A thick bank of fog brightly fills the view from my window. I can barely make out the light gray silhouettes of distant palms and poetic eucalyptus trees. Today is my last full day in “sunny” California; tomorrow I’ll return to Texas. We lived in Northern California for a decade, and our kids were born in Berkeley. But alas, we moved to escape excessive taxes and other issues that were deteriorating our quality of life and our bank account. But I have to admit, as I rode down the freeway near our old house and saw Mount Diablo, the massive mountain in our area that I frequently painted with friends, I found I had a sentimental tear in my eye. Since I started painting, I’ve always wanted to live where I was inspired to paint. California provided me variety in droves. We were an hour from an amazing and colorful city, and two hours from the Carmel coast, with giant rocks, crashing waves, and beautiful cypress trees. Or in another direction, I could be in the High Sierra surrounding Lake Tahoe. I used to fly to these places as a tourist, but living here was different. On this trip I

I wish today was raining and cold. Instead it’s sunny and warm, almost the perfect summer day, no signs of fall weather other than the view of decay in the leaves surrounding our little island camp in the Adirondacks. Instead of packing up and leaving, it’s a day that feels like we should be waterskiing, canoeing, or painting in my little wooden electric boat. But I’ve done those things throughout this summer, which seemed to go by faster than most — we normally leave here much later in the fall. The loons are calling out, in their eerie way, as if to say goodbyeeeee, we’ll miss youuuuuuu. See you next springgggggg.  Texas Tea Like an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies, we’ve made a couple of trips with the boat stacked with all our stuff, our bags, our summer projects, and some of our kids’ stuff. I packed up some of the machinery in my woodshop and all of my painting gear, plus a dozen or so paintings I want to take home to finish for an upcoming show. Our little outboard can barely keep up as we chug across the lake with stuff stacked high. Thankfully no boats are making

The screen door makes a creaking sound as the spring pulls. Suddenly it slams behind me, making that familiar and somehow comforting sound I remember from my grandparents’ farmhouse when I was 3.  Coffee in hand, I make my way to the dock, carefully plop down in my original 1901 Westport Adirondack chair, left over from the original owners. I’m reminded that it’s in need of some loving care in a couple of spots where the wood is starting to rot after 123 years of spending summers on the dock. If it could talk, the stories of lake life, old wooden boats, and long, non-revealing bathing suits would be wonderful. One such story is of a woman whose giant diamond slipped off into the muck of the lake a hundred years back. The tale has attracted divers for a century, but the diamond is not to be found. Or when the house by the dock caught fire and burned to the ground, leaving only the giant fireplace, which is still there, warming the patio where the house used to be as we make s’mores.  Signaling Fall Suddenly the tone of everything around me is warm orange and yellow. The weeds

The glitter of the strong morning sun is blinding as it reflects in tiny bright ripples off the lake here at the dock. Its warmth is comforting, and though this feels like a summer day, hints of color are starting to show on the brilliant yet dying leaves as temperatures drop each night. Someone once said if you think fall leaves are dead, watch them dance when they twirl in a brisk wind.It may still feel like summer, but the lake has changed. The old wooden Chris-Crafts rarely rumble by, and there are fewer and fewer kayak and canoe sightings. Only occasionally do old metal outboard fishing boats cast their lines in the water. The lake is quiet and calm, and most of our summer neighbors have returned to their busy lives. Last night I noticed that most of the dock lights across the lake have been switched off, and the lake is feeling lonely, especially with the melancholy sound of loon calls that echo across the empty water. “All at once, summer collapsed into fall.” — Oscar WildeBut with the new season come new opportunities, and our rapid slide down the hill to Thanksgiving and Christmas. Is it my imagination, or is

Laughter echoed across the lake. The sound of giggling children jumping into the water lasted all day. That night around midnight, teens were heard singing loudly, having a few moments with friends they’ve known their whole lives.  The soft putter of an old motorboat rings in my ears this morning. The scene is an old man fishing with a young boy, probably his grandson. I instantly flashed back to countless hours fishing with my Grandfather Walter in his old rowboat. These are the sounds of summer.  Growing up in Indiana, summers passed too quickly. But they were the best of times, the best memories ever. Downtime away from school, and uptime with friends and family.  We would hit the water first thing in the morning, stay in it all day, breaking only for burgers on the grill for lunch, Popsicles as many times as we could get away with, and dinner, which was usually more burgers. Then we would be back in the water or on the water, hanging with lake friends we didn’t see any other time of year. Being able to boat by ourselves was a freedom I only felt again when I got my driver’s license. In

