Choosing a Subject for Your Mural - Muraling Part Three

Murals are not just added fluff. Think of them as practical help for boring or flawed rooms. Your wall painting can actually create an illusion of more space in a small room. You don’t need hammer and nails to do the work. With proper perspective you can expand the walls and create a feeling of roominess. Why not paint some extra indoor space, outdoor space or outer space. (flying saucers included) Let your imagination soar.

Maybe you like the idea of having a mural in a certain room, but you don’t know what the subject of the painting should be. First concentrate on the room. Does the room look cold or bland? Are the architectural features, modern, conventional or traditional? Consider the style of furniture, and how the space is being used. Let the room or wall speak to you and tell you what it needs.

Once you have acquainted yourself with the needs of the room, you are ready to zero in on a subject or theme for your wall. Good places to search for pictures to copy are; magazines, your local library and the internet. Once you know what you want to paint, research the details (close-up pictures). If you wish to paint a field of flowers, for example, you should search the internet and various books and catalogues for detailed pictures of your chosen subject. With paper and pencil, familiarize yourself with the subject by sketching it. Thumbnail sketches at first, and then a large detailed sketch if you feel you need one.

Author Joyce Oroz
Mystery Novel "Secure the Ranch"

Available in Paperback for $18.95 and you can purchase here
Available in Kindle Format for the amout of $2.99 and can be purchased here

Author Joyce Oroz Takes a Trip to Arizona - Mysterious Burros Spotted

Boston has its Terriers, France has its Poodles and Arizona has Burros galore. They wander the deserts, looking adorable in their brown fury coats and jackrabbit ears.

Recently I was driving along a two-lane Arizona road, when half a dozen burros crossed in front of my car just three car-lengths ahead. I pulled over just as they turned and posed for a picture, and than galloped back to my side of the road for another picture. Hamming it up, they crossed the road again and waited for me to take a final shot.

Obviously the burros were undecided as to where they wanted to be, or was it a senior moment and they forgot where they left their glasses—who knows. Anyway, the Highway Patrol arrived and ushered them along to better pastures. I continued my journey, still smiling and thinking about those darling little burros.



























All Photos were taken my Author Joyce Oroz

"Secure The Ranch" - Mystery
"Secure the Ranch" is available in Paperback and Kindle Format!

Excerpt from The Mystery Novel "Secure the Ranch" By Author Joyce Oroz

"Secure The Ranch" By Author Joyce Oroz
Mystery----Suspense ---Mystery Series
(Available in either Paperback format of Kindle)

Hope you all enjoy!




July's full moon rose above my head, revealing itself occasionally through a canopy of leafy tree limbs stretching over the creek. I watched beams of moonlight turn ordinary splashes of water into silvery jewels as the creek cut a path through the dark, pervasive forest full of wild animals. Fortunately I was an adult and didn't have to worry about unseen lions, tigers and bears. I told myself I was safe because nature's creatures were asleep for the night. I only had to watch out for the meanest animal of all, the armed pot farmer. That animal gave me shivers of dread.

Somewhere in the dark, an owl gave two hoots and a second later, hot breath and terrifying guttural snarls were inches from my face. I recoiled automatically, falling into the water, butt first. I scrambled toward the middle of the stream, half walking, half crawling over and around the rocks.

Glancing back, I saw Thor in the moonlight, thrashing around on his hind legs, trying to rid himself of the short rope tied around his neck. The other end of the rope was tied to a tree at the edge of the water. So that was where Kenneth left the mastiff. I was pretty sure the dog knew my scent and would like to tear me apart for old-time sake. The growling, slobbering canine tried over and over again to break free as I hurried past him and continued my trek down stream.

I thought about Solow and remembered that I had left his dinner bowl on the porch near his bed. He would need water, but I was sure he could find some on his own. Bet he's upset with me right now, I thought.

In my head I calculated the number of hours since my last meal. It had been about twenty-eight hours, give or take two, since I wasn't wearing a watch. Solow's kibble, with a little salt and pepper, would have been a welcome gourmet treat at that point.

I was wet up to my waist and the tiniest breeze sent my teeth chattering uncontrollably, but I refused to let anything get in the way of my plan to follow the river ... follow the river … follow the river. The creek offered short stretches of beach from time to time, but usually I just sloshed through the water, one foot in front of the other, sometimes hopping rocks I could barely see in the dark.

Author Joyce Oroz

Small Town, Big Heart

Aromas residents treasure their miniature community park, petite post office, cozy library, dinky gas station and big mural (compared to everything else.) The whole town is small, but it’s jumping with energy, creativity, and kind folks who know how to look after each other.

