About Me
​​​​​ Artist Diane M. Di Maio
​
I was born and raised in Ft. Fairfield, ME. I have always been a hardworking team player, personable, energetic, and a go getter. While In High School, I was the class pianist, All State band and chorus. After graduating High School, I joined the Army, worked in top secret communications, Ft. McCellan, AL, Ft Gordon, GA, Ft. Holabird, VA, and Ft. Meade, MD (Honorable Discharge). In 1978, I moved to the Panama Canal Zone, where I taught piano. I also worked as a ships radio officer, with the Delmonte Shipping Company. In 1982 to 2005, I worked for the Metro Dade Police Dept. And Corrections. I was a police officer, squad leader in the academy, Retired in 2005 as a Personnel Specialist 3. I Graduated from Barry University, with a BA in Human Resources. I've had my broker-sales license since 2000, and my Notary since 1978.
Since I retired from Law Enforcement after 24 years, I moved from Miami to Fort Pierce, Fl, I have been involved in numerous art forms. When I first arrived here in 2005, I started to enter the Readers Snapshot with the Tribune. I had 207 winning snapshots. I also participated in the Photo Walks for several years and had a winning black and white photo by entering “Eye of the Camera,” with the Backus Museum. I had two black and white photos this year in the same contest. I owned a gallery in Fort Pierce (Driftwood Designs) in 2007 for a few years which featured driftwood sculptures, the driftwood was found at the ocean from hurricanes Francis, Wilma, and Jeanne. I also wrote scarry and funny stories of the sculptures. I was a member of the Vero Beach Art Club for many years and had sculptures displayed for contests. I had my photos, and many sculptures featured at the Vero Beach Courts and Cultural Center. In 2012, I did an amazing photo book called “White City Park” divided into five sections, birds, flowers, trees, mammals, and reptiles. It was and is amazing.I belonged to the Artist Nest Gallery in Fort Pierce, where I had sculptures displayed and took photos of the gallery events.I have had my photos in the Martin Arts Council in Stuart, the Elliott Museum in Stuart, photos and sculptures, Backus Museum in Fort Pierce, black and white twice, Florida’s National Legacy Society, and one in Who’s Who.I was a member of the Port Saint Lucie Power Squadron for over five years where I taught safe boating, women on the water, weather, emergencies, and other required courses, including being a certified coast guard vessel examiner. I was one of the squadrons bridge members and was the squadrons photographer and editor of our newsletter.I have been a member of the Treasure Coast Photo Club for over five years and had photos entered for “From the Heart” at the Port Saint Lucie Civic Center.When covid struck I stayed home and learned how to oil paint with Bob Ross and mastered all his TV taught paintings, I also took photos of each painting I did and accomplished printing three beautiful art books.I traveled extensively and have amazing photos, I have had two photos one taken in Germany and one in Antarctica featured in the Backus Museum, and I hope to share lots more. At present I belong to the H2U Fort Pierce Art Club in River Walk, Fort Pierce. I have learned how to accomplish other types of painting. I have also taught myself through u tube how to do amazing pour art, which I am ecstatic about, I also take photos of each painting and am in the process of making a pour art photo book. I just went on a 124 day World Cruise to many interesting places , I took pictures and documented them on my 2025 World Cruise Page, (after sculptures).
Driftwood Stories
The Midnight Driftwood Club: The General’s Lost Leg
​
​
​
​
​
​
Some sculptures are born from careful planning, but others—like this one—are conjured by the wildest storms and the wildest dreams. This driftwood leg, battered and bright, washed ashore after Hurricane Wilma tore through the coast, leaving only fragments of what once was. I found it, heavy and scarred, a survivor with a story to tell.
But as I brought the leg home, I sensed it wasn’t just a piece of wood. At midnight, when the world is quiet and the moonlight slips through my studio window, the Driftwood Club comes alive. That’s when the club members—each a rescued remnant, each with a wish—gather to share their secrets and plot their adventures.
On this particular night, the leg confessed its longing: to be whole again, to remember the body it once belonged to. The club listened, their knots and gnarls nodding in sympathy. “Tonight,” they declared, “we’ll find your missing self!” And so, as I drifted off to sleep, the Driftwood Club tiptoed out the door, catching the midnight train bound for Tennessee.
The journey was wild—empty boxcars rattling through the dark, laughter echoing as the club neared their destination. At last, they tumbled into an old cemetery, searching for a name nearly lost to time: a Civil War general, buried with honor but missing a leg. The leg, eager and determined, used its sturdy foot as a shovel, digging through the earth with the help of its friends.
