Lynn's Comments: I got away with this drawing, perhaps because there was no Internet to give me an instant blast for inconsistency: The car isn't backing out of the garage, it hit the frame while driving in!
sunday: Browse The Strips
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Lynn's Comments: My mother had a day of the week for laundry. Rain or shine, she washed on Wednesday, and there was an order to the way she hung the clothes on the line. Sheets, towels, and good clothing was hung first--so it could be seen and appreciated by the neighbours. Underwear and things not meant for public scrutiny were hung closer to the house. These things were easily reached by standing on the rungs of our porch railing, and often fell prey to my brother--whose pranks with Mom's unmentionables were legendary.
After our neighbour's big dog, Teddy, died, their daughter, Tootie (our babysitter), bought a small fuzzy pup, which she called "Noby"--short for "Nobody." Noby was a sweet, easygoing little pooch who put up with just about anything the local kids would do to her. One day, Alan decided to dress her up in Mom's underwear. Noby dutifully stood still while bra and panties were administered. Al expected a wild struggle for freedom, but Noby stood still. Frustrated by the lack of action, Al lifted Noby up and placed her inside a sheet, which had been doubled so it could hang on the lower line. Noby went crazy. She squirmed and howled, and we worried that she'd tear the sheet open. Tootie soon came to her rescue. She pulled Noby out of the sheet, cuffed my brother on the side of his head, threw the bra and panties on the lawn, and went home.
I picked up the underwear and put it back on the line. The sheet was left to dry. Later, when Mom pulled in the laundry, I watched as she folded it. When she got to the underwear, she frowned, wondered why it looked unwashed, but kept on folding. Then she reached for the sheet. There in the middle was a mess of dirt and dog hair. Mom looked at me and said, "Where's your brother?" Alan, of course, was gone. I was close at hand and received the brunt of her wrath. After a thorough tongue-lashing, I was sent to my room--Al had to wait. Nothing was said when he came home, and I was furious. I thought I had taken the blame for everything! Later that evening it was clear that justice prevailed. When Al pulled the blankets back on his bed, there was the dirty sheet. Grossed out and grumbling, he slept on it for a week!
After our neighbour's big dog, Teddy, died, their daughter, Tootie (our babysitter), bought a small fuzzy pup, which she called "Noby"--short for "Nobody." Noby was a sweet, easygoing little pooch who put up with just about anything the local kids would do to her. One day, Alan decided to dress her up in Mom's underwear. Noby dutifully stood still while bra and panties were administered. Al expected a wild struggle for freedom, but Noby stood still. Frustrated by the lack of action, Al lifted Noby up and placed her inside a sheet, which had been doubled so it could hang on the lower line. Noby went crazy. She squirmed and howled, and we worried that she'd tear the sheet open. Tootie soon came to her rescue. She pulled Noby out of the sheet, cuffed my brother on the side of his head, threw the bra and panties on the lawn, and went home.
I picked up the underwear and put it back on the line. The sheet was left to dry. Later, when Mom pulled in the laundry, I watched as she folded it. When she got to the underwear, she frowned, wondered why it looked unwashed, but kept on folding. Then she reached for the sheet. There in the middle was a mess of dirt and dog hair. Mom looked at me and said, "Where's your brother?" Alan, of course, was gone. I was close at hand and received the brunt of her wrath. After a thorough tongue-lashing, I was sent to my room--Al had to wait. Nothing was said when he came home, and I was furious. I thought I had taken the blame for everything! Later that evening it was clear that justice prevailed. When Al pulled the blankets back on his bed, there was the dirty sheet. Grossed out and grumbling, he slept on it for a week!
Sunday, June 8, 2014
Lynn's Comments: Some strips need no commentary. I think this one of the rare ones that, while I was drawing it, made me laugh out loud!
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Lynn's Comments: I was on the periphery of hippiedom during the '60s. Never too far out or too far in, just one of the middle masses who liked the concept of "make love, not war"--but I also wanted to make a living. I had the long hair, the tattered sweaters, the jeans, and the vocabulary, and with this, I fit in. I often hung out with people who did drugs. I talked like they did so they'd think I'd "et" (the in-word for having taken drugs), and accept me as just another "head." I liked being an outcast without the risks! Art school connected me with some very smart, creative, and outrageous people--most of whom remained under cover; people didn't identify themselves the way they do now. The youth of today are more openly different. They advertise their eccentricities. They know how to be cool!
