, 
The Finale of Bruch’s Scottish Fantasy is beginning its fifth hour of repeating in my brain so I finally faced down the ear-worm and  found it on Youtube.  Might as well familiarize myself with the rest of the piece, although I seem to be wed to the last ten minutes.   It has been one of those lovely solitary days, with time to think or even stop thinking and let my mind follow its own lead.  Being alone for an extended period is the perfect incubator.    About being Scottish, it turned out.

Blame Bruch.  He might have not have been Scottish, but he captured the sense of that nation by doing something inventive.  While as a young pianist I loved baroque “ornamentation,”  and the “turn” in particular, it never occurred to me that a classical composer could use one to evoke swirling bagpipes played by kilted warriors marching into battle.    although the Scottish Fantasy was composed in 1880, it foreshadows  the Balkan Campaign of 1916, where the 10th Battalion of the Black Watch  won the nickname   “Ladies from hell” ("Die Damen aus der Hölle") as a back-handed tribute to their kilts, their pipes, and their fighting qualities.    Whether or not you are a Scot, you want to be, when Bruch is finished with you.

As it happens, I AM a Scot!  Or at least three-quarters of me, if you can overlook the century and a half we’ve been in Canada.  But looking back, I realize that I have consistently demonstrated my weakness for things Scottish — Sean Connery, shortbread, Skye terriers, good woollens,  warehouse sales, red squirrels, formal dances with dates in dress kilts, cool summers, Jamie Fraser, peaty scotch, my two boon companions and best of all, a Scottish brogue.

So I'm entitled to think about Sean Connery, all right? His looks are okay but it’s his voice that slays me.  I have been trying, without success, to download it onto our GPS, who has earned the name “Dim Bulb” for evident reasons.   Sean would be unable to guarantee any more than Dim Bulb that I  "have arrived at (my) destination,”  but this time I might not care.  The only occasion when I literally had too much of him was when the only seats for Dr. No were in the front row and his chest was thirty feet across.  So I closed my eyes and just listened, mercifully released from the sight of Ursula Andress’s monstrous cleavage.

If you too love Scottish burrs, there’s Scott MacKenzie, the famous flyfisher who does master-class videos about spey casting, the double-handed method of presenting the fly. Or Davie McPhail, who ties magnificent salmon flies on line.  I treat them both as podcasts and can practically hear my blood pressure dropping.  I still regret that I’ve lost the brogue that a year with my Scottish exchange teacher in Grade Two  bestowed.  Thank heavens for Outlander, although I do keep an eye as well as an ear on Jamie.

Finally, there is the "Heavenly Breed," though the fierceness of Skyes has also won them the respectful ​moniker “Land Sharks."  I knew that Jewell and Theodore  are direct descendants of an ancient breed, but recently discovered that cairns and Scotties branched off from Skye terriers only within the last century.  Skyes cover all the bases - comic-looking ("designed by a committee") but elegant;  tough-minded (aka STUBBORN)  but snuggly;  prone to bizarre phobias (Theodore turning to jelly around any one of the bikes in Jon's stable) yet brave ( confronting a large coyote);  dim (see "brave") but exquisitely affectionate and loyal.   Not to gild the lily but I like to think that Theodore’s thinking voice is appropriately burry like Sean's, Scott's and Davie's.  Maintaining this fiction is made a heck of a lot more difficult when he cries like a girl after an hour’s separation.  Still, one tries.

The weather this week is autumnally blue-sky cool so today I am pretending to be in the Highlands  -- feeling the urge to break out the woollens and the shortbread, and to go to the back garden to locate a red squirrel with whom to exchange insults.  All the while, I'm gratefully aware of doing this in Canada, where Boris Johnson is mercifully irrelevant.  So, channelling Kennedy's  "Ich bin ein Berliner" and Alex P. Keaton's hilarious "Today I am a woman,"  today I am a Scot -- albeit one who hasn't been home for a LONG time.  