With a clink, they struck metal. Working together, they pried open the casket, and there he was—the general, still waiting for his missing limb. The leg leapt into place, and in a flash, the general sprang to life! Blood rushed, bones danced, and the Driftwood Club joined in a midnight celebration, singing and spinning beneath the stars.
But magic has its limits. As dawn approached, the club gently reminded the general that the gift would last only until sunrise. Grateful for one last dance, he embraced his leg and his new friends, then settled back to rest. The Driftwood Club hurried home, sneaking into my studio just before I awoke.
When I entered the room, everything seemed as it was—except for a little dirt clinging to the leg, and a sense that something extraordinary had happened while I slept. Sometimes, I wonder: was it just a dream, or do the Driftwood Club’s adventures continue every night, just out of sight?
Reborn- A Driftwood Story
by Diane Marie Di Maio
Inspired by the sculpture you created from the storms of Fort Pierce
During the frantic, ferocious hurricanes Frances, Wilma, and Jeanne — storms that tore through the quiet little city of Fort Pierce, Florida — a once-stately driftwood bird stood proudly at the edge of the ocean. He watched the waves, breathed the salt air, and lived a peaceful life among the dunes.
But the storms came hard.
Winds howled.
Waves crashed.
And the proud driftwood bird was ripped from the shore, tossed, battered, and left among broken branches and shattered roots.
There he lay… alone, rain-soaked, and silent.
At the very same time, Diane arrived in Fort Pierce seeking her own rebirth.
She had just left behind a heartbreaking, tragic chapter of life in Miami — the loss of her youngest son, the heavy shadows of abuse, and years in law enforcement seeing more death than any soul should bear. The stress had torn her down until her heart gave out.
And so, with her two loyal dogs, Roxy and Nuby, she fled to this small coastal town to start again.
Every morning, the three of them walked to Walton Beach — their new place of healing.
One stormy day, fallen trees blocked the road and the air smelled of wet earth and seaweed. Most people would have turned back.
But Diane felt a pull…
Go forward.
Even if the path is blocked.
Even if it's hard.
So she trudged through with her little dogs, branches snapping under her feet.
And then — she heard it.
A faint… whimper.
She searched among the ruined trees and scattered driftwood. And there he was — the small, battered driftwood bird who had once stood proudly at the ocean’s edge.
His beak was broken.
His body was bruised and dull.
But Diane saw something in him.
A spark.
A life waiting to return.
Roxy and Nuby sniffed him gently, as if they understood.
Together, they carried the little bird back through the woods, back to the car, and brought him home.
Diane wrapped him tenderly and laid him out to dry.
When he was ready, she washed him with warm water and picked up the small sander her father had given her years before.
He still couldn’t speak — his beak too damaged from the storms — but Diane knew exactly what to do.
She would rebirth him.
She mixed her metallic oils — soft yellows, warm reds, glowing purples — and began brushing life back into his wooden veins.
Day after day, week after week, the little bird transformed.
He earned a brand-new orange beak.
He sparkled with new blue eyes that shone like tiny oceans.
Slowly… he became handsome again.
Diane named him Reborn.
One night, exhausted, she set Reborn among the other driftwood pieces and fell into a deep sleep.
What she didn’t know was this:
Every driftwood creature in her corner had once been whole.
Every piece carried its own secret story of storms, loss, and longing.
And now, brought together under Diane’s loving hands, they formed a magical circle — The Driftwood Club.
Each Friday at midnight, they voted for one lucky member to become whole for one night only. And this week… they chose Reborn.
Softly, quietly, they tiptoed to make sure Diane slept. She did — peacefully.
The Driftwood Club scurried outside, found a tiny boat, and sailed down the river to a nearby farm where thousands of feathers were stored — bright, beautiful feathers of every color and size.
They pried open the door and, one by one, placed feathers on Reborn’s body.
With every feather, Reborn felt warmth… tingling… life.
His skin glowed beneath the colors.
His spirit lifted.
His heart fluttered for the first time since the storms.
By the end, Reborn stood tall —
the most magnificent bird the Driftwood Club had ever seen.
They danced around him, singing, laughing, celebrating until the stars faded.
But they all knew:
As sunrise approached, they needed to return.
Magic this strong lasts only until morning.
They raced home just in time, returning Reborn to his place in the corner as the first light touched the windows.
All was as it had been.
Except…
When Diane awoke and walked past the driftwood corner, she paused.
There, on the floor, lay one single light blue feather… just slightly damp.
She held it for a moment.
