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I have now come to realize that this was a gift. My father loved to talk to people--to find out about them, learn something new. It had the side effect of giving these people a sense of well-being. One man out there somewhere thought they were worth listening to, of knowing. I think he instinctually found people in need and helped them by speaking with them. And they spoke of him at his funeral.
We visited Daddy in the hospital a little more than a day before he died. He was almost his old self. He had one of us track down the day nurse who had just gone off duty. He introduced my mother, my brothers, my husband and myself to her. He told us all about her. Of course, she already knew all about us. I could have rolled my eyes and said "Here we go again!", but I finally realized that this was how it was supposed to be.
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So, I never studied art. The photographs shown here are not great, but I like them. The drawings shown here are not great, but I like them. I actually did the drawings at work, but don't tell anyone in authority. They were created to alleviate the plainess of my desktop. They set the day's mood. They amused my co-workers who sometimes said "You should have been an artist." Maybe.