Sloane, Author at The STUFF Sisters

Peace on Earth

I have been wrestling with the issue of peace for over two weeks. Quietly and to myself in the few minutes of alone time I carved out of a rich and full life. At first I was troubled that I wasn’t doing enough to help find answers for the world at large as to why we don’t have peace that lasts in places that need it so desperately. This impulse to do more was brought to me by my inability to disregard the media. That same week, I listened to an article on KCUR about children in the Middle East – I truly forget what country and hate to lump them all together – where the children were talking about the ridicule they face on their walks to school and at school for having faith beliefs different from their peers and neighbors. Then I read an article online about Rush Limbaugh’s vitriolic “feelings” about Hillary Clinton’s beauty and power as is pertains to her job as Secretary of State, and then my head exploded.

I was not at peace in my soul.

I had an epiphany several years ago when I realized – possibly for the first time – that Casey and I were the “bosses” and no one was “workin’ for the man” any more – and never had been – at stuff. This whole small business ownership thing had put us in charge. We were the parents, the bosses, the leaders. No one was going to enter our lives anymore and tell us what to do. And for one fleeting moment I was scared. I knew I had been in a co-driver’s seat for a while, but the true meaning hit me hard that day. No longer would a parent of mine walk into the room I was playing in – while arguing with a sibling – and say, “That’s enough! Clean up this mess and be nice to each other right now.” And then to have us do so.

I wish to be Pollyanna-ish for one more moment and say that that’s what I wish we had in the world right now: someone we all listened to – and were maybe a wee bit scared of – that walked onto the world stage and said, “It’s time for you all to get along and find a way to play together. You’re locked into a long term relationship with each other – and this planet! – and you must find a way to separate church from state and find peace. And I mean right now!”

Just when I think the media is around to make me crazy and cause me to think too much, I read an article in National Geographic last night and felt peace jump out at me from the whooper swan you see here.

I gazed at this photo in silence and told myself that I will be finding more time in 2011 to continue working on causes and issues involving basic human rights, civil rights and financial empowerment for women and families. I will be one of those voices that says, “I’m a peacemaker, and I am at peace.”

Sloane

I May Need an Intervention

Oh crap. I’ve turned into one of those people who can’t throw away a poinsettia plant in May when the lack of watering and general bad air in the office has ruined whatever lustre there was to the plant. When it’s down to three leaves and woody stems.

Correlation to the ponsettia issue: What you see before you is a petunia plant I finally put to rest this morning. I have great pangs in my heart throwing a blooming plant in the yard waste bag. I’ve even caught myself, in years past, saying the despised word “goodbye” to an annual plant as I shut the top of the bag. What’s up with that?

Since early this May, I passed this petunia plant – and its birdbath brethren – multiple times every day as I entered and exited the house. The joy and general spirit that “The Wave Petunia” brings to my world every year is tantamount to my general sunny disposition. It was on my way to the car yesterday that it came to me why I had trouble sending this one to the compost pile. The other plants my son and I planted with this petunia had long since been trimmed back and/or removed. But this purple wonder had given me everything it had and, like me, it was not giving in easily to the cold weather and bitter air. It was going to bloom as long and hard as it could. (The only parallel I can draw to myself is that I only started wearing socks with my shoes early this week.)

I’ve cleaned out the birdbath planter and put it away until next spring. I’ve washed all my socks and purchased tights. I’m currently embracing the holiday spirit and have welcomed the brisk and cold air as I take my walks. I’m happy.

But I miss the little touch of purple moving ever so slightly in the warm, sunny breeze.

Sloane

PS…I’ve never been a fan of poinsettias. I probably never will be, and we don’t have them in our home. They just aren’t my thing. However, I know they bring great joy. I’m at peace with that.

Fearless Ability

I envy my niece her artistic talent. Yep. I’m 45 and she’s 5 and I envy her this trait.

Several weeks ago, while she was at stuff for all of 5.3 seconds between activities, she found a balloon left over from Wings of Hope, blew it up, had me tie it, and disappeared into the office I share with Casey.

Then she left the building.

