Sloane, Author at The STUFF Sisters

Trail of Tears

Almost a month ago we put our dog, Einstein, to sleep. I can’t say it’s been a long month since but it has had its moments.

One month ago, we put our dog, Einstein, to sleep. I can’t say it’s been a long month since, but it has had its moments. Last week, a wonderful note in the mail from a dear friend left me navigating the steps to the second floor with blurry eyes and tears gently rolling. It wasn’t even a long note. It was just a perfectly chosen single sentence from a man who takes care with words.

It actually took us until this past Saturday to pick up his remains, and we still don’t know what to do with them. So they are sitting on the kitchen table. Our son wants them in his bedroom. Sounds like a good place to be – with the twin beds and the Legos and the books. Our dog always was happiest with one of us by his side. Particularly the youngest of us. At first it was funny smells that allured him, then nibbles dropped from a high chair, food left unattended on a toddler table, and, finally, long walks alone with his growing boy. They both liked those walks. We even got a picture of him posted on the Blue Buffalo site once, he was really proud of that. We Our son would saunter at a speed that Einstein dictated, and both experienced a freedom from rules, regulations, timetables and adults.

I have revisited our last day with our dog many, many times. I doubt I’m done picking it apart, but I can find no flaw with it just now. My visual memories of our time with the vet that day are vivid. He was surrounded by us all, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. The vet and her assistant have cared for him since we rescued him 17 years ago, and they too had spent the morning wishing noon would never come.

But high noon always comes.

I have found myself lately playing the “why & what if” game. Why couldn’t his mind have gone first? Or his sight? A funny tummy plagued him for a few years but arthritic hips took him out. Why? What if we had gone ahead with the hip surgeries 6 years ago? What if we had installed wall to wall carpeting in our historic home? Would it have been easier on his hips? What if … and why? It’s a game you play when sadness breaks down your ability to see clearly. Most days, however, I can see that 19 years is a wonderful life for a dog. It was a wonderful life for all of us.

Our last morning with our dog was slow and restful. I don’t believe we were ready to leave the house, but the photos from that day show a family at peace – a family that knows letting go is the right thing to do. The kind thing. The humane thing.

I miss my dog. However, there is a certain grace that enters the final and permanent moments of living, and I have witnessed it three times so far in this life. It was in that stillness that my dog helped me rediscover that the peace I carry will be with me long after the trail of tears ends.

p.s. Our son set up a page on Facebook with many photos of our dog, some from his last day with us. You are welcome to view them here, if you dabble on Facebook. The photos used above were taken on Anna Maria Island, Florida, on July 31, 2011. It was our last family “portrait”.

Friday Night Lights

I attended my first friday night football game at my son’s new high school tonight.

I attended my first Friday night football game at my son’s new high school tonight. Football’s never really been “my sport”. It is a wee bit violent for me. When I attended high school way back in the early 80s, I tried to never miss a game. Our school shared a field with another high school, so even home games held the allure of a car ride, before and after I had my license.

I did not sit with my son at the BBQ before the game or at the game. He was off with his friends – new and old – and that made me infinitely happy. He’s building his life and his memories, and I’m merely the taxi driver. Fine by me. Truly.

The light came on again tonight that my son has done nothing but grow away from me since he was born. I should be sadder, or so I’m told. I’ve spent time and energy visiting this issue, and you can see one of those musings here. While sitting in the bleachers with my niece, I was reminded that – even after the lights came on and the world got a little darker tonight – my son knew exactly where to find me. If I’ve been doing my job correctly and have let him grow away from me, he’ll always know exactly where I am.

p.s. If the photo of the field lights I captured isn’t the stuff of a Lori Buntin painting, I don’t know what is.

Texture and Time

Earlier this week, I attended a morning get-together with several women. There was coffee served, but, since I don’t drink coffee, I feel funny saying, “I had coffee” or, “I went to a coffee”. Enough with the digression. Time for the story….

This little get-together was relaxing and low key. There were no raised voices, no preening or positioning. Just a handful of women visiting about their children and the school year ahead. The conversation generally involved the whole group, and we all got to hear the longer versions of each other’s concerns, plans and dreams. I liked that part very much. We gravitated toward the family room after the intial round of beverages were poured. I chose to sit in a chair that proved to be fantastically comfortable, and, after the rain started to fall, I kept to myself the desire to tell our hostess that I would be staying for naptime.

I found myself, as we were all talking, mesmerized by the texture of the upholstery on my chair. It was the same upholstery on every chair and sofa in the room, and I hope my friend doesn’t blame her beloved dogs for the possible “wear and tear” on the corner I covertly fondled. The cotton fabric had a weave to it that didn’t follow the pattern of the bold stripes, and it held me in its sway.

rain on sand — Rain pattern left on sand.

