Sloane, Author at The STUFF Sisters

The Last Lunch Out

It’s the time of year when people ask, “Do you leave the store?” We do. We go home at night, and we come back the next day. However, leaving for lunch is hard after Thanksgiving.

It’s the time of year when people ask, “Do you leave the store?” We do. We go home at night, and we come back the next day. However, leaving for lunch is hard after Thanksgiving. Today I snuck away and had lunch with my sister, my Dad, my niece and my stepmom after they had been to see Santa. This may be the last day we can do this until January, and that’s OK. We love seeing our customers over their lunch breaks during the holidays. That’s when all the sneaky purchases take place.

Classic Cookie is one of our favorite places for chicken salad. And cookies. But mostly chicken salad. Well, Casey had a roast beef sandwich today, but I think it is because their horseradish sauce and bread are so amazing. Ask her. I really don’t know.

Leslia Stockard owns this great small business, and just this Sunday – yesterday – she was in STUFF when we were making plans for today’s lunch. Casey asked what the soups were going to be on Monday. Leslie admitted that she didn’t know – but what sounded good? Casey said that she didn’t like beans and left it at that.

Vickie, the wicked stepmom, and my niece.

The soups today were Mushroom Potato and Beef Barley. Not a bean in sight. You can’t tell me small business doesn’t listen to their customers.

Child Labor

They start by just sleeping in their car carriers. Under the desk. Behind the counter. In the office. They come to work and they do little.

Then, they play. They play with their own toys, they play with the office supplies, and maybe, just maybe, they play shop with us. They nap, they nosh.

Then, around five years old, they want something “real” to do. Labeling, stickering, sorting. Doesn’t matter, just as long as it’s what we’re doing. It’s for short periods of time so that the playing can continue.

At seven, they want a timesheet. It not about the money – there are child labor laws! – it’s about being like the other employees and doing “real work”. Not like the stuff they did at five. This time the labeling needs to be on product, the stickering needs to be on real file folders, and the sorting becomes filing into the file cabinets. Real numbers, Labor Law Compliance Center labor posters, the full alphabet, and goals.

This week my niece filled out a timesheet that brought tears to me eyes. They grow up too fast. But it was the little parts of this one that got me. Her nickname, my nickname, the day of the week, and the fact that she got it approved by her mother. Their childhood goes by so fast, and I can’t speak for my sister but having the children at work with you alleviates huge piles of mother guilt when you feel pulled in multiple directions. It’s not all bad and more than a little bit of fun. You laugh more, you walk up the street for ice cream and popcorn, and you remember – and feel deeply – what a family business really is.

The law be damned. They just want to be like their mothers.

Moving Inside

Just two or three days ago, I moved the geraniums from their roost outdoors to their winter home indoors. I never thought I would be one of those people who harbor plants indoors, but I can’t break myself of this color.

I can’t imagine why.

They spent the winter with us indoors last year and brightened the days. Especially the days I spent in the kitchen at the table near them. Slippers on. Magazines at the ready. Child and husband still sleeping. The light flooded in from the south and made the pinks pinker. Or maybe that was just my mood adjusting.

These photos were taken in June before the summer battled them into not blooming much until late August. Both of us tired and fatigued, I watered them and waited. They gave me a grand fall, and I look forward to a bright winter.

If you have a summer favorite you bring indoors, I’d love to hea

In a few of these anecdotes, the telescope saw limited initial use and then it was simply incorporated into the home’s décor—gathering dust in a corner. It became obvious to me that what the family could have benefited from more would have been a spotting scope. And, in all of the cases, the spotting scope wasn’t even on the purchase radar. By default, everyone thinks the telescope is the best way to explore the heavens and it truly is, but the spotting scope presents a great and versatile alternative. Let’s look at the buying choices between spotting scopes and telescopes so that, if you are in the market for yourself, the family, or a space-exploring enthusiastic youngster, you can get something that everyone will enjoy and something from which all will enjoy a great deal of use.

Before we dive in: if you arrived here knowing you want a telescope, but are unsure what type to get, click on over to our telescope buying guide and enjoy the view!