When I got to my desk an hour or so later, the face in this photo was staring down at me, and I can’t take it down from its perch. The balloon will have to give up the ghost before I ever remove it. She has the ability to just sit with pen and paper – or balloon – and start drawing. She is prolific and fearless. For this I envy her.

When I get over the selfish envy, I will be able to learn from her.

Sloane

Whispers

It started just this past weekend, the holiday social season for my husband and me. I always enjoy it very much.

Except the one part that crept in several years ago: the whispered and sad timbre that people employ when asking me about my business when in public. It always makes me remember the scenes in movies and on TV that depict the 50s and 60s when people whispered the word “cancer” and glanced from side to side to make sure no one heard them.

Now this is one forecaset I can live with!

The business that I co-own with my sister is, of course, susceptible to the economy and its whims. All businesses are. But there is something about retail and how it is used as a forecasting tool in the media – for what seems like every economic indicator that is reported on – that makes people feel like they need to be quiet when speaking to us.

So, let me tell you how it works from our side. Running our business, as we approach the holidays, is like preparing for a party in your home. You clean everything so that people won’t think you live like a pig. (We do that.) You preparing an enticingly beautiful and delicious array of food and drink. (We do that, but with local and handmade art.) And you sit back and anxiously hope that all your favorite people show up to enjoy a great time in the magic you’ve created. (We do that, too.)

This past weekend – as in years past – I answered in my regular voice as these quiet questions found me. I am not asked these questions every year because people want to hear a horror story full of troubles and hardship. At least I don’t think so. Goodness gracious, we’re at a party!! My responses have helped those around me to remember that my sister and I delight in what we do and find great joy in supporting local artists. We have built an award-winning business based on ethical practices and honesty. We’ve even opened our online store and stocked it with the same incredible things you can find by walking in to our store in Brookside. As I answer these questions, I remind the friends who have posed them that we just turned 14 years old and are enjoying our teenage years this time around.

All year long we forecast, budget, train, order, clean, count and worry. Thinking we may already know the answer, but are too scared to place hope at the forefront and jinx it, we whisper to each other early each December, “Do you think anyone will come?”

Sloane

PS…Photo credit goes to House Beautiful.

Leaving Mid-Missouri

The tethers that held me to the middle part of Missouri, my home state, totally broke last Friday. They’ve been straining as the family has contracted with each funeral, home sale, downsizing and move. Starting five years ago, I have no longer had reasons to visit Boonville or Jefferson City. And, as of last week, Sunrise Beach joined their ranks.

With frequent visits to these towns came knowledge of places like Jamestown, Pilot Grove, Stover, Bay, Bahner and Sandy Hook. And back roads in which memorization of every twist and turn began when I was very, very young and my parents were driving. Then, when I finally took control of the wheel, I began to believe I could drive certain patches of that blacktop with my eyes closed. I had travelled them so many times, and they were such a part of me. I knew when to speed up, when a curve really called for you to slow down, and where the “flat sections” were so that you could pass the combine or trailered boat in front of you.

Roads like 87 and 179. M and 135. 65 and V. These were what I took when I left the infernal interstate and began to really see Missouri. These were the roads that took me to my family.

On Friday, I cleaned out my belongings from my father’s lake house. After 20-plus years, he’s pulling up stakes and heading to southern pastures and a little less maintenance. I can’t say I blame him – houses are a lot of work. And what do I really know? I only own one.

My friend Patricia recently moved from her home here in Kansas City. From her dream home, actually. She mentioned in her blog that, in the end, she wasn’t as sad as she thought she’d be because she was taking the best things about the house with her – her family. I clung to that concept as I drove through the all-day rainstorm to collect my things. I needed it to be true. I didn’t want to walk in with my to do list and my short timeline and be sideswiped by the memories of my sister Lindsay, my dad’s parents, and my sister Casey’s dog, Buttercup. I needed them all to leave me alone so that I could clean under the sink and at the back of the closet, then load the car and skeedaddle.

I almost made it.