Among the books I am reading at the moment is one about giraffes. I hadn’t known was that the little knobby bits on their heads were called ossicones but was overcome by the desire to have one, I guess, because…..the half-blind painter striking again, I bent over to retrieve something from the wastebasket and didn’t register the dark corner of our Mission-style chesterfield. Surprise and a bit of screaming erupted when my forehead’s unstoppable force smashed into the corner of the immovable object. (By the way, Superman was wrong. No truce occurred. The immovable object won. ) On the other hand, I did discover that lying on the floor and howling draws dogs; when Rover comes over to check you out, just grab his muzzle and apply his cold wet nose to the boo-boo. Theodore actually suppressed his own scream and just let me do it, proving once again that dogs are the best. Several bags of frozen vegetables and a good sleep later, the big red boulder has shrunk into an aggie; if you didn’t play marbles as a kid, let’s just say it’s smaller if still mighty tender. And my ever-helpful husband just offered the observation that I look like a baby unicorn with a good start on an off-centred horn. Maybe there will be rainbows.

It’s the kind of weather that is more likely to produce thunder and lightning storms in the afternoons. Mammals saner than the chippie who lives under the feeder are probably choosing siestas over food. The only other ones we have seen were a pair today of large opossums in a tangle (siblings? more than that?). Scruffy as always, they sauntered off trying to look casual. We don’t often see possums so it’s good to know they are succeeding. One theory of their territorial spread to Southern Ontario posits that they crossed the Rainbow Bridge travelling on truck manifolds. Warm and convenient. I find marsupials fascinating because the embryos actually find their own way to the exterior pouch and their mother’s milk. Whether you like their appearance or not, you have to admit that’s pretty darn impressive. I don’t know about you but my embryonic self didn’t do much in the way of solo travel.

There are birds around, of course. They all drop by the feeder but there’s better stuff available this time of the year. In fact they are probably experiencing un embarras du choix: (What should we have for dinner? I simply can’t decide!) There are the usual huge mulberry trees covered with sweet fruit but the big news this year in our garden is that the amelanchier (serviceberry) finally produced quantities of fruit. We called them saskatoons when I was a marble-playing kid and they are toothsome. This amelanchier was expensive but it’s proved its worth this year, treating us to fat, if somewhat diarrhetic, robins hanging from it. We are counting on those robins to plant a bunch more.

One of the joys of summer birdwatching is sorting out parents and kids. Baby birds look like adults but still behave like kids (think teenagers). There’s a male cardinal right now who hasn’t mastered the art of landing on the squirrel-proof peanut feeder. He is trying to hover like a hawk or a humming bird. Like every young adult, he wants to do it by himself, while reserving the right to ask Mom and Dad for handouts. He’s flown off now, probably to do just that.

And so the perennial story plays out in our garden, as it does in yours. I have to keep reminding myself that four months ago ice and snow and mud ruled. This season sees me taking multiple shots of summer’s bounty, which I store until the winter when my soul craves colour. In particular, I need to remember that my digitals won’t do full justice to reds because I can see that every time I take a picture. I will write myself a note to read in January, even though I already know I won’t believe it.

Probably "glaze oil" is such a slow and deliberate process,  I always feel a little pang when someone acquires a piece of mine.  The Renaissance method of building from an underpainting and employing transparent glazes always feels more like a long marriage than a one-night stand with the canvas.   We are, of course, wildly overstocked with these exes of mine at home, but they don’t languish in storage — I believe in moving paintings around before they become part of the wallpaper.  And they certainly do.

But though I don't balk at wandering through the house and moving every single painting, for the most part I draw the line at moving furniture.  Because our living room is longer than wide, the current furniture arrangement was a necessity.  That was a no-brainer after having seen what the renters had done to it:  the sofa and chairs all sat with their backs to the wall, leaving a huge empty space in the middle; there wasn’t a conversational grouping to be found.  You imagined having to yell back and forth.  That was the first thing to be addressed once we had redone the floors and the walls.  It was an extremely hot summer and we still wouldn't have a/c for another thirty years.  By the time we had placed the sofa to address the fireplace from the middle of the room,  we had been reduced to a pair of wet rags, so we must have made some sort of tacit agreement that it would stay here and so it has.   So has everything, actually.  There is only one occasional chair which moves around and Jon inevitably complains.

He would have had more to complain about in the house I grew up in.  My mom had no such compunctions about predictable domestic geography.  Dad and I would arrive home in the evening to find everything but the piano in a different spot.  (For some reason Mom never moved paintings either.  I suppose that was in line with our being mirror-twins of one another — both with scoliosis but on different sides, and one left-handed, the other right).  And to be fair she exorcised her furniture habit only during the day so it was relatively safe to walk through the dark house at night.

