Rusty's Beach

My brother Dave

Dave is almost seven years older than me and we pretty much lived in two different worlds growing up.  We had different dads (and different last names) and Dave was born just before the U.S. entered World War II, whereas I was born a couple of years after it was over.

Mom raised us both by herself, more or less, on tips and wages earned as a waitress.  She made Dave babysit me starting when he was about 12 years old, and I know he wasn’t always happy with that arrangement, but he was (usually) a good brother as we grew up. He mostly let me be, but he sometimes teased me just to hear me squawk.  His favorite verbal abuse was calling out, “Hey, Corroded…” which always annoyed me because, unlike “Rusty,” “David” has no such handles to play with.

We did have some fun times.  Once we built barricades with the living room furniture, folded up hundreds of paper airplanes, and threw them at each other, as viciously as possible, both having a great time. Another time he drove my friends and me all the way to the mountains to play in the snow, a real treat!

Dave was athletic and very sociable. He had girl friends in high school, owned a car, and learned to surf when it was first becoming popular.  I didn’t see much of him after I was 10 or so.  Relieved of babysitting, he spent all his time hanging out with his friends. I was the dweeby little brother, but I didn’t pay much attention since I had my own friends by then.

Dave and I both love the ocean. He surfed and swam a lot while I spent more time on the beach, building stuff in the sand or walking, sometimes for miles, to see what might have washed up.

Dave still lives in Southern California, where he has been in the residential construction business since the late '60s.  We talk now and then on the phone, and I get the local surf report.  Whenever there is a big bad storm or giant surf, he always sends super photos and news clippings.  He’s as good a brother as anyone could want.

Playing in the sand

My favorite pastime when I was growing up was building things on the beach.  Sand is a wonderful medium for shaping miniature roads, tunnels, towers, seawalls... and imaginary worlds.  Add bits of wood to the sand, along with other junk found on most beaches, and you can build about anything.

My brother liked to build complicated highways with bridges and tunnels that meandered down the slope of the beach as far as the waves allowed.  His goal was to engineer the road well enough so a tennis ball let loose at the top would travel the whole distance without stopping.  I got to help and it took a lot of tweaking to make it work.

My best friend Chris and I sometimes spent endless hours building model houses and towns in the sand.  We would start something on a whim, and then add to it until there were numerous little buildings connected by roads, bridges, fences, and other architecture. At some point (if the ocean didn’t get it first), we’d invent some kind of disaster that brought it all down. Keep in mind, these were the days before Gameboy!

When I learned to read tide tables, I’d time my projects to the hours just before high tide.  I’d build on dry sand near the water and then watch the waves advance toward my work as the tide came in.  Whole towns were lost to light flooding, then severe flooding, then an annihilating washout which left no trace!  I was probably doing this kind of project when the photo of me on the masthead was taken.

This painting, Stick Ranch Road/Stick Ranch & Big Waves, comes straight from those days.  Endless sand, wildflowers, big surf, bright sun, and mysterious distant islands make this a magical place –- the essence of beach!

Check out the "Stick Ranch" series in the Rusty's Beach CafePress Shop!

My miniature beach

When I was about 10 years old, I had an idea to build what I called a Wave Box.  I put sand in one end and then built a sort of model beach with a boardwalk, tiny houses, a little pier.  I filled the other end with water and used the board (lying in the upper corner) to make great waves that would eventually destroy everything on the beach as the tide kept getting deeper.  It was great fun for a year or two.  I wanted to build a bigger one, but Mom wouldn't let me, since the little one (above) made such a mess in our tiny back yard.

The Writing Table

I paint things I like.  That probably seems like a no-brainer, but "scenes I'd like to see" is a pervasive theme in my painting.

The Writing Table is a place where I'd like to be -- sitting at a funky old table with a view of the ocean right off the doorstep, thinking about writing... in this case, likely answering a letter to a friend, possibly the one in the picture on the table.  I also like coffee and tea (the mug), enjoy getting letters, and I have a thing about the color of wild chicory (in the pot).  I also like the beach and, since no one is in the painting, I might be out walking on the beach (footprints).

This is a great painting for making up your own story.  For instance, "I" might even be female in this narrative, given the straw hat on the wall.

What would you be doing here?