Ok. So this one has kept me up half the night because I wanted to finish it (and post it), but I kept having issues and creative debates with myself. Yes, I do that.
First of all, it’s pretty obvious that I’m on the letter “L” and I’ve chosen Leather & Lace. It’s likely that the term came to mind because of one of the best songs of the 80s (Don Henley and Stevie Nicks for anyone who’s been deprived).
I thought… “what a cool idea to try and incorporate leather and lace into an illustration”. Wrong! Haha. The leather wasn’t too hard, but trying to find ways to depict lace in Illustrator was tough.
I am happy with the girl (what do you think of her turquoise jewelry?) – but I fear my attempts to create something that resembled lace fell short. I had to go with something that looks a little more like a doily. đ
Anyway, since I don’t have much to say about leather and lace, I thought that metaphorical might be the way to go (which was something I should have done for the illustration perhaps).
When I think of leather and lace I think of masculine and feminine, or even something as simple (and non-gender specific) as hard and soft. Haha! Or gentle and tough.
I think that leather and lace might describe the human spirit. We have this gentle side that loves and cares for others – unconditionally under certain circumstance – and then we have this tough side that we put on for protection. Or to impress, depending on the situation.
I think it’s a bit like yin and yang – or personality types – you want the opposites to balance out because too much of one and not enough of the other can cause problems. Too hard, and you shut people out. Too soft and you risk becoming a doormat.
That’s my two cents anyway. I wish I’d thought of something a little more profound, but it’s 3:30 a.m. and I need to hunker down! (that’s my tough side talking).
So… I guess that’s about all for now. Thanks for reading or looking – I hope you enjoyed!
Floyd had just finished locking up when he heard tapping on the door.
âHold on,â he yelled.
The taps turned to thumps, and by the time he reached the door it sounded as though someone was trying to jack hammer their way in. He was greeted by Henry, the gentleman who lived in the apartment above the barbershop, his forehead dripping with sweat.
âHallelujah,â he said, trying to push his way into the shop. âI have an emergency!â
Floydâs blood pressure nearly hit the roof. Henryâs place had flooded several weeks prior, and the last thing he needed was another ceiling incident.
âI need to be somewhere in twenty minutes and my hairâs a disaster.â
Floyd sighed – a little annoyed, slightly amused, and totally relieved that the plumbing was still intact. He pulled the door open and signaled toward the chair.
âOh, hallelujah!â Henry shouted as he looked at the ceiling and raised his hands to the air.
Floyd laughed, finally understanding why everyone in town referred to him as âHallelujah Henryâ. He was quite the talker. In the ten minutes it took to trim his hair and beard, Henry managed to fill Floyd in on the last fifteen years of his life.
Henry grew up in Jagger Hills (where heâd been born), but he moved to Hollywood, in pursuit of stardom, the day he turned twenty. He never said what went on in those years, but people in town suspected that something traumatic happened.
When he returned, at the age of thirty-seven, Henry spent most of his days on Washington Avenue, traveling from Roryâs Pub on the west side, to the Frog & Toad on the east. Leroy, the bartender there, kept a cab on standby – ready to drive Henry home when he was inebriated.
On his âoffâ days, he would lock himself in his apartment – lights off, blinds shut tight, and covers over his head. It was on one of those dark days, some five years ago, that Henry saw the light. He ran downstairs and into the street, his clothes wrinkled and his hair an oily, tangled mess.
Henry got down on one knee, bowed his head for a moment, and then he raised his hands to the sky and shoutedâŚ
âHallelujah, I am free!â
And that was that. Henry never drank again.
Once sober, Henry took on odd jobs around town. He helped out at the church, worked at the library twice a week – putting books back on the shelves – and he did a little gardening now and then for Felicity and Mrs. Peabody.
Everyone knew that Henry was barely squeaking by, but he never complained, and he never, ever, asked for help.
âI think weâre done here,â Floyd said, brushing loose wisps of hair from the back of Henryâs neck.
âHallelujah! What do I owe you?â
Floyd thought for a moment. He imagined he’d be struck with guilt if he asked Henry for money – knowing what he knew about him now and all. Or maybe that was Henryâs plan? Nah. Floyd hated to think that people in Jagger Hills might be manipulative.