Describing paradise isn’t possible. The feelings permeate your entire soul. How do you describe the feeling of the warm sun on your skin as you lie on the dock absorbing its rays? Or the feeling of seeing a giant nesting eagle almost within reach as you boat past her in a kayak in waterlily- filled waters? Or a hundred varieties of rich greens, all in one place, in view against the subtle purples of distant mountains? I feel blessed to be spending my summers here in the Adirondacks. Lucky You “You’re lucky to be able to spend all summer in a place like this,” said an acquaintance. Blessed yes — lucky, maybe. But everything I’m experiencing had little to do with luck and everything to do with a deliberate plan I began making after a frustrating turning point. As it turns out, most of the good things that happen in life are born of frustration and the desire to change those feelings and overcome the limitations that cause them. Limited Time Once I was exposed to this paradise — thanks to the vision of my father, who found it and moved here for his summers — I was so in

When I speak of my view, looking out at the fog rolling over rows of distant pines; when I describe the loons cooing, with their eerie calls bouncing off the distant water and echoing back; or when I articulate sitting in the screened porch, 140 years old and with the original wicker couches and chairs that squeak every time I shift my weight, I do so to help you escape for a brief moment to take on my character and place, so my words might be understood from a different perspective … my perspective.  From some of you who occasionally open my weekly e-mails, from time to time I get questions. There have been more lately. Possibly because I say what I’m thinking about, without thinking about signals it might send.  Are you OK?  That’s a polite way to ask if I’ve developed some disease that has ravaged my previously stocky, bloated body.  I set a goal to live the rest of my life under a certain weight and with more strength because the excess was going to eventually cause problems I would rather avoid. Unlike some things that can’t be undone, weight loss can solve a basket of problems.

A squirrel chatters loudly as it jumps across the lace-like tree branches that surround my 140-year-old octagon-shaped porch overlooking the lake. It’s my favorite place — where I have morning coffee, where I read in the evenings, and where I sit to relax during those rare times when I have downtime. When guests come, it’s where most of our chatting takes place, and it’s where I practice my guitar. Sometimes I just sit and stare at the lake and listen to the loons. Unlike June, our first month here at the lake, when things were silent and it was rare to see a boat or a neighbor, the July 4th holiday stimulated most surrounding camps to fill every cabin with guests. It got busy with boats and parties, and now it’s deadly quiet again. But most will be back in another week for the rest of the summer. Some summers at the Rhoads camp are packed with visiting friends, but so far we’ve had no guests. But we’ve had the gift of having all three kids home together, a rarity these days with their busy lives. I told them I’m happiest when we are all together.  Another Lake Another Time

Sprinkles hit the ceiling of the old great room of the home built in 1850, as rain is tapping on the tin roof above my head. I sit here in silence as my eyes gaze around the room in awe of the craftsmanship of intertwined decorative slats, a massive stone fireplace, and a carved star mounted to the ceiling to designate where to find the North Star.  Rich History Worn red antique rugs cover the wooden floors. Kerosene lanterns are mounted to the walls, never removed when newfangled electricity was added. An old fringe-shaded Victorian lamp stands at attention in the corner by the diamond-paned windows, surrounded by furniture made from twigs, an antique chessboard, a stuffed hawk, and a scale model of a classic wooden boat.  This old lake home and its contents have not changed much since the place was built, other than plumbing and electricity added. The long dining room that could seat 20 was once alive with the conversations of the six families who have lived here in the past 170 years and their guests, and it’s my desire to have multiple generations of my family carry on the tradition.  In Search of the ‘Golden Pond’

