it's hard to believe last Saturday families hiking at the Heard wore shorts, sleeveless tops, and sometimes flipflops. It was over seventy degrees and absolutely perfect except that my camera battery was dead.
A listening walk it must be. Animatronic dinosaurs roared robotically to kid shrieks of joy. Young parents bounced babies in strollers on the boardwalk trails. Dried grasses rustled and crows dominated the airwaves with some sort of complaint always just beyond the next turn in the trail.
What is a cedar brake? It's not a cedar break. Pulling out the old red dictionary I find definition fifteen for "brake"--An area overgrown with dense brushwood, briers, and undergrowth; a thicket. (Related to "bracken" ferns, and "canebrake").
Unable to sort through the various cedar types and junipers, I recognize that the center of the Heard's cedar brake is a monoculture--nothing else grows there. The ground under the trees is mostly mud. Animals and birds seem scarce.
Cedar choppers used to travel from brake to brake cutting down the rot-resistant trees for fence material, or converting it to charcoal. My Snow Day googling has turned up Murray Montgomery's enlightening story of his cedar-chopping family roots. What a hard way to make a living.
Time for "The Other One", an 18:05 track. There's time to reheat morning coffee in the microwave, stir in hot chocolate mix, and be back in time for "Me and My Uncle".
© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder
10/23/10
Gratitude
I'm unpacking the hope chest and pondering the meanings. I have Ada and Em's scrapbook albums and photo postcards of young men in uniform on motorcycles. Other albums show photos of young women wearing fresh, simple, white outfits and eccentric hats. I just don't have time to connect all the dots right now.

This lovely knit garment is Munsingwear size 4 with a dropseat for ease of use in outhouses. Tonight I am grateful for indoor plumbing and Charmin.
Entirely too much of my day teaching preschoolers involves their ability to flush and wash their hands. Thank you, Lord, I don't have to worry about kids managing their dropseat undies or falling into the primitive Port-a-Potty!
© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder
10/19/10
Frills
3/30/09
Masculine, feminine, and young
At the same time, my middle son has questions about his Bohemian ancestry. Our family is traced back to a person referred to as The Unknown Liska. "Liska," I told my son, means vixen. "Vixen" means foxy lady to males of a certain demographic. It took some effort to clarify that a female fox is called a vixen in the same way a female horse is called a mare. ... hen; ewe; cow; sow.
At least from 1970, "vixen" was slang for an attractive female that might do harm. Earlier and more traditional dictionary sources suggest quarrelsome, malicious, ill-tempered, and shrewish without the attractive connotation.
The Online Etymology Dictionary helped me understand that the "v" spelling used to be "f" until the late 1500s:
O.E. *fyxen (implied in adj. fyxan), fem. of fox (see fox, and cf. M.H.G. vühsinne, Ger. füchsin). Solitary English survival of the Germanic feminine suffix -en, -in (cf. O.E. gyden "goddess;" mynecen "nun," from munuc "monk;" wlyfen "she-wolf").
Thank heaven! Otherwise I would have to explain the Texas expression, "I'm fixin' to go get some sweet tea and chicken salad."
A male fox is sometimes called a dog-fox. Fox young are called pups, cubs, or kits by different sources. In Paul Galdone's version of Henny Penny, Foxy Loxy's family includes Mrs. Foxy Loxy and the little foxes in order to circumvent the entire vexing problem.
I'll have to read Patricia McKissacks wonderful book, Flossie & the Fox, to the children soon. F or V, M or F, "a fox be just a fox. That aine so scary."
© 2009 Nancy L. Ruder
3/25/09
Pickled Pigs' Feet
My toes are sending frequent updates and protests. They are unhappy. Their working conditions are poor. Their luxury bonuses are not making headlines. They don't care that this corporate executive needs to get some sleep.
My ancestors ate pickled pigs' feet. This gave me some heebie-jeebies as a child. It gives me greater concern now that my toes are so old and vociferous in the middle of the night. Each phalangial knuckle has an opinion. At two a.m. I am open to the idea of consigning the whole bunch of complaining toes to a crock of brine so I can get some sleep.
Like most teachers, I have explained to children that the Plains Indians used every part of the buffalo. Did the Sioux make pickled bison feet?
Dad says pickled pigs' feet were mostly gristle and fat with a little bit of meat. "A tasty oddity; better than head cheese or blood sausage," he remembers.
© 2009 Nancy L. Ruder
12/10/08
Put the candle back!
IN a hectic week the search for plastic bottle lids may seem somewhat minor, but it was huge. My students are making crazy colored snowpersons for holiday gifts. I saved lids all year, but we were running short. Like any nutty art teacher, I did my grocery shopping list based on the recyclables I needed for class:- Buy juice
- Pour juice into pitcher
- Wash lid
- Recycle bottle
- Take lid to art class
Time was running short, so I went through the condiments in the refrigerator. Poured the lime juice into a glass Ragu jar just to get the green lid. Same with the salad dressing. What year was this tartar sauce made? Ewww! Throw that scary stuff out, but save the lid.
On to the pantry cupboard. Two jars of parsley flakes! Bonanza! Combine them to score a large yellow lid. How long has that bottle of Karo corn syrup been stuck to the shelf paper? You don't want to know how many years it's been since I made peanut brittle.
Now it's slash and burn through the top shelf of souvenir squeeze bottles. I didn't know I had this stuff. Back behind the Tupperware popsicle molds (my youngest child is twenty-one, for heaven's sake!)... Look! It's Grandma's candleholder!
I was doing a double-take. Halma had a candleholder at each end of the big wooden buffet in her dining room in Pierce. For years I've felt guilty because I could only find one of the candleholders. I feared I'd lost the other in one of my moves from house to condo to condo. But now, here was the second one. Had to hold one in each hand to convince myself I still had both.
It's silly, really. They each hold two candles that never stand up straight, and have no particular aesthetic appeal. But at least I wasn't the descendant who was negligent. I didn't lose the family treasure, I just misplaced it behind a bunch of Texas Summer Reading Club water bottles.
A great weight has lifted. I'm lighter than Igor without his hunchback. As Gene Wilder so emphatically instucts Teri Garr, "Put the candle back."
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder2/11/08
Migration in a handbasket

Kitty Fisher found it
Nothing in it
Nothing in it
But the binding round it
During preschool group time I read the kids a Joanne Ryder book and talked about wild birds flying south for the winter. No, the kids insisted, they fly Southwest. Wanna get away?
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

