TL;DR
Spotting scopes offer unmatched versatility and durability for primarily terrestrial viewing (think birding) and some astronomical viewing, here you can get the best spotting scope under 500. Telescopes give you a superior view of the heavens, but are less portable, less durable, and slightly more difficult to use than a spotting scope.

Portability
While there are certainly small and portable telescopes, the spotting scope is relatively lightweight and designed for use in the field. Many come with “C-thru” cases (or they are available separately) that protect the scope’s body from wear and scratches while allowing you to use the scope, try the best spotting scope under 300. Larger telescopes can be boxed up and taken out into a dark sky area—often the big telescopes will be transported in two or three separate boxes—they are definitely not designed around portability in the same way a spotting scope is designed.

r about it.

Heaping Pile of Generosity

In the noisy jumble of a handcraft market stands a man we can count on to take our order, make us smile, and send us on our way. One day a few weeks ago, that same man made me cry.

In the noisy jumble of a handcraft market stands a man we can count on to take our order, make us smile, and send us on our way. One day a few weeks ago, that same man made me cry. His name is Mathias.

2005 Wings of Hope — Casey, Sloane & Susan, Wings of Hope 2005

A larger-than-usual pile of boxes was delivered that day, and that alone could have made me weep. In the pile was a smaller box. Smaller than the others. It was the second box I ripped into so that I could feel a sense of completion by getting it dealt with. However, it was the magic in the box that brought productivity to a standstill. It held a pile of lovely hand crafted pewter art pieces, a note in an envelope, and an invoice outlining that the art was a gift. Many gifts to be shared with our customers. The note was opened first, and the waterworks began.

Casey, Susan & Sloane, Wings of Hope 2006

One year – not so far back – we got to talking to Mathias about our Wings of Hope event when we saw him in New York. He is a great listener, and, when we were done telling him about the change we make with our holiday open house, he told us he wanted to give us special pocket tokens to give to our customers during the event. Mathias doesn’t talk much; hearing what people say is his strength.

2008 Wings of Hope — Casey & Sloane, Wings of Hope 2008

Mathias wrote the note that made me cry. He had a hand in the invoice adjustment, and he probably packed the box himself. But what blew me away – what has never happened before in the 16 years of our business – is the $100 check he included from his company. No company we represent has ever sent a donation to our yearly fundraiser. Ever. When I got Casey on the phone to tell her about the heaping pile of generosity we had received, she had to pull her car over because driving and crying is bad.

Together – here at STUFF, in a studio in Rhode Island, and in a research lab at the KU Cancer Center – change is in our hands. That goodness is what made me cry.

2010 Wings of Hope — Sloane with Einstein & Casey with Emma, Wings of Hope 2010

Join us on November 10th and 11th when our holiday open house, Wings of Hope, will magically fly again.

2011 Wings of Hope — Sloane & Casey, Wings of Hope 2011

The First Cold Day

The children were turning blue in front of our eyes. The same parents that had previously over-dressed them for every snow day were just standing there watching them smile and freeze.

The children were turning blue in front of our eyes. The same parents that had previously over-dressed them for every snow day were just standing there watching them smile and freeze. The same parents that despised making them put coats on over their tiny costumes on brisk Halloween nights in years past. These same parents held cameras aloft and captured all the smiles on film.

I was one of those parents. It seemed like just yesterday I had begged him to get out of the pool because his lips were blue and he was causing ripples just standing still. “No Mom. I’m fffine,” as the sun nestled in tighter behind the clouds. Yet here I was bearing witness to his male friends holding back the shivers while the females of the bunch pulled their uncovered legs a little closer together under short skirts. It was my son’s second Homecoming Dance. Who was I to be the voice of reason and therefore the party-pooper. The “Weird Mom”.

Their lips were almost to chattering, and the cameras clicked along. Yet they ran to the rented bus and its awating warmth when it pulled up.

Then they left us on the lawn of the art museum to find our own way.

p.s. That’s mine. Third from the right.

Home Alone

God save me from my memories.

Tonight was a gift that has come along so seldom in the last 15 years that I was giddy with the possibilities. The husband at work for a client. The kid off at a dance and after parties.

God save me from my memories.