One of my English professors, Bob Stewart, was blind, so his whole life was something of a dark house.  He was handsome, had a touch of a southern accent which did no harm when teaching American lit, and went everywhere with Yutte, his German Shepherd guide dog.   When he asked me out, I accepted readily.  We met at his apartment and walked together to see The Barber of Seville at the Playhouse.  It didn’t immediately strike me that I was standing in for Yutte that night but after walking Bob into a guy wire, I smartened up and we got there and back without a fatality.  At the apartment was a supper of pre-cooked frozen food  to reheat.  I insisted on helping with the dishes.

A month later, Bob let it casually drop that it had taken him weeks to locate his kitchen utensils.  Yutte had no serious competition.

Our shaded house is not nearly as well organized as Bob’s apartment was so we misplace things all the time.  The worst offender is Jon’s beloved Hardy fishing cap, which demands semi-weekly searches because it could and does turn up anywhere and Jon can’t imagine life without it.  My most highly-motivated searches usually involve paintings.  Because they go up and down according to the season and my mood, I often don’t miss something for months.  Suddenly, as Sherlock would say, “The Game is On!”  More than once after an anguished two-day hunt, I realize that it has been hiding in full sight and I think “Time to  move that one!  Wallpaper!”

Even if I remember that the painting is in fact gone and now living with someone else, it is a lovely feeling to walk into that home and see one of your exes on the wall.  Kismet all over again.

I have a bone to pick with Mr. Rogers. Not the lovely, quiet man who spoke gently to children. The Mr. Rogers who sorts my mail.

Christmas was the first signal that our relationship was faltering. Friends contacted me from various Canadian cities to complain that there were no letters from us and they had it on good authority that mutual friends had received theirs. Odd. I re-sent a number and put it down to Christmas mail. Then I began to realize that emails sent to me (Jon being apparently on good terms with Mr. R) would suddenly surface days late but in their correct date order. Pretty easy to miss those among the fifty or so which arrive daily. (Note to self: in your next life, join fewer than five active art groups). The coup de grace was an important email which I sent to six friends this month and which only three received. Not one of the missing missives ever bounced back or showed up in junk mail.

Mr. R and I had previously enjoyed a meaningful and balanced give-and-take. I gave him money and he took care of correspondence. Now, not so much. As a female, I do of course blame myself but cannot pinpoint what I did to offend him. While I admit that correspondence roulette is pretty exciting, I am more of a checkers-personality-type so I worry.

Why do you care? Only if you expect an invitation to the opening of the big show which opens on July 4 in Toronto at the Etobicoke Assembly Hall Gallery. I don’t yet have the flyer but expect to send e-vites in about a week. So…in case yours is misdirected to some digital purgatory in which to languish or is simply killing time to be delivered on the 5th, I am inviting you here. All I can hope is that Weebly, my kind webhost, doesn't know you-know-who.

When Jon and I were walking Theodore yesterday I happened to mention that my last blog was titled “The Lady and the Tramp.” Jon does not read my blog — probably a healthy decision - and he was visibly startled, blurting “I’m not the tramp, am I?” "No, of course not," I replied. "It’s about Jewell and Theodore.”

But it did get me thinking.

Jon may not be homeless but he does have an inordinate love of adventure. He cycles daily, whenever possible finding a new route to explore. When he doesn’t arrive home on time, I find that a text which begins with “Where are you?” and concludes with “Shall I start selling off your gear?” does the trick. That’s going to be some garage sale when the time comes. In the meantime he scares the living daylights out of me, especially when he’s cycling in rush hour. Ironically, it was on a Sunday when he wiped out, having been cut off by a driver who made an unsignaled turn right in front of him and who later admitted to not having noticed him. I’m pretty sure Jon had left his invisibility cloak at home that day. So I breathe easier when Theodore hears the bike on our pea gravel driveway and leaps off the couch to greet our vagabond with high-pitched yelps of unalloyed joy.

Then there are the canoe trips. Jon used to do solo wilderness trips. He let me come on one (I figured we might as well die together). Unfortunately that was the year that the Attawapiscat washed out after an enormous storm and all the campsites were under water. I wasn’t doing much better than they were. By Day 3 it became clear that I was the albatross around Jon’s neck. Miraculously, we were able to radio for help; apparently I embraced the bush pilot in relief and Jon drove me to my mom’s in Winnipeg. I tried to chain him to a telepole in the basement but he outwitted me and went back to do the Albany alone. It didn’t help my nervous system that while at Mom’s I happened across a tiny article in the paper about a paddler who has just been found circulating in an Attawapiscat souse-hole that same week.


