The window was ordinary.  It was nothing unique.  The kitchen sink was porcelain: basic and white.  The panes on the window gave it a checkered-like look.  The frame was scarred - smudged with fingerprints and more - from years of sliding up and down – controlling the temperature in that room.
 
For hours each day – all through the 1960s, I stood at that window – a gateway to my own little world.  It was my watchtower, and entertainment center all rolled into one.  For ten years, I stood there - often alone.  I watched while I washed.  I observed from afar – and took care of my brood as a mom. 
 
While the window surely was common, the view certainly was not.  The main entrance to the golf club went right past my window.  For fun, I watched for people, driving in and driving out. I would madly try to wave at anyone I knew.  But it was just beyond the road that became my most favorite view.  There, a flag fluttered proudly.  A white number was contrasted against red.  Boldly, it made an announcement.  “You are at the 9th hole is really what it said." 
 
The grass was manicured to perfection.  The green was a sight to behold.  While it was pristine and pretty, it was the people that fascinated me most.  Intermingled within pockets of strangers, my four children freely roamed.  The golf course was their own special playground.  And with their dad as the resident golf pro, it was also their home.
 
Three sisters, ages 11, 7, and 6 - at times playing together, and at others playing apart - always alert to golf balls flying.  Ducking - on instinct - when someone yelled, “fore."  Sand traps were giant sandboxes.  Water hazards were charming little lakes. Hills in winter were great for sledding.  Collecting balls, lost and forgotten was a common pastime. Much like picking dandelions might be for someone else.
 
Often, lost in the tangle of golfers that hovered near the ninth hole, I could spy my daughters’ three-year-old brother.  Attaching himself to a group of golfers – oddly interacting with them more like a peer.  I was spellbound, as he moved with purpose – strategically playing his way through the hole. 
 
There’s no other way to put it, the game of golf profoundly touched my soul.  And, I had a front row seat with a view – through that window - at the ninth hole.  


Note:  "My View from the 9th Hole" is the fourth written portrait from the book Ethel Bausman: A Life Well Lived.

Photo Credit: Image by Angus Fraser from Pixabay
​

The mountain was ablaze.
 
Smoke billowed high above the flames.   Tinder-dry scrub grass, left over from a hot dry summer, became an unlimited fuel source – ready to combust with just one spark.  Powered by fierce winds, showers of sparks spewed burning embers high into the sky.  Raining down and igniting the brush – which scorched everything within its path.
 
Emergency vehicles were perched along the rim of the mountain - 4000 feet above the city of San Bernardino.  The view of the valley below was restricted by plumes of smoke - mixed with varying shades of haze.  Intermingled, and in clear view, pockets of bright orange glowed hot amongst them. 
 
All of this was served as a backdrop to the irregular flicker of red and blue lights - strobing out a chaotic rhythm. 
 
Heading down the mountain, my husband and I were on our way to the bank in San Bernardino.  We were going to “close the deal” on a piece of property.  But, the police barricade blocked our way.   We sat parked in our car which gave us a ringside seat of flames igniting a section of the property that we were on the way to purchase. 
 
The scene was surreal.  

After hours of praying with our dear friends, Bob and Linda, about this purchase, I was bewildered.  We were confident that God had led us to buy the property, yet it seemed to be going up in smoke before our very eyes.  I found myself quietly praying, "Lord, if you don't want us to have it, it's okay with me, but please don't burn it down."

This memory is forever locked in my mind.
   
Yet, little did I know – this was just the beginning of a long line of miracles – where I saw God at work through a place in the San Bernardino Mountains called the Squirrel Inn.

Note:  "Fire" is the first written portrait from the book Margaret Grant & the Squirrel Inn.

​Photo Credit:  Image by Leo Fontes from Pixabay

​Within a six-month period, my life had swung from a season of incredible highs, to a stretch of discombobulating lows.  But, it was within this swing of the pendulum that God taught me a valuable lesson about “seeing layers in life."
 
​I was in my early 30s and my life and career had definition and purpose.   It was the middle of 1985, and I was teaching English to the elite in mainland China.  I was called a “foreign expert."  Parties and events were given for me and my colleagues.  I was invited to attend a banquet hosted by a provincial governor.   I was the guest of honor for a day-long “dragon boat” race festival.  I had the means and opportunity to travel throughout the interior of China for several months.  Never in my wildest dreams had I ever envisioned wandering by myself through Tibet and central China.   

Wherever I went, I stood out.  I drew attention, and sometimes crowds, with paparazzi-like interest.  I was treated as a celebrity.  My movements rarely went unnoticed.  As a result, my ego was really built up.   I was on top of the world.   And, it was a heady experience.  
 