If I were 16 right now, I would dye my hair blue, wear mostly black, have a small tat, and turn my tunes up loud! I'd have a few piercings. I'd do subversive cartoons and improv comedy while secretly planning a career in music and medicine. I'd hang out with the Goths, go to churches, mosques, and synagogues looking for truth and enlightenment. And I'd be a vegan--just 'cause it would bug my mother. I'd backpack in Europe, play my guitar on street corners, write poetry, and ponder the meaning of life. I'd be into the Internet: animating, chatting, and exploring it all. If I were 16 right now, I'd be hanging out with the girls in this cartoon--I like to think they are simply a much younger me.
If I were 16 right now, I would dye my hair blue, wear mostly black, have a small tat, and turn my tunes up loud! I'd have a few piercings. I'd do subversive cartoons and improv comedy while secretly planning a career in music and medicine. I'd hang out with the Goths, go to churches, mosques, and synagogues looking for truth and enlightenment. And I'd be a vegan--just 'cause it would bug my mother. I'd backpack in Europe, play my guitar on street corners, write poetry, and ponder the meaning of life. I'd be into the Internet: animating, chatting, and exploring it all. If I were 16 right now, I'd be hanging out with the girls in this cartoon--I like to think they are simply a much younger me.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Lynn's Comments: I think I've told you that Ruth, my mother-in-law, was a weaver. She must have had three looms going at once and extras for friends who wanted to learn. Thrifty and thoughtful, she kept every scrap of fabric and every piece of yarn. The cut ends from her warps and weavings, called thrums (there's a name for everything!), were kept for stuffing and felting and for birds' nests--which I thought was neat. In early spring, Ruth would go for long walks in the woods and leave handfuls of thrums along the way for the birds to find.
An avid birder, she would then retrace her steps and watch for nests, which had been made with her threads. Determined to see me do the same, she gave me a basket of thrums to distribute. We were well into nesting season, and when I still hadn't thrown the thrums, she began to grumble. Annoyed and lazy, I tossed the threads onto our lawn and forgot about them until the lawn needed mowing. I started the mower and was happily going along when suddenly the thing seized with a loud, metallic THWANGGGGG. Smoke came out from under the cowling with a burning rubber smell. I unplugged the mower and turned it over. Strangling the blade was a broad band of colourful, smouldering thrums.
An avid birder, she would then retrace her steps and watch for nests, which had been made with her threads. Determined to see me do the same, she gave me a basket of thrums to distribute. We were well into nesting season, and when I still hadn't thrown the thrums, she began to grumble. Annoyed and lazy, I tossed the threads onto our lawn and forgot about them until the lawn needed mowing. I started the mower and was happily going along when suddenly the thing seized with a loud, metallic THWANGGGGG. Smoke came out from under the cowling with a burning rubber smell. I unplugged the mower and turned it over. Strangling the blade was a broad band of colourful, smouldering thrums.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Lynn's Comments: Chores were a given around our house when I was a kid. In fact, all the kids I knew had to do something to earn their allowance. It was so unfair. I remember thinking how lucky my parents were to have so much power and freedom. They could, if they wanted to, go anywhere without having to say where they were going or when they'd be back. They had money and jobs and a car. My brother and I were servants! We had do what they wanted us to do, be where they wanted us to be, say what they told us to say, and work! I remember snivelling about how hard it was to pile firewood, weed the garden, sweep the walks. Torture. It was TORTURE!
So, when it was my turn to have the upper hand, I told my kids that it was their duty to help around the house. I gave them a chore list and a deadline. They snivelled and complained, and said the same stuff (behind my back) that I said about my folks. They said how lucky I was to be the boss, to have freedom and power and money. They said how unfair I was and how mean! It took patience, strength and perseverance, but in the end, they too learned to pitch in and lighten the load.
Now my daughter has two kids, and the oldest (age two) complains about having to pick stuff up and put it away. Yeah, the best thing about being a grandparent is watching your kids deal with their kids--who are doing the same stuff they did to you!!
So, when it was my turn to have the upper hand, I told my kids that it was their duty to help around the house. I gave them a chore list and a deadline. They snivelled and complained, and said the same stuff (behind my back) that I said about my folks. They said how lucky I was to be the boss, to have freedom and power and money. They said how unfair I was and how mean! It took patience, strength and perseverance, but in the end, they too learned to pitch in and lighten the load.
Now my daughter has two kids, and the oldest (age two) complains about having to pick stuff up and put it away. Yeah, the best thing about being a grandparent is watching your kids deal with their kids--who are doing the same stuff they did to you!!
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Lynn's Comments: Every year, my folks took us to the "PNE" --The Pacific National Exhibition. This event was huge by the standards of the day. It included, along with the midway, exhibits of farm animals, a flower show, cooking demonstrations, and buskers of all kinds. You could spend a day there and pay nothing for food. Free samples of baking and meats and candy were enough to sustain our family of four!
