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Description
Once upon a time, my Mother tended her Iris's, in the Spring of the year, when the fertile soil along the Mississippi River was a muddy, rich black. This was back, when, back, then, back, there. We lived in a little pink house and on any Spring day, depending on the elements and the willful swirling thermals, the rains, both acrid and sweet, cold or warm, would come. The warning thunder, the voice of Chief Blackhawk, and his murdered tribes, lit electric webs of lightening that vibrated in the sky. Sunshine broke through moody clouds. This kind of weather wakes ghosts and spirits. So, in this painting, there is Mother, tending her beloved Irises, near the hard worked farms, near the historic tribal lands, near the bluffs of the epic, ancient, swift flowing River.

Description
Once upon a time, my Mother tended her Iris's, in the Spring of the year, when the fertile soil along the Mississippi River was a muddy, rich black. This was back, when, back, then, back, there. We lived in a little pink house and on any Spring day, depending on the elements and the willful swirling thermals, the rains, both acrid and sweet, cold or warm, would come. The warning thunder, the voice of Chief Blackhawk, and his murdered tribes, lit electric webs of lightening that vibrated in the sky. Sunshine broke through moody clouds. This kind of weather wakes ghosts and spirits. So, in this painting, there is Mother, tending her beloved Irises, near the hard worked farms, near the historic tribal lands, near the bluffs of the epic, ancient, swift flowing River.