Another year (and another solo trip): Ian, our dentist, made the mistake of making conversation and enquiring about Jon. Very little dental work ensued. Yet another summer found me sniffling in a stairwell at Canadore College, where I was supposed to be distracted by a painting course now. And so it went. Mercifully, my canoe bum now trips with five other guys and I sleep like a baby.

Please don’t get me started on fishing in high water. Jon has the brains to wear a belt on his waders so they can’t fill up and drown him if he trips but still…. When it did happen, the belt worked and my heroic camera sacrificed itself. (Look on the bright side if humanly possible.)

Do you remember “Dress for success”? Yes, there is such a thing as Tramp Style. Post-retirement Jon’s uniform is pure Mark’s — cargo pants for all seasons and canvas shirts in (thank heavens) a variety of colours, long sleeves for cool weather and short sleeves for hot; note what he's wearing in this painting which is at least ten years old. He might be wearing that shirt as I write this. He is wed to them, even those which bear the battle scars of trips and projects long forgotten. I have to smuggle the most egregious oldies out under coffee grounds. I had tried turning them into painting rags but they turned out to be too identifiable. I suspect him of doing the same with his dress clothes.

But thanks, Darling, for asking the question. You are, as always, an inspiration!
​

If there is a bird season, it occurs in April.  The air resonates with ringing calls which are less territorial than boastful, the field already having been won.  My nomination for loudest and most distinctive would have to be given to the male cardinals who proclaim their fertility from the highest branches on the tallest trees throughout the neighbourhood.

This is the time of year when the birds remember having watched Hitchcock.  YouTube is replete with hilarious episodes of large human beings terrified by birds one hundredth their weight.  They flail, they stumble;  when possible, they sprint.  Someone in close vicinity inevitably chooses to record rather than rescue.   And I have to say that I can understand the birds’ point of view.  Here you are, trying to hatch a family and suddenly everyone and their dog invade the nursery.  Only when a bird actually approaches the same weight class  does the viewer start to feel uncomfortable:  that poor man in Brampton who was being harassed by a turkey comes to mind, though I must say that the teenage golfer routed by a Canada Goose was pretty funny.

So I was actually feeling quite benign towards birds when I walked Theodore this week.  But, I discovered, avian memory also includes Mel Brooks.  I got bombed.  And, darn it, I was wearing a newish coat which was mulberry rather than black and white, so many awkward conversations ensued on the long walk home.

Not that Jon and I are strangers to the stuff.  Hand-raising both an orange-wing Amazon and a blue-and-gold macaw guarantees guano.   But, for whatever reason, knowing the producer helps.  And unlike the stealth bomber from above, Gussie and Bijou had the good manners to squat and lift their tails first so you had a chance to put them back on their perches in time.  Good manners are also observable in the parent bird who disposes of each packet of home-grown fertilizer by flying it out of the nest.  (Life Hack 586:  Don't stand ten feet away from an active nest unless you have an umbrella.)

The epiphany of the week is not elevated but it is impassioned:  “Dispensing private secretions from somewhere high in the sky on someone you’ve never even met is rude in the extreme.   Neither a pooper nor a poopee be.”  

​I suppose it could have been worse.  It might have been a 747.

Full disclosure:  Jon is better than I at most things.  One area, however, needs serious work.

The Scene:  Bedtime.  I am already in bed, teeth brushed and all.  Jon, who can go for hours without eating, decides that he needs a snack.

Him: (from downstairs)  Where did you put the leftover rice pudding?

Her:  It’s in the fridge, on the second shelf, on the right, at the back.

(seconds pass)

Him:  No, it’s not.

Her:  Yes, it is, Darling.  On the second shelf, on the right, at the back.

Him:  No it’s not.

(I’ll spare you the repetitions, which alter only in volume)

Him:  Could you come down and find it for me?

Her:  Okay.  (discouraged tone)

Her:  See — on the second shelf on the right at the back?  (tone which mixes superiority and annoyance in equal measures.

Him:  Oh.  I didn’t recognize it.  (light tone)

We all know that such a scene takes place in thousands of homes throughout the country, regardless of timezones, family income, or gender preference.  One person in every pair-bond arbitrarily designates the other as the official Finder.  And that’s that.  It’s a permanent position, as far as I can tell.