That was one of the reasons he had moved to this quiet, small town – to get away from the fraudsters and hooligans that he had to deal with in the city.
His shop there had been vandalized three times, and looters ran off with his brand new, extremely expensive hair dryer. “Who in the hell steals a hair dryer?” He thought to himself.
Floydâs business in Jagger Hills had grown faster than he imagined, and there were days when it took all that he had just to fall into bed at the end of the day.
âThis oneâs on me,â he said, his mind still churning. âI was wondering though⌠would you like a job here⌠sweeping, taking out trash… things like that?”
âHeck yeah!â Henry sang.
They agreed to work out the details later, so Henry could make it to where he was going, and Floyd could go home and get some rest. He locked up again and grabbed his bag.
As Floyd was leaving he could hear Henryâs footsteps trotting up the stairwell, and the squeaking of his door as it opened and closed. A rather large smile came to his face as he heard a muffled roar⌠coming from Henry’s apartmentâŚ
âHALLELUJAH!â
TO BE CONTINUED
So, I’m still having fun! I really enjoyed writing about Henry – my “H” word. When I started the story, the idea that I had in my mind was much busier and more complex – with Floyd’s clients arguing and gossiping inside of the barbershop. It may still get to that point, but for now I’m going where the characters lead me, and they are much more mellow than I imagined. Ha!
I’m doing the illustrations first so that I have time while I’m doing it to think about who the character is and how they might behave. I thought of ‘Hallelujah Henry’ for some unknown reason and I loved the idea of his quirky, constant (but authentic) praise. Maybe he’s a metaphor or a symbol, for how grateful (most) alcoholics are when they finally get sober. Imagine if we all ran around shouting… “Hallelujah!” Hard to imagine, but it doesn’t sound all that bad when you think about it.
I think that’s about all for now. Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story and illustration.
By the way, a photo of Andy Garcia was my inspiration for this one. My son sees the resemblance, but I think that’s because he saw the original photograph that I used as my guide. Maybe you can recognize him in there… or maybe not!
Anyway, I’m off to ponder the letter “I” and I’ll be back soon to write about it.
I thought I’d have a little fun with the letter “D.” One reason I chose Dilly Dally is because I enjoy the sound of it. More than the sound of lollygagging. Another reason I chose it is because – as I’ve mentioned here before – I live with my mother.
Well, she is 86 years old and in good shape for her age, but if there’s one thing that makes her seem old to me… it’s the fact that she dilly dallies. Ok, maybe she’s just slow. But if you ask me… she just likes to take her time.
So, lately I’ve been trying to change my mindset about this. With everything my mother has ever done for me, for my sister, for her grandkids and now her great grandkids… the woman deserves to dilly dally. I started thinking that maybe I should dilly dally a little too. I mean, what’s the rush?!?
I looked around at all of the definitions and explanations of “Dilly Dally,” and pretty much everything I read says that it’s a waste of time. But… how can anyone else know what a waste of our own time really is? Is it a waste of time to stroll rather than to speedwalk? What about hiking? I’ve gone hiking before and I literally had to RUN to keep up with the others.
Why do people hike so fast? To get it over with? I just don’t understand that. I hike to view the scenery, to take photographs, to watch the birds and any other wildlife that might be around, and to breath in the fresh clean air. And there they are… these fast hikers… practically running to get to the top.
When I think of it this way, I see that dilly dallying might be in my genes and perhaps I do it myself- to a certain degree. And if I’m going to dilly dally when I am 86, like my mom, why not get a head start and do it now? So, this coming week I’m going to be more mindful of my speed. I’m going to slow down and dilly dally more – just to see how it goes.
Anyway, I thought it would be fun to do an illustration of someone dilly dallying so I created a woman smelling flowers in Illustrator:
And then I placed her in a garden photograph that I found and added all sorts of paint effects to blend it all together:
I guess you could say that I spent the evening dilly dallying. Ha! I think that’s about all for now. I’ll see you around soon for the letter “E.”
A Sprinkle of Faith 