Tonight was a gift that has come along so seldom in the last 15 years that I was giddy with the possibilities. The husband at work for a client. The kid off at a dance and after parties. I didn’t know when the man would be home, but the boy’s pickup wasn’t until 1am. A day of work and volunteering behind me, and an evening to myself. Alone. In my home alone. Nirvana.

Maybe catching up on my reading. Maybe writing a bit from the notes I gathered at my writing group on Friday. Maybe learning to use the remote and watching an old movie. Maybe remembering the huge dust monster found in my closet/dressing room/office earlier this morning while digging the boots out.

Guess which one won?

Here I am at 10pm on a Saturday night. Battling the vacuum attachments was work enough, but the flood of memories from the handbags, totes and clutches almost took me down.

What in the hell is wrong with me? I can clean out a child’s room quickly. I can make happy work of an over-packed junk drawer. I can sort through the “dump pile” of weekly mail swiftly. I can make tough decisions about what goes and what stays in every room in the house except the one that is solely mine. My dressing room and office.

This pile of incredibly dusty and seldom used bags turned into a hike through Mizzou (early ’80s), a trip to a national political convention (mid ’80s), a trip with my toddler to the zoo in St. Louis (late ’90s), a first-time handbag purchase from a street vendor in New York (early ’90s), and a talk with my grandmother (seemingly yesterday). I stood there vacuuming them all – with the brush attachment and working up a marginal sweat – telling myself that this was it. This was finally the day to rid myself of cotton duck cloth and/or leather that hadn’t held a school book, diaper, notebook, badge or swimsuit in over 10 years.

Then I folded them neatly into a dust-resistant plastic bin and put them away on the highest shelf of my closet.

For another day.

p.s. Of course it turned into a larger project that encompassed the entire closet. Silly girl. What was I thinking?

Big Trees are Magic

Friday morning I sat on my back deck and looked for places to plant a tree on our postage stamp lot in mid-town.

Friday morning I sat on my back deck and looked for places to plant a tree on our postage stamp lot in mid-town. Mowing takes our son all of 15 minutes – front and back – because trees, bedding and produce gardens dot the property. Grass is not our top producer of mulch. Leaves are.

We live with three large trees. Trees that tower over the house, and the house stands at three stories tall. Majestic specimens all: oak, maple and hackberry. Mature trees. Trees that knock our use of air conditioning back a bit. I have told my husband many times that when even one of these trees leaves us, I’m calling the movers.

In the last week, two different neighbors have cut down same-size trees. Big ones. Upon seeing their removal – even if watching tree removal after a storm actually, my chest got tight. My palms ached a bit and I beat back tears. I have yet to dig down too deep on these physical reactions to loss to understand myself. Maybe I don’t want to. All I know is that within 24 hours of the second loss I was sitting and looking at my yard, thinking about planting a tree. I felt we needed another. Not we the people in my house, but we the planet.

I guess I’m a tree hugger. Big trees are magic to me. I can remember lying under the huge oak at one of my childhood homes. If offered a wide and dense canopy. I would look up and I was protected by a big green tent. If I heard something overhead or wondered about the sky, I would have to get up and walk away from the tree to see anything at all. Hearing was possible; sight was not.

I have spent the years since I was a political consultant trying to beat back agressive or fevered tendencies in my words and actions. I like to think I’ve calmed a bit. But on the issue of trees, knee jerk reactions are clearly on the rise.

Power of Transference

I have never been one for morbid sensibilities. I don’t dwell in sadness, nor do I dabble in unwholesome thoughts. I am not gloomy.

Early this morning, before the sun was up, cancer consumed the life of a friend’s father. I had time last night to hold her and sway a bit in a hug that didn’t want to end. She was moving quickly towards the silences that would come with her father’s death, but we were taking a few more minutes to talk about things that had nothing to do with the tasks at hand. Several good laughs, a few inappropriate comments, a touch of bad behavior and moments of quiet in an overly-bright waiting room.

I have small town ways about me. They have to have come from the branches above me in my family tree, as I was not raised in a small town. One of those “ways” is that I stop for funeral processions. I pull over. No matter what. When they are coming toward me and when they are on my tail. I take these moments for contemplation about the people I have lost in my life. I remember myself in dark and quiet limos. I remember deep sadness and overwhelming relief. I give these moments time, because it’s what I have to give. Time. What can my hurry possibly be that I can’t stop to honor a family in pain? It’s minutes, really. Blinks of an eye.