Our hostess has a divine sense of style, and what set the room off for me – beyond the tooth of the upholstery – were the magnificent conch shell resting triumphantly on the low table in front of us all and the small basket of collected shells at my elbow.

Just last month on vacation, I took my camera to the beach every day. Initially, I was on a mission to capture sunsets and to not let details get away from me, as I’m prone to do. As I edited and curated my photos on the computer, what stuck out over the many days were the textures we found on the beach and in the water. Every day, the beach ignites in me the desire to stay even longer than the day before. I never want to miss a thing, and I never want to leave.

I spent almost an hour one evening trying to capture the amazing foam near the shore. In the fading light, it was an effort in futility. However, the texture of the sand under the water ended up being as exciting to me as the foam.

Texture can awaken me visually. However, if touching is the truest form of remembrance, I’ve got memories to last a lifetime.

Sloane

july 30 sunset — The sunset on July 30th. Anna Maria Island.

p.s. All of these pictures were taken on Anna Maria Island this summer. I wrote a blog a while back about sunsets and their strange allure. See it here.

New Digs

The beginning of the school year does not bring on the deep desire to sniff crayons or markers. It does not make me yearn for sweaters and boots. I don’t even want the cooler weather to drop down too soon. Around our house, it simply means Mama’s got the bug to move furniture.

Last year it was the excitement and sadness of converting the young man’s room from a bunk bed setup into a double-twin-bed lounging paradise. We got him some new furniture on this site. It was a day fraught with tears for what seemed like the true end to the “kid” room and therefore childhood. At least that’s what I manifested it into.

This year – two days before the first day of school – the golden child’s desk moved from the kitchen to the room we labeled years ago “the playroom” due to its housing all the games, the toys and the air hockey table. His desk had been in the kitchen since the second grade when he and I started sharing a computer. The computer and he faced the wall so I could easily see the screen from any vantage point in the kitchen. Not on my watch was he going to accidentally dance with porn! No way!

a boy and his desk — The boy and his new desk.

The domino effect of house re-arranging is that it gave me the opportunity to tweak a few more things that needed change. It just stands to reason that, if he and I are no longer sharing a computer and a desk, we should both get new digs. So this boy’s mama moved a desk into her dressing room, and all has been bliss. I am safely nestled into the second floor of the house with a window for taking in Hyde Park vistas and with seashells on the sill for moral support. Right now I’m loving the sleekness of the desk surface, but I know that will change.

My move from the epicenter – our kitchen – is providing me with much-needed clarity for the writing I’ve been yearning to do. I am able to leave the hubbub after dinner and enter a little silence – which I still love to have pierced by my baby boy as he attacks his mountain of homework.

Sloane

Helicopter Parent

I have been checking in with my father almost every day since he was diagnosed with cancer late this spring. It seems like the least I can do. Sometimes we talk about cancer, sometimes we talk about work, sometimes we talk about movies, but mostly we talk about nothing in particular. And talking about nothing has been taking us at least 10 minutes almost every time we talk.

dad, D and vic — My Dad, my son, and my step mom not too long ago. Well, long enough ago that he still had facial hair. Oh, hell, any hair.

This is an impressive amount of time for me with a phone to my ear because talking on the phone is anathema to me. I’ve never been very good at it, and most of the time I can get a little short and just move quickly towards the hanging up part. I’m getting better, but I’m not cured. Yet.

A week or so ago, a friend of mine, Patti Dickinson, posted on her Facebook page an article in our local paper about the University of Missouri hiring a new person to help parents separate from their children as they enter the new world of living at college, or some such concept. I was disgusted that this was even a job that was needed at any university or college. There was much discussion on her page about how ridiculous this was, and I was in full agreement. Actually, I still am.

However, today something hit me. I have become a helicopter daughter. I am hovering around my father and checking in to make sure he is OK, adjusting and getting used to his new “environment”. I had become one of those dreaded people that can’t let their family out of their sight – or, in my case, hearing range.

At a time in my life when our son is entering his last four years of schooling before college and I am working hard at making sure he’s independent and capable and can troubleshoot some of his shortcomings, I am spending great amounts of time making sure my father is coping and is not overwhelmed by a bully he can’t even lay hands on directly.

Can I be a helicopter daughter while not being a helicopter parent? I think I can. We’ll see.

The Past as Present

I have been coming to the beach in Florida on average once a year for 9 years. I’m lucky. I have firsthand knowledge of the healing powers of the surf and the sun. I can feel it on my skin and in my soul.

Hunting for shells is a part of life on the island we visit. It juts out from the southern tip of Tampa Bay and collects some real doozies from the Gulf of Mexico. I have the patience for looking for shells, and I find the work cathartic. But I’m not good at it. I have been laughed at for what I bring back and what I find beautiful, but it rolls off of me and I care little. Shelling is a private endeavor, and others need not really know too much.