After several days of open windows and fans blazing during hot, sleepless nights, this morning I’ve awakened to cool temperatures and a sunrise that’s a giant orange ball in the sky, reflecting into the cool blue waters. Red squirrels are chattering, and as I sit sipping my coffee on the old screened porch overlooking the lake, songbirds are playing an orchestral suite accompanied by an occasional loon call.  Whew Finally, I’ve had a chance to relax. I’ve been on the go constantly since March, when I took a group of artists to Japan for almost two weeks, returned home, then off to a family funeral for a few days, then home again in time to host the Plein Air Convention in North Carolina, then home again briefly before a drive cross-country to the Adirondacks, where I hosted 91 painters for a week. That ended a week ago yesterday, and it’s taken me this long to finally get some rest. Even the Energizer Bunny occasionally needs to let its batteries run down.  How Do You Recharge? They say different personality types recharge their batteries in different ways. For me, typically, it’s being social and having lots of contact with others. My

The loons are calling out with their soothing cry as they float by on the calm, glass-like waters that reflect the brilliant pink sunrise and the tall pines surrounding the lake. Baby hummingbirds the size of quarters flit about, frolicking in the air and diving from the nest as they try to pass their flying test.  I’m once again perched on my dock on a hidden lake, deep in the wilderness of the Adirondacks. My home here, built in 1848, is only accessible by boat, and hasn’t changed much since it was built. This is my happy place. Each day here is a gift, and I know summer will fly by fast, just like this year has.  Road Trip The drive from Texas was long, lots of sitting, and as the passenger, my three days of travel were filled with impromptu naps from high-carb fast food along the way. It’s cathartic. I didn’t work much other than an occasional e-mail. I never “just sit.” But I didn’t even try to be efficient with my time, like every other moment in my insanely busy life. But on this trip, I don’t even listen to audiobooks, I simply stare and think as

I’m yawning. I’m groggy. It’s very early, the sun is not up, and the house is shaking from a thunderstorm overhead. I made my way out to the coffee machine, and here we are together this morning, warm cup in my hands, trying to wake up.   When I was a child, I would sit in the garage with the door open, watching the rain and the thunderstorms. I felt safe inside, but I loved the sound of rain and storms. When I was a young adult, I used to dream of one day sitting on my porch with a tin roof, listening to the rain. Today, I’m sitting safely on that porch, watching the rain come in sheets, feeling the ground shake with the thunder, and listening to the pellets of water hitting the tin roof. Sheets of water are pouring down the hill toward the river in the gully. Yet I’m dry, safe, and happy as a clam. At least till I have to load up the car and head to the airport.  Lightning Strike One time I went to Tennessee to see my grandfather’s sister Aunt Maxine, who lived on a farm in Armathwaite. I sat in the

Slam! Crunch! A 1950s-style ceramic bowl went crashing to the floor, spreading milk and Cheerios all over the red-and-white speckled linoleum. Suddenly laughter broke out. It’s hard to know if I really recall my first memories, or if they come from family stories or old photos. My first memory of my mom has me sitting in a high chair as an infant, grabbing my bowl of cereal and putting it on my head like a hat. I can still remember my mom laughing.  My second memory is of us standing in front of our house, me being held in my mom’s arms, and watching our garage burn to the ground. I can still feel Mom’s tears. Life is about the dash. In my mom’s case, the dash came between 1927 and 2019. My mom passed five years ago this past week, on May 7. I miss her every day. What you do with the dash is what matters. The dash is all about moments and memories. Last week, I attended the funeral of my Aunt Phyllis, my dad’s sister and my last aunt, and though it was somber, the memories that flooded back with the stories told by my cousins

Fields of trees filled with pink and white blossoms lined the walkways through Sakuragaoka Park, which is like Central Park for Tokyo. Massive crowds of people treated blossoming cherry trees like movie stars, flooding around to take photos and selfies. Women were wearing colorful spring kimonos; it’s a tradition around graduation time to be photographed with the legendary blossoms, and in some areas men too were dressed in traditional robes. It was like a scene out of a movie. Unfortunately, the blossoms had not reached their peak, and our group of 35 artists hit them a little early, so the trees that were in blossom got more attention than those that were still bare. A return to the same park on our last day was a different story. Everything was in full bloom, and the scene was one of the most beautiful I have ever encountered. It was what I imagine a walk through heaven to be … walls of color against flowing streams and beautiful temples.  Transformation We went to see Japan to visit its temples, see its iconic sign-filled streets, and experience the colorful scenery, but we left transformed, and mesmerized by the culture. Before going, everyone I