2022 Update: we will keep last year's art here for your enjoyment as we add new contributions.
Each year we share the art and craft talents of our congregation. This year in order to keep our community healthy we are presenting their gift virtually. This page is a virtual gallery and we hope you enjoy scrolling along. We continue to update it so don't forget to check back!
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• 2021 Contributions below •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Perhaps we can start with some performance worship art. Pastor Renee led virtual Beats Of the Bible sessions were Bible passages were taught in conjunction with African drumming.
Enjoy some of Amy L's rugs.
|Colorado National Monument, rug hooked tapestry (24x48 in) by Amy Lindsay, designed by Paul Lindsay for grandchild, Oakley Graba, daughter of Lowry and Kyle Graba|
From Tara: I first did paper filigrees as a child and decided to pick it up again recently as a distraction and a form of therapy from the troubles of the world. Today there are all sorts of helpful tools and templates to do a paper filigree of just about anything. And you can get the strips of paper in a myriad number of colors and in several different widths so that creations can be made three dimensionally. Compared to the costs of other creative pursuits, paper filigree, also known as paper quilling, is quite inexpensive. The term quilling comes from the use of feather quills (to twirl the strips of paper around) several hundred years ago when this art form came to be.
The title of the fawn photo is “First Day” (the fawn was blatting away only 40 feet out from the front of the house because its mother had left to feed. I had gone out to have a talk with the little guy because a bear had been seen in the neighborhood the day before and he needed to quiet down. He did. For a while anyway but then hunger got the best of him and he started blatting again. The doe came back after dark and in the morning they were both gone. I could see where the fawn had stumbled around in the leaves while nursing.)
|First Day, Neil E.|
August 9, 2020
75 years ago today, the United States dropped the second of two atomic bombs on the city of Nagasaki in Japan. Very shortly after that, Japan capitulated and the long and costly war in the Pacific was over. My Dad, Gerald English, was a young Gunners Mate aboard the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay on September 2nd 1945 when the peace treaty with Japan was signed.
In 1959 I lived in Bartlett, New Hampshire. My parents operated Silver Springs Lodge and at nine years old, my job was to rent the 21 overnight cabins to the tourists coming down through or going up through Crawford Notch. I would show a tourist family an appropriate sized cabin and then patiently wait while husband and wife conferred about the $4.00 per night price, the bed arrangement, the cleanliness of the cabin, etc. etc. When they balked at any of the above I would calmly mention that the next motel and cabins were located above the notch in Fabyans, 21 miles away. That usually clinched the deal and the $4.00 would change hands. I was quite proud of my hard sell tactics because it was important to fill as many cabins as I could each night so my family could make ends meet. We closed for the season right after Columbus Day and it was, indeed, a long, hard winter.
I remember one couple who didn't go through the normal husband and wife conference after I showed them cabin number 12 perched on the south bank of the Saco River. The deal, however, was consummated and I helped them unload the suitcases from their station wagon. More potential customers were waiting so I couldn't dally long.
The following morning, my Dad came to me and asked if I would like to guide the couple in cabin number 12 on a day hike up Cave Mountain. Cave Mountain is located on the southern end of town across Route 302 from what would eventually become the Attitash Ski Area. I jumped at the chance.
The following poem was written in 2008. I did not know of the word "Hibakusha" when I was nine years old but the memory of that day has had a life-long profound effect on me.
Cave Mountain, 1959
I don’t remember the entire summer day.
I only remember snippets,
like misshapen cutouts pasted
in a hastily assembled scrapbook.
I remember how metallic
the cargo compartment seemed
in the blue, ‘55 Chevy station wagon.
I remember the dust-choked trail,
the wilted Indian Paintbrush bending low.
I remember guiding Bill
and his war bride, Aiko,
to that Cave Mountain cave . . .
I remember Bill telling me that Aiko
had been completely non-verbal
since that terrible August day in Nagasaki,
when a sun’s flash had wilted more than flowers,
but that he had married her anyway,
brought her home to Stateside
hoping she would one day recover.