I have excelled at acting like Madame Cousteau as my son – once little and now not so much – brings me his bounty from the sea. I ooh and ahh and am truly transfixed by his luck in the shallows and on the sand. (Many years ago, I saw a comic in The New Yorker of a young Jacques at the beach. It showed his mother in a beach chair absolutely surrounded by sea life, shells and rocks. The artist had her saying something sweet and alarmingly funny – I have forgotten it, but the image has stuck with me as my son has aged.) This past week, he has brought me miniature wonders and large treasures.

And yesterday – just yesterday! – I realized why I’m not the greatest shell collector. Well, not the greatest collector of perfect shells…why I am drawn to all the shells that are imperfect and broken and damaged. The realization had me looking up from the “shell dump” my son and I were digging in and looking toward the incredible sinking sun as I caught my breath. It had come catapulting through time to strike me straight in the heart.

When I was in the 4th grade, my parents moved us from Des Moines to Kansas City. It was a wee bit hard to join a class mid-year and fit in. Well, I didn’t actually fit in for several more years. I was not chosen for kickball or dodgeball teams. I was not waved over to join a group at a lunch table. I was not picked first for spelling bees or vocabulary teams. It was tough. I was the new kid.

It was well into my 5th grade year when I met the young woman who has remained my best friend to this day. And even then, when she fell in gym and broke her forearm, I was blamed by others because I was near her and fell at the same time. I felt like I was the odd duck and the 5th wheel. I just knew I was imperfect in my classmates’ eyes – broken in some way I could not see in the mirror – and it left me a bit damaged for several years.

This brings us back to the beach and the bounty I carry away and into my home. I have jars on a high shelf in a guest room that house my treasures. I used to be a bit more anal retentive, putting dates and locations on the inside of the lids, but now I mix and match my catches. I will occasionally bring a jar down and place it on my dresser for a few weeks so I can marvel at the different shapes. I can admit to liking the pristine pieces that look like they were purchased at a gift shop, but I mix them liberally with the majority of what I own – odd shells, barnacled shells, broken shells, cracked shells, tips and fragments.

Today I found the shells you see, in the surf up-island from our beach chairs. I dug them out of the sand and clear water, looked at them briefly, and silently told myself to throw them back. They were still been held together by membrane, and one side was barnacled and off-colored, but the other side was nearly perfect and barnacle free. I held it for over a minute while contemplating how these two halves could still be together in the rough and tumble of the sea. One was perfect and one was not. Then, because I knew tossing would damage them, I laid them back gently on the sand in the shallows and walked away.

Ten minutes later, my son joined me where I sat after I had left the flats, and he showed me his many amazing shells, one of which was the pair I had placed back in the sea.

Oui, Madame était très contente.

Sloane

Special note: a “shell dump” is a phrase my sister Casey coined years ago to distinguish regular beach from a section that had a lot of shells collected in it at the last high tide.

Translation: Yes, Madame was very happy.

Almost Stupid

I almost walked right into a grand tour down memory lane. Almost.

While our 14 year old son is off traipsing around Paris, I decided to travel right into the grand abyss that is his closet. It was packed to the gills with old costumes, rolled posters, too-small shoes, last year’s jeans, and his “keepsafe” boxes. That’s where I was almost stupid. Almost.

When he was young and still learning the finer points of the English language, he heard me mentioning his keepsake boxes. To be precise, what he heard – but not what I said – was KEEPSAFE boxes. He will still ask me to put things away in his keepsafe boxes. I have never corrected him, and I doubt I ever will. It’s just too precious to me, and there needs to be some thread to him that ties me to his babyhood.

Back to the closet. Right on top, in the uppermost keepsafe box, was the Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit I bought him in 1997 for my stepsister’s wedding. I went a little crazy in the weeks before the wedding and purchased this amazing ensemble at Saks Fifth Avenue. It’s a pima cotton placketed blouse and a navy blue velvet jumper with button closures. No tacky snaps here!! I finished it all off with white socks and leather Buster Brown ankle shoes. He was 8 months old, and that night his feet never touched the ground. He was held by many and pandered to all night. He was as happy all evening as he is in this picture.

In the box, right under this fashion statement, is the outfit we took him home from the hospital in. I can’t say what else is in that box – or the boxes it was resting on – because I stopped right there. I felt the big cry coming on, and I waltzed right around it. I went back to sorting and dusting and cleaning and ignored the memories waiting in those boxes.

I guess that, because I only have one child, I will not need to remind myself to not go cleaning out the closets of an almost high schooler while they are away. It is a treacherous and slippery slope if you are not properly prepared.

I should, however, remind myself that drying my eyes with the cotton rag in my hands that is coated in lemon Pledge and dust bunnies is almost stupid. Almost.