I was dry-eyed for a majority of the time there. My father and stepmom had been down two times before me and had already packed up the memories housed in picture frames, the keepsakes from every nook and cranny, and the “must-haves” that had been placed in the garage. I was fine until I came across, on a high shelf in our communal closet, a birthday card from my grandparents to my husband. There is not a date on it, but it was clearly ready to have been mailed because it is completely addressed – with a return address as well. It was a card that had no pre-printed message of birthday wishes. My grandmother had written the entire sentiment on the inside and signed both names. We must have decided, all those years ago, to get together at the lake for Harl’s birthday at the last minute, and the card was delivered by hand. It was a glory to behold, and I held it very tightly until I released it into the packing box.

My friend was right. The best parts of any house are lodged in your mind and you carry them with you. They don’t require cardboard boxes, packing tape or moving vans. They only ask that you visit them occasionally.

So in the future I’ll probably take 87 to 179, turn left on M and then right on 135. My memories of all of these places will be right where 65 meets V. I’ll know it when I see it. Actually, I’ll feel it way before it comes into view.

Sloane

Sing-Along

The past few weeks, I have been listening to – and haunted by – a song from Wynonna Judd titled “Flies On The Butter”. It is a masterpiece of country music, not only in the story line but in her amazing and lyrical voice. So many of the pictures she paints with the words are like looking into my own childhood – grandparents who loved you, food that was always made to be special, and time standing still.

I put a close friend on the spot a month or so ago when I asked her – should I die an untimely death – to please sing this song at my funeral. I invited her to work out all the details with my husband because, although I was dealing with a few musical items in advance, I would not be around to implement them. She gave me a quizzical look, possibly thinking I was joking, and then the light changed in her eyes and she said, “OK.”

I have always been a wee bit in love with our girl Wynonna. Wynonna Judd You see, she sings in my key, so our duets are outstanding and acoustically perfect inside the walls of my car. The songs she sang with her mother while a member of The Judds are good, but it’s the magic Wynonna has made since striking out on her own that lives in my soul.

Sloane

Rare Behavior

Casey and I look at so many things in the course of our work. Things. Stuff. And lots of it….

Casey and I look at so many things in the course of our work. Things. Stuff. And lots of it. We meet with artists and view their pieces. We look at catalogues. We look at websites. We get PILES of mail every day with beautiful photos of lovely things. Lovely things I’d love to own and also share with our customers. That’s how being a retailer works: you like it, you offer it to others.

When I saw these in Town & Country magazine my heart zinged. So many things about these amazing earrings stand in direct opposition to my “personal purchasing restrictions”. Like I have never heard of this artist. And I’m pretty sure the pieces are produced in quantities of more than one (and I am a one-of-a-kind girl). Plus, I’m a “clip” girl and these reek of “pierced”.

But I may exhibit rare behavior and hunt these suckers down and see just what I can’t afford!!

Sloane

Raging Feminism

First, a few statistics. I am 45 years old. I have been married to the same man for 24 years. I have one child. I own my home. I co-own a small business with my sister. I am Caucasian. I finished “some college” but did not obtain a degree. I am an active community volunteer and currently serve on several governing and advisory boards. I am happy.

I sat in a public auditorium the other evening and, after arriving late, tried to settle in after a long and varied day to absorb four women’s words. They all chose great stories to share, and their answers during the Q&A were heartfelt and well received.

But I found myself making notes on paper – a questionnaire I had been handed upon arrival became my notebook – about what had brought me to that room. These women spoke eloquently and from many perspectives that were different from my own. In the end, the questionnaire was not fit to be turned in. This morning I re-visited my notes and noticed that my emotions ran to thankfulness to the woman who was older than me for forging a path, to hopefulness because the woman who was younger than me had much to teach me, and I delight that the women who were right near my age were finding themselves coming into their own.

The symposium was an intergenerational conversation about work and life. It was presented by Women, Girls, Ladies in conjunction with the UMKC Women’s Center and the UMKC Women’s Council. I figured it would be worth my time, given that I was a woman, a girl, and a lady, and I had a life and I

Raging Feminists — My niece and my mom several years ago. Both are raging feminists.

worked. Perfect fit, right?