At nine years old, I didn’t know
how all the puzzling pieces fit together.
But today, I remember Aiko
staring out of that cave,
her shaded, vacant eyes
searching the distant horizon,
her delicate head panning back and forth,
back and forth.
Though forty-nine years have passed
since that fragmented scrapbook of a day,
I can still see Aiko
searching for what
the “Fat Man”
July 31, 2008
Johanna C shared these beautiful photos
|Happy hour on the pond|
With the Vietnam War winding down, U S Naval Advisors were sent in to accelerate the turnover of logistics to the sailors of the South Vietnamese Navy. Most of the GIs sent in-country had derogatory names for them; Gooks, Zips and other monikers too crude to repeat.
But the advisor viewed them differently. He viewed them collectively as students, as colleagues, as . . . brothers. He respectfully called them his V Ns, short for Vietnamese. With that ever present familiarity, came the lead-heavy responsibility to keep each and every one of them safe from harm.
While driving home from work a while ago, I heard this untitled poem on National Public Radio written by a guy named Mike Cessions:
You’re wrong about scars.
They’re not where you got hurt, they’re
The places you healed.
If only it were that simple for psychological scars.
There are some scary things in life that lurk just below the surface, like land mines, whose only purpose is destruction of body and soul. Unfortunately, it seems, some of those scary things, just like the land mine itself, have no expiration date.
His V Ns screamed into the boat repair shop, flip flops flying,
kicking up fiberglass boat dust on a simmering tropical afternoon,
yelled, “Lua! Lua! Lua!”
hopped on the fire truck
wherever they could find a spot,
two V Ns on each running board.
(The one in front hung onto the mirror,
the one behind hung onto the one in front.)
Each man more than eager to fight an actual fire
instead of all the imaginary ones in training drills.
More V Ns pig-piled up onto the pumper’s hose deck.
When the advisor slid into the cab, the VNs were all smiling, laughing,
like they were going to a pig roast or something.
To fight an actual fire can bring on such an adrenalin rush!
With three V Ns crammed in the cab beside him
the advisor started the truck, burst out the boat shop door
not know exactly where he was headed.
One V N hit the siren,
another flipped on the flashing lights.
Smoke filled the sky on the southeast corner of the base,
near the canal, way out on the perimeter.
Eight foot tall elephant grass blazed, raged out of control,
flames licked the lower sky twenty five feet high.
The advisor stopped the truck upwind of the blaze,
one V N took up his appointed station at the pump controls.
The advisor quickly molded eighteen men into two attack teams,
quelled the petty bickering about who would hold the nozzle
by settling on each man taking a five minute turn.
With two hoses charged and nozzles on fog, all entered the fire,
doused flaming elephant grass as they advanced.
Twenty minutes in and four changes of the point men completed,
the advisor glanced down at the rubble,
the blackened stubble of stalks at his feet,
eyed a small metallic sign lying flat on the ground,
smudged black with soot,
skull and crossed bones across the top
with three capital letters across the bottom.
M I N exclamation point. MIN!
And he was reminded that in this senseless game of war,
some still played for keeps!
He yelled “HEY!” in American.
Pointed to the ground,
threw both arms up in mock explosion.
They were nineteen men in the field.
They needed to extricate themselves.
Still as storks in a marsh,
all Vietnamese eyes fell on the now silent advisor.
Where should they step?
And where, just
where should they drag
that heavy hose?