Button Pusher

We all know how to push the buttons of the ones we love. We push them to elicit a response, to incite a riot, to ignite a discussion. You pick it. We’ve all done it.

I spent this past weekend in Denver visiting my husband’s family and catching STUFF’s new buttons in action in the Mile High City. I never pushed these little cuties on anyone, but they were a point of conversation with several strangers.

Here’s what Denver looks like when you’re 1-inch tall.

Just last week, Casey and I started placing jars of these little hotties all around Kansas City in our favorite locally owned eateries. They have been wildly popular, and as I was leaving one restaurant tonight – after refilling the jar – I was stopped and asked for 6 buttons. The woman wanted me to know exactly who would be wearing them – her sister, her mother, etc. We talked about them briefly, and she went on with her evening.

I guess that makes me a button pusher. We really are wanting to start a riot, elicit responses, and ignite discussions. To pursue good stuff is to look for what’s good in life – emotions, foods, places, things, people, charities, events, you name it – and flourish there.

Sloane

p.s. I need to thank my trusty assistants – my husband and my son – for their help with the camera when I wasn’t wearing my readers. For clarification purposes only, I’m a Tanqueray girl and the Smirnoff bottle was found by my nieces in the courtyard of our B&B. All contents of the mini bottle had been previously consumed.

Soap Box and a High Horse

I have been trying not to get on my soap box for over a week. Besides, I can start to sound like a zealot when I get too focused. Not anyone’s best trait.

I’ve spent 15 years building a business with my sister that – at its core – is dedicated to hand-crafted items by local artists. When we started, we didn’t allow people to take photographs of pieces in the store, because we were so overly protective of the artists and their labors. We had convinced ourselves that anyone wanting a picture was just being devious and was going to run home to their studio – where they hadn’t had a fresh idea in months – and incorporate someone else’s talent into their work.

Then the advent of the internet hit, and we loosened our collars. We let photos and uploads happen right on the floor of our store while we watched. We argued with ourselves that sharing artistic endeavors and ideas is good and that we would all rise from the swell of creativity.

At the same time, we watched friends have their ideas lifted and twisted into art by someone else. We sat dumbfounded as a friend in the design trade had whole designs for his furniture “stolen” by a large company and manufactured without a “how do you do” to the parent.

Nine years ago, I stopped shopping at Walmart because I had watched it wreak havoc in small towns all around Missouri. I had seen bucolic towns decimated by a lack of trade on their Main Streets. I also watched as that massive company signed licensing deals with small companies and, when the party was over, leave that company stripped bare of its ability to do business on a smaller scale for many reasons.

Over 3 years ago, I stopped going to Target for not quite the same reasons. Although they embrace design and the artist’s touch, they also bastardize all that is good about hand craft. They have made it their business to push American artists into licensing deals that insist on overseas production.

We must all be wary of these large companies that continue to ruin what is great about hand-crafted work. I think purchasing handmade items is essential. You can see and feel the artist’s “touch”. You can carry home the great feeling that you made a difference in the life of an artist by buying their work. You can rest assured that you are continuing to fortify the experience of making a living while making things with your hands and your mind.

I have two friends, Patricia Shackelford and Shelly DeMotte Kramer, that I follow on Facebook and their personal blogs, and in the past month they both posted concerns – either that they authored or shared in the ether – in and around this very issue. You can see the articles they featured here and here. After reading them, I knew I wasn’t alone in my battle and in my beliefs. I felt my blood rise. I felt my ire beating in my veins.

I felt myself getting ready to jump on my high horse. But for all the right reasons.

Sloane

Another Milestone

I don’t remember graduating from the 8th grade. I attended what used to be called junior high school. It was a 2 year program steeped in hormone control. The curriculum included the usual: math, English, science, home economics, gym, foreign language, etc. It also had its fair share of angst, peer pressure and love triangles. All of this was finished off with mood swings and tears – joy and sadness were indiscernable.

Now, all these years later, the center of my universe is graduating from the 8th grade. His 11 years at the same school ended with 3 years in middle school. He has had a fabulous time figuring his young self out in an atmosphere of care and concern. He’s been challenged educationally and emotionally. He has witnessed the best in his friends and the worst in himself. The reverse is true as well.

And I’m the one that can’t stop crying. Every day this week has had at least one event in it that is a “last” for either my son, me or our family. He’s not just leaving his friends, I’m leaving my friends. These are men and women – all parents! – that were standing there with me 11 years ago when we sent our 3-year-olds into what seemed like a huge adventure.

I’m crying for what seems like no apparrent reason. I’m clinging to girlfriends in parking lots. I’m re-visiting the past and watching time fly. I’m holding on to moments, hoping they never end.

Sounds like junior high all over again. This time, however, I have a steady boyfriend to hold hands with who says he’ll love me forever.

Sloane