More than perfect. My time in the auditorium reminded me that I had been raised by a woman – my mother – who is a raging feminist and that I had been deeply molded by two women – my grandmothers – who would have never admitted to being feminists in any form. These women gave me their best and let me catch glimpses of their worst. What shakes me to my core is that I never think about being a feminist myself because I really don’t have to very much. It is ingrained in me to believe that women can do anything and be anything. I have visual memories of the comics at the back of Ms Magazine that reminded me as a teenager to make more of myself than the boys around me and to insist on more than 69 cents to their dollar earned. I have been a hand in raising a child whose biggest argument at school to date – including middle school!! – is the one he waged about there not being “boy colors” or “girl colors” in art class when he was ribbed for pink being a favorite color that he used without fear in his work.

The phrase “Been there, have the T-shirt” could not be truer about my feminism. My family has recycled through two generations the NARAL T-shirts, the National Women’s Political Caucus T-shirts, and the Planned Parenthood T-shirts, and we have all treasured the posters, magnets and bumper stickers from the past. They remind us that “A woman’s place is in the house … and the senate”; that “War is not healthy for children and other living things” and that a female newborn is a “baby woman”.

This week I am co-chairing an event for the American Civil Liberties Union in my hometown. It’s going to be a wondrous evening full of amazing art and talented people. The ACLU will always need funding to continue their work protecting all of our civil liberties. I don’t work in those trenches every day, but I am thankful for those that do. Every issue women face – every obstacle they overcome – was and is a civil liberty issue. It wasn’t very long ago that women couldn’t vote, that women couldn’t own property, and that women had very little control over their bodies and its intended freedoms.

If you asked me if I was feminist, I wouldn’t deny it, nor would I immediately embrace it. To me, the true feminists are those women who changed the world as we know it in the 1970s, not me. I can vote, own things, and speak openly with my doctor. I just get to be me … a raging feminist.

Sloane

Boats

I have spent a lifetime on Powerboats. My parents both speak with a starry look in their eyes of me as a four-week-old in a basket on the floor of their speedboat and out of the sun for hours at a time. Their voices drift on about “happy baby” and “slept really well” and “lulled so easily”. It was the 1960s, so having a newborn in a basket without a life preserver was the norm. And, if I know anything about boating, hours really means all day.

This summer, I reminisced about my lifetime at the lake with my best friend. She too, through her friendship with me, has spent hours on boats and days on the water. She remembers vividly the large cabin cruiser my parents had when we both met in the 5th grade. We would leave the marina on Friday night – fully loaded with food, water and friends – and not return until late Sunday afternoon. We slept in quiet coves throughout the summers of the late 1970s under pitch black skies. The gentle lapping of dark water on the sides of the boat and the gentle winds pulling us on our anchor line could put any slightly sunburned and exhausted child to sleep. It was magical.

To this day, I can drift to sleep so easily on a boat just by being near the engine. Currently, my father owns two boats. One is a vintage treasure, and the other is a fairly new 30-foot pontoon boat. One I can take out and drive on a whim. The other, not without my father. The vintage treasure looks brand new, and the utilitarian pontoon is gently used.

His vintage boat is a 1973 Fino. It is immaculate – from the twin 440 Chrysler engines to the rolled and pleated white interior upholstery with chocolate brown piping. The wood in the cabin is teak. Remarkably, it is not a “blast from the past” that needs to be updated. It doesn’t reek of all the bad design that came from the 1970s. It is brim full of glamour and high design. I have seen a lot of boats on the water – and wooden boats are my favorite when they are in the water – but this fiberglass wonder is still sporting its original paint, and I challenge anyone to find a boat that sits more beautifully in the water. It doesn’t look like it has been placed in the water; it looks like it is of the water. It is a testament to my father’s dedication to preserving boats that are worthy of that kind of attention and financial commitment. The boat only has 300 hours to her name and virtually purrs under power.

When you ride on it – which I haven’t for probably 5 years – you feel like a rock star. Or maybe you’re Grace Kelly or George Clooney skirting around the Mediterranean on a perfectly appointed Italian racing boat. It rides like a dream and has never seen salt water. It was purchased new at the Miami Boat Show in the early 70s and was brought directly to the Lake of the Ozarks. My father is only the second owner.