Now, if you think it’s no big deal to find something you carefully put away yourself, even if that does entail climbing out of flannelette sheets, remind yourself that existence of every gruntled Finder presupposes a Loser in active practice.  At the moment we have every tool from our basement workshop distributed throughout the rest of the house, which rings with “Have you seen my__________?” 

My darling is a card-carrying Loser.

Let me be clear.  These searches for objects I have not actually stored carefully take a hell of a lot longer.  What’s worse, they are often time-sensitive or all progress grinds to a stop.   Sometimes I enlist a flashlight to catch a tell-tale metallic glint but nothing really works except picking up every single thing but the piano and checking under it.   I’m a hearty eater and I now wonder if the only thing which keeps my weight under control is the constancy of high-pressure search-and-rescue operations around here.  Theodore has shown no interest in being handed the baton so Finder I shall be until one of us dies.  On the plus side, I do find items I myself have misplaced.  Last week produced a vase I had been looking for, 6 unmatched socks to add to my collection, 3 gloves of different colours and four dark chocolate bars.  Chocolate is a great consolation when seeking does not lead to finding.  

But take heart, fellow Finders.  As long as we have this job for life, let us choose to train our veteran Finder Brains on searching for things that spark joy  -- the gorgeous signed Inuit carving that winked at me in Value Village or the Haida copper and suede-lined humidor that showed up in a neighbourhood garage sale.  (Painters, take particular note:  it takes a veteran  Finder to come up with the odds and sods which populate a still life.  I am particularly fond of Rusty, my tin frog in the bottom right corner.  [I  Oh, gotta go.  It's okay, Dear -- let me help you find the....]).

Happy Anniversary to us!  It is exactly four years since we met on this page and I wanted to thank you for coming along.


I went back (see Archive in turquoise print to the right) to March 2014 to refresh my mind as to the exact day to buy our cake.  To my horror, I see that I posted ten entries within 19 days that month.  I can only imagine that there must have been a hell of a neural backlog which needed clearing because that pace proved unsustainable.

Although I have done a lot of editing, this has been my first foray into sharing my own thoughts.  I recommend it as a tonic for the brewing stewpot that is the mind.  Sometimes the post is thought through before I sit down at the computer;  just as often an opening leads me to a conclusion that was only dimly sensed before.   On a lighter note, it’s always fun to share the myriad silly things.  Light or heavy, having to write it down helps me to think more clearly and I suspect that is true of most people.

All things considered, I decided about a year ago that posting once a week (on Monday) would be a manageable goal.  I honestly believed that.

But in the meantime, life has had its way with me and a goal of predictable get-togethers has devolved into what even a charitable psychologist would term “random reinforcement” — never a strategy recommended for sustaining a connection.   I am very sorry and will try to do better.   

In my defence, it’s been busy, but it is now possible to walk from A to B in our home without having to go through C,D and E.  The washer is once again available and my iMac back in business.  As Joni wryly observed, “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”   I have always thought that the notion of chickens coming home to roost should be celebratory and it is.  Welcome back, y’all.

So…..I hope you can accept this apology.  Around here, the preferred wording is “I am a stunned pickle” so append that as a chaser.  That you are reading this suggests that you know how to hang in.   A number of people have asked if the post can simply be sent automatically.  I have absolutely no idea how to do that.  The best my Luddite self can do at this point is to try again to stick to a schedule, though occasionally I may have to post a day early or late.

My university French prof used to exhort us to “Tattoo it to your chest.”  My chest now reads “Post on Monday.”  Please note that today is Monday.

This self-portrait is titled “Back at You” because Jon is reflected in the crazy-house sunglass reflection.  Put yourself there today with my sincere thanks.  I owe you a piece of cake.

Z’Anne

Andre Malraux commented that “The first recipe for happiness is:  avoid too lengthy meditation on the past.”  That’s a tall order, especially in a house which is undergoing “alterations.”  I’m parked on the chesterfield, emptying a huge blanket box which does double duty as a coffee table.  Within it are almost two hundred years worth of family papers and photos.  Shelley - Tag, you’re IT.   (Not only is my cousin an accomplished genealogist in the tradition of my dad, but she claims to look forward to sifting through the five kilograms of family history.)    Besides -  now that we are tackling the closets here, I need a new hidey-hole for my grandmothers’ quilts, which I rarely use, but cherish.


