We drove the big white truck down sketchy roads, through tight passes, basking in hot springs in the remote desert. Painting, camping, fishing, talking about buying a piece of land with a shack, a creek, views of mountains and not much else. How simple it was then.

Then the foot came down, and we were inching around, as Purcell used to sing.

Late that summer my life came to a kind of halt. Family stuff. Not my family, but close enough to have me deeply entangled, for years afterward.

Did I paint this then? No, I bought spiral bound sketchbooks and filled them with drivel and lists, complaints and yes, ideas, in my unreadable scrawl. Later, much later, I am painting over the bitter tears and nonsense with what should have been. Not too late.