You, Her, Her House and Your Story

The Woman would Not agree to an in-person interview.

‘Thank you, again, for the interest. As I’ve told you, I do not do interviews.

J.D. Longhurst

“Mrs.D”

You can’t take No for an answer. No exhibitions, no book signings - her work spoke for her.

Pacing the floors You devise a plan. You steal a plan; Bob Greene’s building circle. You will wear her down like the cheap carpet under your feet.

You drive in the morning. A great reporter always gets her story. The Woman’s author photo stares back at you from the screen - She has old eyes. The old eyes from oil paintings by men, long dead. Her smile; shy, closed. Not certain. Her eyes; not hers. Yours. Second Hand.

The Woman enjoyed reading, gardening and animals. That was all. All that was.

You read her series while Babysitting. The girls love when mommy’s sister visits. “Can you read to us?” Curled up in a blanket You read her words for the first time. The voice in your head soothed the constant chatter, the nagging, neurotic loop of thoughts. “Mrs. D.” creator, author and illustrator rubbed the Demon between the eyes, put her to rest.

The Woman did Not write them for You.

“Hi, my name is Lacy Bannon; I am writing a profile of your neighbour, J.D. Longhurst, or Mrs. D.” 50 ft from her gardens, 100 from her front door. Roses. You note to ask her about roses.

“Juniper?” The continuous barking of a rat sized dog goes unnoticed by the old woman, “She keeps to herself, Nice woman.”

The door almost closes but You don’t let it. Your foot stops, “I’d really like to get an idea about who she is, please? Anything. Does she get visitors? Have any strange habits?”

You need to remember your demeanour. You look professional. You sound crazy.

The girls fell asleep with dreams of kind children and problem solving dancing in their heads - delighted with your voices. You looked up Mrs. D. She is Juniper Dylan Longhurst. Her artist page had you; a tiny dancer in her hand. Scrolling through the pieces, there it was. A collage; words, her words, dancing across the canvas. Save Photo

‘Crystal Waters

Hide nothing.

A storm

Stirs.’

Her Words.

You arrived three times staring at the painting. Her words glued, sticky, to the paint. Her hands smeared. Her hands.

‘It has come to my attention you have made your way here. 10 am, brief interview, no camera. Tape recorder encouraged. - J.D.’

You are in.

The driveway leads up behind the main house; lined with cascading, wispy white roses - dwarf maybe. Chills run down your spine. A sign.

The Woman. She sat in a bright blue chair drinking from a large mug, her hair hung in long braids on each side of her head. She stood up, so short. Childlike. Her ripped overalls stroked with colour. The woman smiles. Her Mouth.

Get out of the car!

“Thank you for meeting with me,” you blurt out as you walk over, feeling overdressed in a black blazer.

“You were not giving me much choice.” Her smile. “Mrs Johanson can be pretty persuasive,” she points to the woman gardening next to the barking rat, “and nosy.”

“Sorry about that, I am a huge fan, I'm dying to do a profile on you.” Rookie-move.

The Woman leads to the door, “just take your shoes off.” On the right of the entry a beautiful woman in washed blues stares into a mirror. On the left, a mirror. Her reflection isn't beautiful at all. She is wrong. She is in the wrong place.

A french-press on the stone island is waiting next to a significantly smaller mug. “Please sit down, do you like coffee?” The Woman is a gracious host to unwanted guests. Admirable.

“I do, thank you.” You don’t notice the cream and sugar. Do you drink your coffee black. You take out your crisp black notebook; eager to start getting it all down. Her essence.

“Only if I am out of cream,” she giggles and points to the creamer and sugar bowl.

“Hand painted?”

“Yes, I did those when we lived in the little house. She points to the door.

“Who lives there now?”

“I turned it into a studio when I bought the property a few years back.”

“Is it just you living here?” The Woman has sons. You are nervous. Calm. You play with the coffee spoon too much. ‘Tick, tick, tick.’

“Have we started the interview?” She notices.

Tape recorder, notebook, pens, questions. Shoot. Don’t ask, just record.

Here, the walls overflow - But everything is in its place as if she painted each piece for the exact place it hangs. Every little detail, perfect. The books - Everywhere.

Interview - Record.

Your books are known all over the world. Could you tell the readers what a regular day in the life of Juniper Dylan Longhurst looks like. How do you keep up with writing, painting, the blog, the woodshop and children?” Reading the list. Lust for life; her life.

“I am not sure what to say. I just do what needs to be done, what should be done and if I can what could be done before what might be.” So modest.

“It’s 10:30 now, what would you be doing if I wasn’t here?” You look around.

“During the week when the boys are gone, I’m either out back or in the basement. All places I can’t really go to with young kids running around. Sometimes, well sometimes I am just reading in the bath.”

“Could you give me a tour?” You want to see every nook. “Could you walk me through your morning?”