No… it couldn’t be, she thought.
Then she smiled softly, placed the feather on her worktable, and went about her day.
But she knew.
Deep down, she knew.
Magic had passed through her home.
And Reborn — like Diane herself — was becoming whole again.
Munro’s Orphan — A Driftwood Club Story
Dr. Munro was up to his old tricks again.
He told the local government he needed more money for “new research,” but Munro’s Island was so spooky that no official ever dared to visit and see what he was truly doing. Instead, one nervous villager flew a tiny plane over the island, dropped the doctor’s supplies, and sped away as fast as the engine would carry him.
Dr. Munro had once been a brilliant surgeon—admired, respected, almost famous. But his ideas grew strange and grandiose. He believed he could alter DNA in anything: animals, people, even living wood and trees. He tried it once on a child, and the result was so horrendous that he lost his license and was banished to Munro’s Island as punishment.
There, far from watchful eyes, he began experimenting on castaways, rejects, and anything that drifted ashore.
One rotten, rainy, wind-howling day, a mutant child found a small piece of driftwood with bright, hopeful eyes and brought it to the doctor as a gift. Dr. Munro barely looked at it. He tossed the soft little creature into a dirty, dusty box and forgot about him.
Days later, bored and restless, the doctor returned.
He picked up the trembling driftwood, laid him on the table, and—without a shred of mercy—carved away his little eyes. Then he split his legs so instead of two, he had five.
“This thing is a mess,” Munro muttered, and threw him aside.
The little driftwood lay there, blind and broken, wishing only to disappear.
That very night, the worst storm in history struck the island. Rain turned to knives, waves rose like mountains, and Munro’s Island was swallowed by the sea. Everyone and everything was washed into the furious water.
But the little mutant could float.
He drifted for what felt like forever—unable to see, only feeling the cold, the rocking, the endless loneliness. Then one day, warmth touched his back. He felt himself being lifted.
It was the SS Lord Frontenac, searching the waters for survivors. The sailors hauled him up in their nets, but seeing only wood, they tossed him into a pile with other debris. Still—he was safe, at least for now.
Weeks passed. The ship neared Florida.
And then—another hurricane.
The vessel tossed and groaned, nearly turning over. To lighten the load, the crew threw all the collected driftwood back into the sea. Poor blind Mutant was swept away once more, finally washing ashore in Fort Pierce.
“I guess my life is over,” he thought, huddling in the seaweed.
But fate had other plans.
One day a human creature with two furry animals came walking along the beach. She bent down, picked him up gently, and placed him into a clean box. He felt warmth, heard kind voices, and was carried to a new place.
The Driftwood Club.
Diane cleaned him, smoothed him, polished him until he gleamed like black walnut. She gave him nine new eyes—each a different color—so he could see the world in rainbows.
For the first time in his strange life, Munro’s Orphan felt beautiful.
He was given a special place among the other Driftwood Members, where stories were told at midnight and wishes were sometimes granted. He learned to laugh, to listen, and to love his new home.
And though he had begun in horror,
he ended in wonder.
The Remembering One
Driftwood Tale
He is not a monster.
He is what remained.
Born of Dr. Munro’s island experiments, this being is the result of a bond science could not break. Fish, reptile, animal, and human merged—not by design, but by devotion. Danny Boy, the doctor’s young assistant, vanished the night he tried to save his dog, Nuby. What emerged was neither man nor beast, but a keeper of memory.
The turquoise marks embedded in the grain are not ornament. They are anchors—points where thought, loyalty, and love still live. Unlike the other creatures of the island, he does not hunt or howl. He watches. He remembers.
Driftwood carried him away from the island long after the doctor fled, preserving the truth in wood and time. Those who pause before him often feel it—a quiet pull, as if the sculpture itself is asking one question:
Do you remember who you were before the world tried to change you?
Root of Evil
Walking along Walton Beach — the designated dog beach — with my dogs Roxy and Nuby, after a series of ferocious hurricanes, I trampled through the underbrush and saw old battered roots ahead of me. The dogs started to be on edge. I could feel them getting leery of what lay ahead. They tried to pull me back toward the car, but not me — I had to see what was up.
As I got further, I became almost scared, and then I saw why.
A piece of driftwood that looked as though it came from some ancient evil place. I walked closer to it and could feel its mouth open wide and glowing eyes looking at me. It looked pure evil, with red scars, decoration, and those eyes. But I picked it up. It smelled terrible. I took the dogs, left, and drove home with the driftwood piece in my trunk. I left it outside because it smelled foul. The next day, out in the sunny backyard, I picked up my old green hose and cleaned the piece top to bottom. For a month I cleaned Root of Evil up, shellacked him, gave him wide eyes, tried to paint some of the scars.I took him to the Vero Beach Museum with me for a show-and-tell. One of the judges came up and said, “He looks too evil. No one would want this in their living room.”