The day dad took us on the biggest Ferris wheel we'd ever seen, my brother, Alan, and I were stuffed with snacks, corn on the cob, and our favourite: cotton candy (which we called "candy floss"). I was the one with the cast iron stomach, but this day was different. By the time we had ascended to the top of the ride, I was feeling woozy. At the first descent, I was a bilious green. As the chair ascended, my pyloric valve gave way, and I jettisoned a load of carnival chow over the handrail onto the heads of the couple below. It was good to have missed my dad, but the thought of dealing with the victims in the chair ahead, unnerved him greatly. The ride didn't stop for accidents like this, so we endured the cycle--expecting to be taken aside by the people I'd barfed on. They would be getting off first.
As the ride came to a halt, Dad, the least confrontational man on the planet, prepared for the worst. Fortunately, the couple fled to the nearest bathroom without looking back. Relieved, Dad sighed and said, "You're lucky, Lindy. Those folks were understanding. My guess is--they definitely have kids."
The day dad took us on the biggest Ferris wheel we'd ever seen, my brother, Alan, and I were stuffed with snacks, corn on the cob, and our favourite: cotton candy (which we called "candy floss"). I was the one with the cast iron stomach, but this day was different. By the time we had ascended to the top of the ride, I was feeling woozy. At the first descent, I was a bilious green. As the chair ascended, my pyloric valve gave way, and I jettisoned a load of carnival chow over the handrail onto the heads of the couple below. It was good to have missed my dad, but the thought of dealing with the victims in the chair ahead, unnerved him greatly. The ride didn't stop for accidents like this, so we endured the cycle--expecting to be taken aside by the people I'd barfed on. They would be getting off first.
As the ride came to a halt, Dad, the least confrontational man on the planet, prepared for the worst. Fortunately, the couple fled to the nearest bathroom without looking back. Relieved, Dad sighed and said, "You're lucky, Lindy. Those folks were understanding. My guess is--they definitely have kids."
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Lynn's Comments: Doug and Ina Harrison lived on Trout Lake--about a mile down the road from us, close to my in-laws. Ruth and Ina were great friends. The Harrisons' dock was a favourite place for these ladies to sit and have tea, and our kids were welcome, too. Katie and Aaron spent hours on the Harrisons' dock, swimming and fishing, and enjoying the company of Doug and Ina, who became "adopted grandparents." This strip was to thank them for their kind generosity. I gave them the original.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Lynn's Comments: I'd occasionally buy the National Enquirer if I recognized the celebrity on the cover--and cared! I did, however, buy the News of the World regularly. Who could resist headlines like the ones I had fun with in this strip?! The stories were so wonderfully preposterous, I secretly wished I was one of their writers. A few years before this fine rag went belly up, I read a headline that was very similar to "Octogenarian gives birth to triplets" (panel three), and I hoped it had come from this strip!
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Lynn's Comments: I did this Sunday page after I was squeezed in half by a sadistically designed lawn chair. I brought the chair into my studio and drew the exact position it was in when it maimed me. I felt relieved and vindicated even before the art was published. This job came with unlimited and curative benefits. I was jubilant when I took the chair to the dump.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Lynn's Comments: My kids liked most vegetables, so eating wasn't a problem. A cartoonist who draws on family stuff for gags, however, needs the gag reflex of unpalatable foods--and the thing about peas is, they're funny! Squash is funny because of the name, and of course the goofy shapes it can come in. A head of lettuce can be funny, I guess, but peas are made for comedy. They are hard to get on a fork, look like frog parts, and roll onto the floor easily. They are easy to spit, mash, or fling off a spoon. They can be bright or bilious green depending on how "left over" they are, and dogs, for the most part, hate them. Anything a dog won't eat is usually spurned by kids.
I have done several gags about this maligned dicotyledon, and the surprising result is that I have had no complaints. I thought there was a reader out there for every complaint possible, but so far I have heard nothing from pea fanciers, associations, or "protect the pea" movements, and I'm curious; now that I have mentioned this lack of interest, will I finally hear from these people?
I have done several gags about this maligned dicotyledon, and the surprising result is that I have had no complaints. I thought there was a reader out there for every complaint possible, but so far I have heard nothing from pea fanciers, associations, or "protect the pea" movements, and I'm curious; now that I have mentioned this lack of interest, will I finally hear from these people?
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Lynn's Comments: Listening to Katie talking to her dollies, I realized I was hearing myself. Her choice of words, her phrases, inflections, and body language, had all been learned from me. I'm sure I was parroting my mother when I directed my children, and now that I'm a grandmother, I'm waiting to hear if my granddaughter will talk the way HER mother does!