So, as the snow continues to sift down around the house, I am often far away, at least in time.  Mostly, it is Keeles whom I find, simply because I was there when the family home in Saskatchewan was closed.  I see my grandfather’s dance card for the Bachelors’ Ball with my grandmother’s name on every space.  There are houses which he built and in which together they raised a wonderful family.  There is a lacrosse ribbon from 1901 and my grandmother’s teaching certificate in her maiden name.   I still wonder why teacher training institutions took the name “normal schools” but here is her textbook with a letter from a friend tucked into it.  And so very many photos.  As it happens I have both the photo of  the red apron and navy cap which my dear teenaged Aunt Hazel (Mom’s sister) was wearing to advertise war bonds and the 75-year-old items themselves.  I wore them to a Canada 150 event, figuring I was half right

There is such a welter of bittersweet  moments preserved in the blanket box — of births and deaths, of growth and decline, of victory and defeat, of opportunities seized and missed.  As I sort through the memory trove, I frequently pause to ponder the human arc.   Malraux too was half right but he discounted fond reminiscences of family love.

As always, my mother saved my day from too much solemnity by having saved scraps of my childhood, pieces which she and my father must have found particularly hilarious.  There is the letter to Santa;  written in pencil on a scribbler page,  it opens with “The thing I have wanted since I was 6 is a watch. I am 7 now….”  Apart from the lack of subtlety, according to the date I had been eight for almost a month.    They seemed to love me anyway.

My personal favourite is the report on New France;  by then I had graduated to pen and ink.  I suspect Mom kept this one because I had unwittingly revealed a total lack of comprehension that any home could be unhappy, even if it was clear that I was simple:

After a while the men became lonesome because often it was ten o’clock at night when they got home.  Then they would have to eat tasteless food because they never had time to learn to cook. They wanted to get married!  There was a proclamation in Old France that girls of a certain age could go to New France and be married.  There was a huge crowd waiting for the boat that would bring the girls.  As each girl stepped off the boat she went with one of the men.  It was a great day for the girls.  Soon they would be caring for a man they never saw before.  I’ll bet they were all very satisfied.

I stand by that implicit tribute to the wonderful home my parents created, but think we all should feel relief that the burden of inventing feminism didn’t fall on me.

Jon and I were watching a movie the other day and both of us noticed that nose of the leading actor had a somewhat whimsical bridge.  The movie was not so absorbing that we couldn’t speculate on that nasal history, finally deciding that it had met with some immoveable object.  Hmmm.  Sound familiar?  You read it here a couple of posts ago.

As inconspicuously as possible, I sneaked up the stairs to check my own schnoz.  The goose egg has shrunken into a poached egg, though I still can’t wear a beret and my teeth ache, but miraculously my beak appears undamaged.  This matters because I inherited Grandma Keele’s  proboscis and this well-worn face of mine cannot bear too many more insults.  My mother, on the other hand, sported an elegant aquiline nose which she hated but which in later life earned her the honour of being chosen as the subject for a bust.  I admired her family characteristic just yesterday as I dusted it.

All this nosing around got me started thinking about art.  Doesn’t everything.  Most portrait subjects have the brains to choose their best angle, but even so, a nose can be a devil to render.  My beloved’s is a case in point.  This is a nose I know intimately — particularly because Jon is a relentless tease who delights in feeding me fanciful “factoids’ (Are you listening, Donald Trump?) which he will then wait to hear me disgorge in public.  I was defenceless until his sister shared the observation that, when Jon’s trying to pull something off, his nostrils flare.  So quick spousal honker scans are pretty much automatic now in our house.

You would think that I could draw that snoot with my eyes closed but no such luck.  And again, faces have to be exact when it comes to proportion and angles.  Even if your sniffer’s bridge, like your eyes, resides about half way up the head, general guidelines are only that;  variations are endless (think Jimmie Durante).  Jon’s nose is, if anything, too straight and getting its length right still challenges me.

You are thinking that this is a first-world problem and you are right.  Besides,  there’s a simple solution and a guaranteed winner at modern art shows.    From now on my portraits will bear vegetables instead of schnozzles.  I’m looking at an acorn squash for me and an elephant garlic clove for Jon.  You might want to choose a vegetable now before the best ones are all gone and you are stuck with cauliflower. 

This is entitled "The Private Joke."  You could park a tractor in that nostril.