Twelve years ago, I took my newborn aboard this boat for a ride. Yep, he was in my arms and in a lifejacket, not in the basket of yore. He was smiling and happy until the engines roared to life and then, miraculously, he was sleepy long before naptime. We didn’t see his eyes for three hours – the entire time we were away from the dock that day. It was a magical afternoon, and he spent a small amount of time in the V-berth while I sat daydreaming in the sun. I will never pass up a chance to ride on a boat – even if it’s just for a short trip to the gas dock. And I will never pass up a chance to ride with my father. We usually ride in silence because it’s the best way to take it all in. You can’t hear the wind and all the nuances of a boat if your mouth is open.

My best friend and I had to make a very quick trip to the lake in early September. We left at 2:30 pm on a weekday afternoon, drove directly to my Dad’s place at the lake, and retrieved the items that had been forgotten the weekend before. Then we made the turn for home, but not until we had spent a good 1/2 hour on the dock with the Fino sleeping quietly under her custom cover and perched on her lift. We spoke for a while but were silent for longer. The water was being smoothed by a gentle shower, and I was drifting off to a time I remember with her on the Fino. It was her first ride on this magnificent boat, and we were both allowed to ride on what we called “the bimbo deck” – those two long cushions with built in pillows that make up the back third of the boat and cover the hatches to the powerful engines. I remember we rode talking for a while, and then we were asleep. The basket that was holding us that day was much larger that the one I was in as a child, but it was just as sound – and I’m guessing my father was just happy that the children were asleep and he was left in peace.

Sloane

PS…The photos above are of my father’s treasure. It was exciting this summer while I was on vacation to have “his” boat show up in two national magazines, Town & Country and Vanity Fair. Click the images at the right to read these little snippets and see why, in my humble opinion, the Riva boat company knows exactly where to go in its archives to find one of the greatest boats ever designed. And click here to find out about new boats reinterpreted from Riva’s classic designs.

Church on Sunday

When I was a child, there was a billboard on Highway 50 near the Catholic church in Tipton, Missouri, that stated, “A family that prays together stays together.” It showed the Madonna and child, and, I believe, her hands were folded in prayer. I’ve never really forgotten it – great sky, spiking rays of sunshine, billowing clouds. It may be gone now; I don’t know. Today heralded a gorgeous blue sky much like that billboard from long ago,…

Team 16: My sister, my niece (with Emily), Lori, my mom, and my son.

Today heralded a gorgeous blue sky much like that billboard from long ago, and “Team 16”, as I have named them, rode 16 miles throughout downtown and northeast Kansas City. This was a serious cycling troupe due to the four experienced riders plus support staff in the from of two volunteers and one emergency / pace car driver.

This was the day of the 6th annual AIDS Bicycle Challenge – a charity event that my son and niece have been raised with. My niece rides tandem with my sister, who informs me that, when my niece pedals that third wheel, it’s bliss. When she doesn’t, she’s merely a wind foil and a lot of excess weight. My son agrees that my sister is correct when she says the “challenge” part needs to stay in the title of the event.

My mom not only paced her family and was there for any emergency that might arise within her flock, but she actually did assist a non-family rider who had tire issues, making a return trip to base camp with her new friend and the bicycle cargo before heading back out to check on “Team 16”. My friend Lori actually rode injured after a morning spent breaking up a feline wrestling match that clearly left its marks. When you bleed before you even get on your bike, you are truly dedicated. Harl and I were just pretty things that helped with registration and provided direction on the first turn on the route.

My son with his "leadership trainers", Josh Strodtman & Michael Lintecum.

When the riders had all returned to the park and my family was busy telling each other the amazing stories, that church billboard came screaming into my mind. I think we did actually go to church this fine Sunday. We were all together at the Church of Good Health & Community Involvement.

Church can be an amazing place. You can usually find one right where you are.

Sloane

PS…I was so proud of our son today. He was asked again to be the official starter for the three different races. We left him with the event directors, Josh & Michael, where he again learned so much about event management. And it filled my heart with joy to see my niece finishing all 16 miles with her mom while caring for her new American Girl doll, Emily. As she told me last night, “This is going to be Emily’s first AIDS party.” Proud isn’t even the word….