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Lynn's Comments: My folks used to take us to farms in the Fraser Delta for fresh strawberries. Both Alan and I were too young to enjoy picking, but we sure liked eating them. One day when our family was standing at the checkout with our baskets of strawberries, the man at the till looked at my brother with a curious smile. Alan was covered from his mouth to his navel in red juice. The man picked him up, put him on a big metal scale, and announced that he had to charge for the extra weight of the berries inside. He was kidding, but Dad paid him a little extra anyway.
Every summer we went as a family to get fresh fruit in season. In the Okanagan, we got peaches, plums, and apricots. It was a long drive but worth it. Mom canned everything, so we had the luxury of fruit preserves all winter long. Nothing tasted like the fresh stuff, though, and on one trip, Dad said we kids could eat whatever we wanted--so we did! As I said, it was a long drive home. With two kids full of fresh fruit, it's easy to imagine the results. We used the "roadside" washroom many times, with Mom hiding us behind her skirt as Dad looked madly around for paper!
Every summer we went as a family to get fresh fruit in season. In the Okanagan, we got peaches, plums, and apricots. It was a long drive but worth it. Mom canned everything, so we had the luxury of fruit preserves all winter long. Nothing tasted like the fresh stuff, though, and on one trip, Dad said we kids could eat whatever we wanted--so we did! As I said, it was a long drive home. With two kids full of fresh fruit, it's easy to imagine the results. We used the "roadside" washroom many times, with Mom hiding us behind her skirt as Dad looked madly around for paper!
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Lynn's Comments: All of the carpeting in my house is the colour of coffee with cream--it hides the spills!
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Lynn's Comments: My mom could make a casserole out of anything. In turn, I too have no fear of this classic leftover surprise. My friend Kelly once told me that her husband refused to eat leftovers. I asked if she had offered them to him in a casserole. She said, "No, because he'd find out." "What do you think quiche and stir fry and pizza and soup are made of?" I argued. "Bits of stuff from the refrigerator, cut up and fashioned into something ELSE!" She said she hadn't thought of that, and we set about making a great pot of soup out of what was left in her fridge. It was a delicious brew, and her husband ate it with relish (and buns). When he was done, he asked her how she'd made it, and she replied, "soup mix," referring to a mix of stuff from the refrigerator. "Good," he said, "as long as it's not made from leftovers."
Sunday, October 26, 2014
Lynn's Comments: When my brother was moved to his new bedroom in the basement, I thought I'd love having a room to myself. My mother replaced the kiddie curtains with flowered drapes and made a bedspread to match. I had a new dressing table and a white headboard for my bed. It was a room to be proud of. Still, when the trees outside whistled in the wind and their branches made stark, skeletal patterns on the walls, I'd lie there, terrified. Now that I was alone, spooks, goblins, and other imaginary evils were coming nightly to "get me." During one very bad storm, my mother got out of bed to see if I was all right. As she opened the door to my room, lightning shook the house, and the flash turned my mother into a silhouette shrouded in a glowing, transparent gown. I screamed as hard as I could! She never did understand why I was so frightened by her--I couldn't explain what I'd seen. It was something I couldn't describe. This is the way I remember that evening.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
Lynn's Comments: After Halloween, Katie would save up her goodies until Aaron went dry. Unlike her older sibling, she could restrain herself from eating all of her stash at once--which surprised me. Of the two children, she had the sweetest tooth. We even called her "Cake" instead of "Kate" because she liked desserts so much. At the end of October, however, willpower set in. She could hoard her gains in full view, then savour each morsel after Aaron's was long gone. I remember watching him as he pretended not to be fazed by the sounds of crinkling wrappers followed by lip smacking and the sound of "mmmmmm." I was surprised that he didn't pounce on her or ask me for a treat to make up for the discrepancy. He just put up with the injustice, and I wondered when and how he'd get even, because this would come about, guaranteed. Like my brother and me, my kids were creative teases!
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Lynn's Comments: Our house in Corbeil was hidden in quite a dense forest, so leaves and clippings could easily be tossed into the woods or piled somewhere for compost. Our house in Dundas, though (on which the Pattersons' house was based), was in a busy, upscale neighbourhood, where leaves had to be piled, pushed into bags, and left for city workers to remove. After a discussion about the waste we made with plastic bags, I decided to take a load of leaves to the dump myself, but in the back of the car, bagless. I only did this once. It was a nuisance, a mess, and created a lot of work!