She said I should have named him something better. So Root of Evil went home with me
​
The Tea Party
One day an old lady Sally, who lived in the back woods from me, was going to have a tea party and I got invited. She said, “Oh bring along one of your pieces of driftwood.”
So I decided Root of Evil was one that would be a topic of interest.
But when I arrived at Sally’s house, she took one look and said, “Diane… put that thing in the basement.” Soon the other girls started showing up. There was Linda, Kathy, Sharon, Judy, Betty, and Susie. Seven others in all. Tea was boiling in the teapot. Sally brought all of her beautiful English China cups to show the ladies how well off she was, and little crystal spoons, and gold-lined saucers for the yummy cookies and little cakes everyone brought.
Now little Root of Evil — we will call him Evil Canevil — woke up and started to listen to the chatter upstairs. He thought to himself: I just might really have a fun day here.
Chapter One — Gluttony: Susie
Susie didn’t want tea. She brought her own tequila in a little leather flask. So when Sally poured tea, Susie excused herself, went to the bathroom, and poured half the flask into the red, yellow, and green china. Poor Sally, she just loved all of her priceless stuff.
“Why couldn’t one of you clumsy silly women be more careful? You know how I love my treasures!”
But no one spoke up about who did it.
“What is that smell, Sally?” someone asked. “Smells like a dead rat.”
Gossip, gossip — when women get together it can be fierce.
Susie’s flask was empty and she was feeling out of sorts.
“I just have to have one more,” she said.
Then she remembered walking past an antique bar with a delicious-looking bottle of rum covered in rich leather. So she excused herself again. The others thought, Boy, she does have to pee a lot.
Susie smiled and said she’d be right back, her tummy was bothering her.
Susie went around the side corner and picked up the unbelievably exquisite bottle. She became a little nervous but still had to have one more—at least for now. She took the cap off slowly and poured the delicious dark imported Cuban rum into her flask and then also into her fancy china teacup. She was getting tipsy so decided she’d better sit down on the toilet seat.
She drank and drank some more.
She thought she felt something scratch her inner thigh but figured it was probably nothing.
Sally wondered why Susie was taking so long, but the gossip started up again so she stopped thinking about it. Oh, Evil Canevil was so excited he was beside himself.
He said to himself: The blood of this stupid old drunk Glutton will heal my body some and make me feel so, so much better.
And all of a sudden his root started to grow and grow. He put it up into the toilet drain and grabbed a hold of good old Susie.
Betty went to check the bathroom. No Susie to be found.
Betty went back to the tea and cookies and gossip and told the others, “I think Susie — since she wasn’t feeling good — went home. ”And the party continued.
​
​
Chapter Two — Greed: Kathy
It was after five, getting a little dark outside. Most of the women had walked to Sally’s because they lived only a few blocks away .Kathy didn’t care. Kathy was so ungrateful and terribly greedy. She hid delicious items from her friends—used all of them for her own use. Eat, eat, more. Get more and more. Never enough. Kathy thought she could have everything and play on others’ feelings as much as she chose, Sally said, “Kathy, you look ill…”Kathy didn’t sit down She plopped.
The chair creaked beneath her. Her hands reached for the next thing before her mind even finished the last bite. Then—ding dong .Someone said, “Oh, it’s Mr. Brown the postman.”
He reached out to Kathy with the most amazing three-layer chocolates: cherries, cream, walnuts, syrup on top. Kathy didn’t even offer her friends a bite. She sat down and devoured it all. Chocolate on her face, on her blouse, in her teeth. She grinned ear to ear. Down below, Evil Canevil thought: Forget the self-centered one… I want that great big delicious fat lady who makes my blood boil and run through all my veins. Kathy said, “Girls, I have to lay down a few minutes… but first I need to use the restroom.” She waddled into the bathroom, so tired she sat down on that cold whitish-yellow too-small toilet seat. All Evil Canevil could think of was: Hurry up, lady. I need you. Really need you.
Kathy was big, so she moved slowly. Evil got impatient. “I’ll just help her along this slimy, rotten, rusty pipe system.” Squeak, squeak… Sally thought she heard a noise but no one else seemed to hear anything, so she went back to her chamomile tea. Then Sally thought she heard a faint scream down the hall. “Ladies, I’ll be right back. I need to check on Kathy. She really looked awful.”