So, this morning, I took a moment and spent time looking for pictures of my father. He is living with cancer and doing a bang-up job at it. It’s hard, and it will be his forever. My friend’s father has just ended a very short dance with a wicked disease.

I ache for my friend. I can never feel her pain, but, through the power of transference, I can weep for her loss and be there when the smiles return.

“Hold ’em tight,” I said to myself and others this morning. “Time is fleeting.”

p.s. Here are photos of my Dad and members of my family over the past year. Some of these I have used in previous blogs, and some I have not.

family portrait 2011 — Thanksgiving 2011

Spasmodic Claustrophobia

Years ago I saw a photograph of the Golden Gate Bridge on either its birthday or maybe the day of a marathon. Don’t know. Can’t remember.

What I do remember is that I was overcome with a touch of claustrophobia. Just sitting there holding the magazine. The photo was majestic and magnificent, but I felt like I was the tiny person in the center of the bridge. Needing help possibly. Panicking maybe.

Today I was waiting for my primary care doctor to enter the not-too-big-not-too-small room for my physical. I waited a while longer than I wanted, but I was holding in there because he is a wonderful doctor and we seem to be on the same wavelength in regards to my health. Besides, I’m not a quitter.

Then, all of a sudden – possibly at minute 27 of the waiting – I needed to get out of the little room. Or at least open the door a wee bit and listen to the hall noise more clearly. The sound of my own increasing heart rate was deafening and not really all that interesting.

So I did just that. I popped the hatch.

I may not be able to control my self-diagnosed “spasmodic claustrophobia” but that crack in the door did more than let in new air. It released my mind.

And the sweet man even knocked before he entered. Dang. I can pick ’em.

p.s. This is not the photo from my memory. But it is darn close.

p.p.s I’ve never been to California. The Golden Gate Bridge must be a sight to behold.

Vacation Epiphany

It has taken entirely too long to pinpoint why I love vacations near the ocean. I am 47 years old and have loved the water my whole life. I have reverence for the power of large bodies of water but no fear of them. I love swimming and can find great solace floating on water or diving under and holding my breath. Oceans. Pools. Lakes. Streams. Waterhoses. Doesn’t matter. Water makes me happy and makes me want to be a part of it. (Except bathtubs. I’ve never enjoyed them in the least, and it’s probably just about the temperature. But I digress.)

goodbye beach — Yep. The requisite sunset photo.

I love water-based vacations because, if I plan my day well, I can wake up and go directly to my swim suit from my pajamas, and then, at the end of a water logged day, I can move gracefully back to my pajamas or another form of lounge wear that doesn’t involve any form of undergarments. Right there. The pinpoint. After 47 years.

I have never had to suffer under the daily strain of panty hose. I have never lived in an era where girdles were de rigueur. But I am fed up and done with bras and most forms of underpants. Unfortunately, they are a necessity at my age, and I do miss my “commando” days. I am, however, tired of being confined, and, for two weeks a year, I make sure “foundations” have no part of my life.

grasses & sky — Dramatic sky before sunset.

I am the queen of fashioning a cover-up for trips to the grocery store and casual restaurants. That’s what scarves, old cotton skirts, and T-shirts are for. This last vacation was on a beach, and trips away from the house had me sporting my favorite oxford cloth button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled way up over my strapless swimsuit with its attached skirt. That’s the whole outfit. (OK. The suit has one detachable strap, but I despise tan lines, so I save the strap for special occations. Like boutique shopping, because that demands a level of stylishness, for heaven’s sake.)

almost evening — The view from my towel on day one. Possibly my favorite shot this year.

By the time I get to vacation each year, I have tired of feeling cooped up and locked down. And vacations, if done right, are about feeling exactly opposite. And, for two weeks, I am free as a bird and loving every minute of it.

p.s. These photos were taken on Anna Maria Island over the past two weeks. A trip off island to the fishing village of Cortez warranted the oxford cloth coverup and swimsuit strap you see here.