Sunday, November 16, 2014
Lynn's Comments: Yes, this happened--and with all the theatrical sarcasm seen here. This was what made our marriage so much fun. We were both able to laugh and make jokes out of just about anything.
Sunday, November 23, 2014
Lynn's Comments: Once again--a true-to-life bit of stupidity became a Sunday strip. It was one of those things that made me say to myself, "What was I thinking? I KNEW that would happen!" Because these events made such good material, I was almost HAPPY to have done something silly! When I could use a situation, make fun of it, exaggerate it, draw all of the expressions, delve into the body language--I was grateful! Knowing this, my kids would try to diminish a situation by saying, "Hey, you can use that in the strip!" Using the strip as an outlet was convenient. I didn't need a therapist; I just poured my thoughts into the ether and waited for the results to come back. Always, there was someone out there who felt the same way I did, someone had had the same experience exactly and could identify. Their letters were wonderful. There's nothing more comforting than knowing you're not alone!
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Lynn's Comments: This was one of my father's "tricks of the trade." He had many ways to make tears disappear. He had stories and sayings and jokes and songs. He made faces, he danced and clowned--we had our own private vaudeville show complete with costumes, music, mime, and verse. He could be silly. He could delve into fantasy as easily as we could, and he saw things through our eyes, something few grown-ups have the imagination to do. Dad was like another kid who sometimes sided with us--against Mom. I remember her telling us and Dad to, "Please--GROW UP!!!"
Sunday, December 7, 2014
Lynn's Comments: How wild your imagination becomes if someone you love is late coming home. You're sure they're safe, but--what if? What if your family is one of those about whom the headlines are written? After all, it's the luck of the draw. Nobody is absolutely secure. Bad things can happen to any of us. In your mind, you go from imagining fatal accidents to acts of violence to kidnapping--all the stuff you see in the movies. Perhaps what we do is prepare ourselves for the worst. Maybe this is a good exercise, but it's often far too stressful and far too frightening.
When folks ask how writers come up with so many weird ideas, I use the "missing at night" scenario to explain: Give yourself a situation in which you have no control, something that could go in any direction--this is when your writer's hat goes on. You want to resolve the situation now; you want to be able to handle whatever happens, and so you let your imagination loose. The next thing you know, you are in the mind of a writer. One small idea bubbles into another. Could there have been an accident?
You visualize this awful possibility: the car, the people inside. Are they on a roadside? In the water? Soon, you're bringing in sirens--an ambulance and police to the scene. You go from imagining the accident to living through the aftermath: the hospital, the anguish, the lives on the line. You argue with nurses, you fight for the right to know. You call relatives and tell them the news. You wait for the recovery, or you plan for the wake. This is how a writer works; even though you're telling a story, you feel as though it's real.
For a writer, imagination is a gift. For someone who is waiting and wondering, it's a nuisance. The good thing is, by the time you reach the most agonizing chapter in your imaginary scenario, your missing person shows up and you have nothing to show for your night of woe but relief. And--isn't that a great way for this all to end?
When folks ask how writers come up with so many weird ideas, I use the "missing at night" scenario to explain: Give yourself a situation in which you have no control, something that could go in any direction--this is when your writer's hat goes on. You want to resolve the situation now; you want to be able to handle whatever happens, and so you let your imagination loose. The next thing you know, you are in the mind of a writer. One small idea bubbles into another. Could there have been an accident?
You visualize this awful possibility: the car, the people inside. Are they on a roadside? In the water? Soon, you're bringing in sirens--an ambulance and police to the scene. You go from imagining the accident to living through the aftermath: the hospital, the anguish, the lives on the line. You argue with nurses, you fight for the right to know. You call relatives and tell them the news. You wait for the recovery, or you plan for the wake. This is how a writer works; even though you're telling a story, you feel as though it's real.
For a writer, imagination is a gift. For someone who is waiting and wondering, it's a nuisance. The good thing is, by the time you reach the most agonizing chapter in your imaginary scenario, your missing person shows up and you have nothing to show for your night of woe but relief. And--isn't that a great way for this all to end?
Sunday, December 14, 2014
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Lynn's Comments: This strip was missing for some reason. All we had in our archives was a newspaper clipping, and it had been edited down to fit into smaller format. Eventually, we did get our hands on a print with the top panels included. I redrew the whole thing (so Kevin could do the colouring and send it to the syndicate) and took the liberty of changing the punch line. What I wanted to do was connect "rat race" and "running through a maze" (like a mouse) with CHEESE! The original punch was weak: "We're having cheese". I mean, other than a rodent, who makes a meal out of just cheese? I think the new ending works better, but it's still a stretch! This is an example of when I had a workable idea but couldn't quite figure out how to word it!