May 1, 2016
|Bittersweet by Leigh E.|
|Home School Hotrod by Leigh E.|
And finally we have a painting of Alden leaving for the Technical Institute in Concord this fall where he is taking auto mechanics. The ’30 model a roadster hot rod was built by his mother, Lisa, and is powered by an early Ford V8 flathead . (She races it whenever she gets the chance.) There is no heater in 603, so one has to bundle up especially in the fall. The blue and white ‘64 Ford pickup truck in the background belongs to Alden and is the first vehicle he painted by himself. Leigh gave the two hot rod paintings to the boys for Christmas.
|Senior Year Commute by Leigh E.|
GOD THE MASTER WEAVER
OUR GOD IS LIVING IN ANCIENT STEADFAST THREADSMALLEABLE, MORPHING AS OUR WORLD PERPETUALLY EVOLVESURGING US TO LET GO OF APRON STRINGSSO TO LAUNCH SOULFUL UNIQUE JOURNEYSHE MENDS FRAGILE HEARTS WHEN CALLED UPON WITH GOLDEN SPECTRAL DESIGNS INTO NEWER BETTER FASHIONSDARNING OUR SOCKS AND MISTAKESWRAPPING RAINBOW THREAD AROUND OUR POINTER FINGERS AS A GENTLE REMINDER TO BE AND DO GOOD IN HIS WORLD AND TO NEVER FORGET AGAPEHEALING WITH INDESTRUCTIBLE SUTURE FROM OUR INSIDES OUT TO HOLD US TOGETHER TENDERLY WHEN WE FALL APARTWAITING FOR YOU AND ME TO SIMPLY BOW AND BEND IN PRAYER IN ORDER FOR HOLY SPIRIT TO TRANSFORM US INTO UNIMAGINABLE MAGNIFICENT TAPESTRIESIF ONLY WE ARE WILLING TO SHED OUR DULL EARTHLY EGO CLOAKSALLOWING HIM TO WEAVE OUR COLLECTIVE HEARTSTRINGS INTO THE MOST AMAZING TECHNICOLOR DREAMCOATWRAPPING FLEECY HOMEMADE PRAYER SHAWL AROUND THIS SUFFERING GLOBEFROM THE SNUGGLIES OF OUR BABYHOOD TO THE WORN POCKHOLED VELVETEEN RABBITS OR TEDDIES AS WE GROWTO WEIGHTED COMFORTER ANTITHUNDER BLANKETS OF OUR ADULTHOOD TO THE SHROUDING LIFESTORY QUILT WRAPPED LOVINGLY AROUND US AT OUR DEATH, GOD IS OUR FOREVER MASTER WEAVER WHO WILL SEE US OUT WHISPERING ON THE WIND “WELL DONE GOOD AND FAITHFUL SERVANT”
Theresa L from town made the fairy house and my sister made the Vermont cozy couple. Her name is Paige Prichard Kennedy and every year I contribute something from her. She was a well-known artist from Nova Scotia who died for two young of a blood cancer in 2012
We also have a few beautiful items from our accomplished professional artist Susan P.S.
|“West Coast of Ireland” watercolor |
|“The Hike” watercolor 2020|
|Stone Church, Newmarket, NH|
|A friend's cat|
Catherine modeling a 100% natural wool scarf knitted with each section showing a different cable pattern.
Charlotte’s Dutch apple pies for the Christmas bake sale
Afghan crocheted of Simply Soft acrylic yarn. Approximate size 50” X 70”. Mary Ann
Home grown Roast Lamb
Roasted carrots and onions
Chef: Alden D
LINUS Project blankets made of cotton and synthetic materials. Hand tied
Cream colored knit baby blanket of synthetic yarn for neighbor’s baby girl.
Pattern title: BLOCKS
Purple crocheted prayer shawl for my sister. Made of home spun wool
Photo caption: "Suspicion"
Photo credit: Kat Valade Magoon
Wonderful! Loved it all! Molly, you are becoming a virtuoso!
Thank you all who contributed and Chris and Peggy for the ingenuity to make this happen. Love each entry! Grateful!!
This is Tara B B by the way.
And thank you very much Mike Magoon for videotaping our Beats of the Bible presentation! Participants were Anna Carlson, our drumming teacher,Pastor Renee, our Bible verses instructor, Emma and Lilly Perry, and me, Tara B B. We have much fun together. Please join us on zoom on Saturday afternoons from 3:30-4:30 by letting Pastor Renee know of your interest.
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