Sally hesitantly opened the flimsy old door. “Oh my land—what is that horrible smell?”
And there was yellowish red rusty-looking material in the toilet.
Old, she thought. I guess Kathy must have gone home out the side hall door to lay down.
She flushed again. The remains of the liquid took its time going down the drain this time… all that chocolate and whatever else floating in there.
Down below, Evil Canevil felt his stomach bursting—so excited to get what he wanted: all of Kathy.
He thought: Maybe I should take a few minutes to digest who and what I just ate.
Upstairs, the party continued. No one the wiser.
Chapter Three — Pride: Betty
Betty was still rambling on about that old fogey who got the position she thought she should have had. The other girls were getting sick and tired of hearing about Betty.
Ding dong again. Someone said, “Oh it’s Mr. Brown the postman, looks like he forgot to deliver something.” Sally opened the door and this time it was a new postman finishing Mr. Brown’s shift. He was tall, deep blue eyes, extremely handsome. All the remaining ladies swooned.
“I have a package for a Ms. Bett—” “That’s me! That’s me!” Betty shrieked. “And it must be my new gorgeous turquoise silk dress I ordered! Give it to me!” Betty grabbed the box.
She asked Sally if anywhere in the house she had a full-length mirror. She just had to see how magnificent she would look. “Pride,” whispered Evil Canevil downstairs with his still-scarred ripped ear. He needed more protein to repair it. Sally said, “The stairs are a little steep and the light is dim, but I have a beautiful antique golden mirror at the bottom of the stairs leading to the basement.”
Off went Miss Proud Betty, clutching her box. She opened the basement door and almost knocked over with a sick sour smell, but she had to open the box and see if it was her new dress. Inch by inch she went down. For a second with the light so dim she thought she saw a glowing eye coming from the wall near the mirror. She started to open the box, pull out her new beautiful something to brag about, when she saw an object scamper across the room. Evil was delighted he didn’t have to waste energy going up a broken bathroom pipe. Dinner is coming to me.
Betty ripped paper off the box when her foot felt like something bit her toe—or she stepped on something sharp. Then a real sharp pain on her leg brought her down to her knees.
She whimpered, not understanding. Above, when she didn’t return, the ladies assumed she got mad and left. Another bit the dust.
Chapter Four — Lust: Linda
Remember Mr. Brown, the earlier postman? No one knew, but he and Linda had been having a grand illicit love affair—going on day after day after his deliveries.
Now that his shift was over and he had a few hours off, and he knew Linda was at Sally’s house, he texted her so no one would hear. He was in luck. Linda texted: “Sally has been calling the post office for you to pick up a return to sender package that we have here already to go.”
The party was roaring now. Music up high. Laughter. Giggles. No one paying attention to Mr. Brown. They saw him come, but not leave. No one even concerned about Linda.
Linda couldn’t control herself. She put on new lipstick, fluffed her hair. She could feel the blood rushing all over her body in anticipation for the sensual touch of her secret lover.
Slowly, the two crept down the stairs.
Evil Canevil decided he wanted to see what would happen with these two coming into his new territory. He slid quietly, close enough to hear and observe while his last meal tried to digest.
Mr. Brown and Linda giggled, caught in their own little world. And Evil Canevil thought: I don’t want him. I only want Linda. He got smarter as he got stronger. So he reached—quietly—and used Mr. Brown’s own phone to send a message that sounded like the post office:
Where are you? You were supposed to be here 15 minutes ago with that return package. It needs to go out by 5. Get back here in the double. Mr. Brown read it and jumped up, grabbing his clothes.
He told Linda he must get back before the others found out he was still there in the basement.
“Go ahead,” Linda said. “I’ll rest a few more minutes, pull myself together, then go back upstairs.”
Linda lay down, feeling the basement’s damp cold. She felt a soft touch—something like a root brushing her skin. “Oh, Mr. Brown,” she murmured, thinking he’d come back.
That was the last thing she ever said. Upstairs, the party continued. Downstairs, Evil Canevil smiled. Chapter Five — Envy: Sharon
The chatter lessened. Music softened. Faces started to look frail and pale, then it just got quiet.
Someone said, “Sally, please find out what smells so foul in here. I really don’t feel good.”
That was Judy, always miserable and complaining.
Sally peered her head in and asked if anyone could help clean up a little. Judy made believe she didn’t hear.
Later, Sharon finished helping in the kitchen and started to slowly check out the other rooms.