She stands up, motions to follow. “O.k. I get up at 4 am, usually.” She turns the corner and up the stairs and opens a door on the left,” everything you need to see is over here,” she is amused. Her bedroom is filled with books, sketch pads and kittens. “First I meditate, then do some Yoga, loosen up the body and the mind. “I have coffee in my room while I get my creativity flowing.” She walks out the door and across the hall, “I’ll write in the Library from 5:30 to 6:30. The next hour is the morning routine with the boys.”

“You have two boys?” She nods.

“After the children leave, then what?” Too eager! Slow down.

The Woman blushes. “I start the day,” she smiles, “with more coffee,” holding up her mug.

“What time do you start working?”

“I haven’t done a day of work in years,” her eyes smile.

“What do you mean?”

“Mark Twain, ‘Find a job you enjoy doing, and you will never have to work a day in your life,’ It’s a famous quote.”

You realise you don’t work. Your sister does.

“I’d be in the studio now, I have a few things I’m working on.” Back downstairs You go. An old dog, maybe a Beagle, is sprawled out on the floor in front of the stairs. Where was he before? “Don’t mind him, just step over him. My oldest friend and keeper of my secrets. It might help that he can’t hear them anymore.” She looks back, love in her eyes. “I am not looking forward to that day.”

No need to worry.

“What have you been working on in the studio?” You are clicking your pen open and closed. “Click, click,” The Woman sees. “Have you been working on a new children's book?

“Always.” The series had 34 volumes to date. “But I work on those in the illustration studio. This studio is for fine art, messy art. Anything I don't want the boys to get into gets locked out here.”

“You said you lived here?”

“Yes, it all began here. It all started with a notebook, not unlike the one you are holding.” Now, she looked nervous. “I was married. lost myself you know? I let him take over, swallow me up. One night I brought his plate to his bedroom. Like usual, he took it without a thank-you and continued gaming, cigarette burning in the ashtray, beer cans all over the nightstand and floor and I asked for a sign. Anything.”

“Did you get it?

“Sure enough, he needed me to run to the store for him. Cigarettes, beer. It was freezing, my car wouldn’t start so I dug out his truck and got in. Right there on the seat was my Christmas gift, my only Christmas gift that year. I opened the notebook, and there it was. ‘A dream journal, for my dream girl to plan our dream life. To the next year of our lives together.’ It wasn’t my notebook. Mine came fresh, empty of his words. I hadn’t even written in it. The rest of the book was blank, until I got to the back cover.

“Buy tickets, The Bull Pit, Yoga.” In pink. Pink.” She never painted with pink. You have every painting on your wall, printed from her page. No pink.

She took out a bottle from the cupboard. I am sure it is 5 o’clock somewhere. You don’t drink. You accept. “I keep all this out here too, I don’t drink much and rarely have company.” The Woman was reading her question on the page. Open on the counter. She goes into the freezer for another bottle. “Black or White?”

“Excuse me?”

“Russians?”

“What?” She laughs.

“The drink, do you want a black Russian or a white?”

“Oh,” nervously, “I don’t drink,” you say.

“White, it is!” She opens the fridge for milk. Pours two drinks. One white, one black. The Woman drinks her Russians Black.

“Did you get him his cigarettes?”

“I didn’t know what to do, but it was my sign. I asked for it, and it was there. He’d been having an affair for what must have been a long time. I went to the store. I picked up his beer and smokes, and tickets. Lottery tickets. I didn’t know what other kind to buy. It was too late for a Yoga class and I couldn’t be gone long enough to cross town to the sports bar so I figured it could wait until the morning. I went home, gave my husband his supplies and messaged my sister to watch the kids in the morning.”

Her Story.

“I woke up, found a Yoga class. She motioned to the ashtray on the windowsill, “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead.” You know her now.

“I went to the bar for lunch, they had a sign up looking for a part time waitress. I sent an email to my boss saying I wouldn't be back after the holidays for personal reasons. It was all falling into place. Everything. I found a small house to rent. I was so determined to change my life; I completely forgot about the tickets in my bag. $20 000. I paid my rent for a year with plenty left over. I was working 12 hours a week at the bar. I started painting and writing again, making toys and the rest you know.”

You do know her. Her face changes, subtly, you see it. You do not drink a sip.

“I came here for something,” you say.

The Woman knows. Your eyes.

“I don't drink either, I have been saving this for today. I knew you’d come.”

The Milk.

You dive for the door, she knew The Woman is smart. She locked the door. You see Her eyes last, a pallet knife drips crimson, not paint. You can’t see it. Just Her eyes and your mouth fills, bubbles. The dog still barks, unnoticed. “What are those roses called?,” But You can't talk, she’s on the phone dumping the drinks and washing the glasses.

This concludes Your interview to die for.

Never written. Never Published.