Christine Morey: Life as a Work of Art

Feb. 4, 2017

There used to be a wondrous little bungalow at the foot of the Grand Traverse Bay, near the mouth of Boardman River in Traverse City. An enormous, hoary old willow stood overhead, with branches that dangled like wind chimes in the breeze. Chris Morey lived there and she do-dadded the place with beach glass and driftwood and colorful objects and painted flowers on the siding. She had three impossibly blonde little children, and she acted as if they were her elves and she were the queen of the may.

Six days a week I delivered her the afternoon Record-Eagle. Once after a storm flooded her yard, I had to cross the water on a plank to hand her the paper. She laughed watching me, and said, “How d’ya like my moat!”

All that’s gone now, as John Pryne said, replaced by a motel parking lot.

When I became an adult and did Chris small favors, she gave me objects she’d repurposed and garishly painted: clocks, mirrors, plaster casts of asparagus. She called me “Young Abe,” and if I attempted to impose some order on her life, she insisted I stop “that nonsense.” When my retriever died, she wrote and illustrated a book about him finding the end of the rainbow across the bay.

At the dark end of the year 2016, Chris hummed a Frank Sinatra tune and a bit later took the small hop and skip from this world to the next. Her daughter Dianne wrote this prose poem in memoriam:

“My mom died early this morning. I remember mason jars full of paint, brushes sitting in turpentine, a palette rich with lawyers of paint, colors blending sparkling swirling into each other. Trays of messy greasy beautiful oil pastels. Stacks of canvases, she would do back to her easel every day until every canvas became a painting. Sketch books – the ones with the brown cover and sometimes an expensive hard cover one to take on trips, and charcoal pencils. Skinny lemon twist cigarettes, a ring of frosted pink lipstick on the butt. Thick silver and turquoise bracelets, one of a kind hand made rings, gold silver mixed gemstones, statement pieces, dangly earrings. Long gauze shirts and embroidered coats. Her taste ran to the rich hippie look, textures and wild prints – Marimekko, Mizzoni. Eyelash curler, clumpy mascara. Blonde hair always in one of those sexy messy up-dos, bangs floating across her forehead. Hand blown glassware, full of bubbles.  Kahlua and cream, Boones Farm strawberry wine.  Glasses on top of her head. She could never find them. A red rambler station wagon covered in flower pot stickers. She let us ride on top down county roads. I remember laughing so hard when she would suddenly proclaim that she had lost control of the car, veering wildly shouting back to me (she named her car The Red Baroness) “She’s got a mind of her own,” and we would scream and laugh as that car took over and drove us to the ice cream store. She always got the weirdest flavors Pistachio and Lime Daiquiri, double scoop please. No pretending to be on a diet when it came to ice cream cones, a double scoop or nothing. And one for each of the dogs. She never went anywhere without her pack of dogs with her. They sat outside the grocery store, off-leash, occasionally wandering in, strolling the aisles. Her favorite bars and restaurants were the ones that let our dogs lay under our table. She had a million friends, artists, actors, everyone interesting. She loved parties and late nights. She was a terrible cook, lost her mind on the holidays. Bought us too many presents. Painted her house purple, filled it with artwork from her travels and had the very most decorated tree every Xmas. She raised me right, brought me up with a paintbrush in my hand and a dog to run wild with, through the woods, across the water in my little sunfish sailboat. Come home by sunset or just a little later. She liked to disappear from the world to a cabin or a tent in the woods for days, weeks. And this beach was everything, her beach. It’s what I see when I think of her. The narrow twisting path opening to the gold sand, wild blue lake Michigan water, breakwall, light house Manitou island off on the horizon, fishing boats leaving the harbor. Our dogs running down the beach. My mom in her suit, hair up, lipstick on. That orange Bain De Soleil suntan lotion. I loved the smell of it. Swimming until.  Swimming until my fingertips were wrinkled, holding my breath skimming along the bottom eyes open grabbing fish with my hands. Coming up for air, my mom waving from the beach. Crackers and cheese, pickles, sand everywhere. Once a week she would try to comb out my hair while I sat on a towel looking out at the lake. Johnson’s No More Tangles spray and a comb, she tried but I was wild and my hair was always a mess. Fast changes with a towel wrapped around. Tennis shoes, cut offs, a t-shirt and a windbreaker. Never leaving until the sun went down. Her beach.

RIP Christine Elizabeth Walker.

Grant Parsons is a trial attorney, a native of Traverse City, with a keen interest in local politics, especially land use.