As a long-time muralist, I became involved in the local mural project known as; how to make a down town rustic eye-sore look good. The ancient paint-peeling eye-sore was called Marshall’s Service. ( next door to Marshall’s Grocery) All that remained was a small, two-story wood building in the center of town.

When I was first approached to design a mural for the Marshall building, I didn’t know any of its history, not even the fact that it was once a gas station. (dah) I produced eight different designs and asked the Aromas Hills Artisans to vote on the one best suited. Most of the votes went to the picture of a 1936 International delivery truck and an old-style gas pump.

Being fairly new in Aromas, I still didn’t have a clue. I thought they liked the truck picture because it included chickens and striped canopies. But as the painting progressed, people stopped by to tell me how much they appreciated the mural. It seemed many of them had known, or knew about, Mr. Marshall and his family. After talking to the folks for two days, I realized how deep the roots of Aromas were, how much my neighbors loved their tiny town—and now I’m on of them.

I shall be interviewing members of the Aromas Hills Artisans, one at a time, beginning with author, Jennifer Chase. Stay tuned!

Take a Peek Into Josephine's World...

Excerpt from Secure the Ranch:

Then I heard it, coming up fast from behind, the roar of an engine propelling a truck with major muffler problems. It backfired. I jumped a couple inches in my seat and my heart skipped several beats. Headlights flashed in my rearview mirror. Solow howled again, his head stretched out the window as far as it could go. I made a right turn onto Central Avenue, stifling the urge to stomp on the gas pedal. The truck behind us followed at the same speed until we left the streetlights behind.

Highway nine was a windy two-lane road that followed the San Lorenzo River through the redwood forest from Boulder Creek, all the way south to Felton. There were no street lights, just sharp turns, narrow bridges and steep drops down to the river.

“Brace yourself, big guy.” I put my foot down hard, the engine coughed, and we sped up only to slow down for a sharp turn.

And so it went, turn after turn with the Dodge bearing down on our tailgate like an eight-cylinder cat playing with a four-cylinder mouse. I had a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, sweat running down my back and my jaw was tighter than a double-knotted shoelace. I had driven through the valley many times and knew my way around, but the McFee's had the “home advantage”.

I felt a hard jolt from the right rear of my truck. Solow yipped.

In slow motion, we spun to the left on two wheels, across the other lane and instantly turned a closed garage door into a million toothpicks. The one-car garage, perched high above the river beside a rustic cabin, stood about five yards from the highway. The little house was typical of many in the area, probably built in the thirties or forties when building codes were lenient or nonexistent.

Thankfully, we stopped before my pickup could break through the back wall of the garage and drop eighty feet down to the river. I heard Solow whine and didn't blame him. I felt like a good cry myself.

Shaking like crazy, I cautiously opened the door and climbed out. Once I had my balance, I stumbled down a dark path to the cabin. The porch light blinked on and the front door opened. A very distraught elderly couple dressed in pajamas looked at me as if the Martians had landed.

I stepped into the light and apologized profusely. Feeling wobbly, I wrapped my arm around a porch pillar. I always hated it when females fainted in the old movies, and I never wanted to be a fainter. But there I was, feeling numb and shaking like a maple leaf. Next thing I knew, I was laying on a couch too short for my body. My feet were up on the armrest. Pieces of peanut butter sandwich clung to the toe of my right sandal. “So that's where Theda's sandwich went,” I mumbled.

The plump little old lady patted the goose egg on my forehead with a wet cloth. “I'm so sorry I ruined your garage door. I'm sure my insurance will pay for a new one.” I looked up and thought I was hallucinating. A huge caribou head hung on the wall behind the couch. Its yellow marble eyes glared down at me accusingly.

“Relax, dear,” the frizzy-haired woman said. “You've had a terrible shock.”

The elderly man stomped into the house with his pajamas in a twist and announced that his collection of stuffed animals was a complete loss. It seemed odd to me that he wasn't nearly as concerned about his garage door as he was about some silly stuffed animals.

“I'd be happy to buy you some new ones,” I said, feeling horribly guilty. The little lady looked like she was ready to split a gut. “Honey, you can't buy them. You have to kill the mangy animals and then they're stuffed and ready to spend thirty years in the garage, or until a nice accident takes them out.” She couldn't hold back any longer and let loose with uncontrollable laughter, slapping her knees and wiping her eyes. Her husband stomped out of the house.