By the time I returned to the United States in mid-fall, I was ready for the next mountain-top experience.  Yet, I needed money.  I also needed to rest and get healthy.  So, I was invited to live with some dear friends.  I borrowed one of their cars, and I shared a room with their newborn.  Since, it was too late in the fall to get a position teaching somewhere, I tried to piece together temp jobs. I was in a very dependent state.  I was lost, and trying to sort out “what’s next?”  In the process, I drifted into a major valley.  
 
I ended up getting two part-time security guard jobs which were in odd situations. The most “impressionable” experience was at an art museum. 
 
I was specifically hired to guard a temporary showing of “the Rothko Exhibit."  As I think about now, China may have actually prepared me for Mark Rothko.  My “tolerance for ambiguity” while living in China was fairly high.  I had learned to “roll with situations” and deal with “unknowns”.   I had dealt for months with guessing about food, language, culture, and directions.  I came to expect “being in the dark."  But, as I transitioned back to the United States, I really didn’t expect the ambiguity to continue. 
 
Yet, surprise!  I was to deal with something else I didn’t understand, nor appreciate.  It was the artwork of Mark Rothko.   And, boy on this one, was I ever in the dark.
 
​Mark Rothko was an American Avant-garde artist in the 1950s and 60s.  His art genre was abstract and expressionistic.  He was a “color field painter." He was known for painting two or three horizontal swaths on the canvas which were heavily textured with layers of paint and color.
 
I spent days somewhat dazed by my predicament.  I didn’t “get it," but I dutifully told people, “Please don’t touch the paintings.”  And, tried to “keep busy” watching the “dried paint." 
 
After a few weeks, I was really bored.  I worked in the afternoons and at times the only people present were the other guards.  To make the time pass, I would position myself in front a painting, and consciously try to appreciate it.  I looked for objects within the layers, and tried to identify something.  I tried to see patterns, shapes, or inconsistencies.  I tried to do anything to help the time pass more quickly. 
 
While I can’t say I loved it, I did start to notice that layering can affect texture and color.
 
My takeaway, besides a paycheck, was in identifying the role that texturing has in art, as well as in life.  I had never really thought about something like paint having a texture to it, yet when layers upon layers were added, the texturing began to take a tapestry of its own. 
 
In the process, I had lots of time to think and struggle with understanding the painting on the canvas of my own life.  I was dealing with the loss of position and prestige.  I was still grieving the loss of my dad three years earlier.  I had to face the reality of my qualifications.  For the second time in my life, I had had a role (teaching) overseas that I didn’t have the credentials to do in the United States.  There was starting to emerge a pattern of gaining experience, and then needing to go back to get the necessary training, qualifications, or credentials if I wanted to continue.   Coming to grips with this was critical.  It was also humbling.
 
As the spring of 1986 rolled around, I felt stuck.  What was I going to do next? 
 
I was starting to learn that God works best when I am uncomfortable.  Unpredictability and ambiguity create a vulnerability that opens me up to consider a different perspective.  It exposes me to new and different layers in the canvas that he is painting in my life.  And, dependency and lack of control builds character and intimacy with him, as my Creator.   
 
It is comforting that God sometimes uses mundane experiences in our lives to give us texture.  The mix of experiences in our lives creates a blend that is unique only to us.  God uses texturing in our lives to shape our journey – and instill messages, purpose, and beauty for others to see him in us.
 
While I wouldn’t want to do it again, I certainly have come to appreciate the perspective that I gained during “my days with art."   It definitely broadened my horizons, which is always a good thing.
 
I also need to say that my days with Rothko did have one hidden benefit.  I was able to make someone’s day on at least one occasion.  I was running an errand, and was briefly invited in the entryway of a home.  As I entered, I saw a painting displayed on the opposite wall.  Without a pause, I blurted out, “Oh, is that a Rothko?”  The reaction I got was ecstatic!  You would have thought I had told them how to find the Holy Grail.  The response was, “Oh, you are the first person to ever recognize this.  I can’t believe it.  I just can’t believe it.  Usually, people say, 'What's that?'   Thank you, thank you.  You just made my day."
 
It just goes to show, you never know when your own seemingly trivial life-experience may brighten up someone else’s day – which, I hope "my daze with art" has done for you, as well.

Note: "My Daze with Art" is the thirtieth written portrait from Randy Carr's collection called Reflections in the Mirror: Looking Back to See Ahead - 1954-1987.
 
Photo Credit:  Williamette Week, November 8, 2016