The STUFF Sisters
S. Sloane Simmons and Casey Simmons
Sisters and business partners sharing life's stuff....
I reviewed these photos when they came in an e-mail today, and my initial comment to my sister was, “Geesh. It bothers me deeply that he has no talent.” Total tongue in cheek on my part, because I was stupefied and felt tied to my chair in amazement. But my soul was soaring….
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| I reviewed these photos when they came in an e-mail today, and my initial comment to my sister was, “Geesh. It bothers me deeply that he has no talent.” Total tongue in cheek on my part, because I was stupefied and felt tied to my chair in amazement. But my soul was soaring. |
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This is amazing art and incredible talent. This is what art is all about. This is about being just a wee bit crazy.
This is about following a powerful muse.
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For the past two years, we have vacationed at my father’s lake house in which we had to remodel because it was a mess and we learned DIY tips from a seasoned plumer. When he first purchased the place 20+ years ago, we came all the time – in the winter, every summer weekend, every summer holiday weekend, whenever we could.
But life changed and so did taking journeys three hours from home. I ceased to be a consultant and opened a retail store with my sister. My husband decided to become self-employed. We brought a bouncing baby boy into the world, and he grew to have weekend plans – sports, etc – that kept us from these short getaways.
And then life changed again. Last year, August yawned in front of us, and we filled it with a fantastic vacation at the lake. And then, this year, we did it again.
Many years ago, I was captured by a quote in a book I was reading about the suburbs. The author’s message was that most places are named after the things that were demolished to make the human environs. Her case in point was a subdivision in Baltimore named “Babbling Brook Estates”, where there wasn’t a water source in sight.
The little road that my father’s lake house sits on is named “Red Fox Run”, and I’ve never seen a red fox near it. I’ve seen deer, squirrels, rabbits, chipmunks, turtles, ducks, heron, fish and horseflies. And, just a few nights ago, we saw a bobcat not a mile from here on a back road. (Click here to witness our other bobcat sighting even closer to home.)
The lower side of Red Fox Run is filled with the things humans seem to need – houses, driveways, garages, docks, grills, boats – while the upper side is full of all that is green. I can barely walk the dog every day without seeing something totally new that I missed on all the previous walks. The place hums with activity and makes you feel like you can breathe a little deeper even on 90 degree days that are pushing 80% humidity.
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The past two years have seen our small family of three visiting here a bit more; we’re increasing our yearly average like all good teams. We’re not here as much as in the distant past, but just enough for me to yearn for more. Not the way it was, just more. And more often.
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This photo captures perfectly why a 45-year-old woman has her birthday party at a pool. And she does so every year.
I am that 45-year-old woman. Nothing makes me happier than children at a pool. These are my children. I was in hospital rooms holding their parents when they were born. I was at their first birthday parties. I was the friend who was called when their parents were at their wits’ end. To them, I am Lala and Sloanie and Aunt Sloane. I love them all deeply.
Birthdays are awesome, but pool parties with children are out of this world. I find that I have infinite patience when I am soaking in chlorinated water in bright sunshine. I will play “monkey in the middle” and throw gutter balls for hours. I will stand with my feet at the distance of my shoulders and be a “bridge” that can be swum through. I will throw diving sticks in random formation for “lung capacity competitions”. I will be an “island” in deep water for kids to cling to, and I will always hoot and holler for dives and impressive jumps from a diving board – the low one or the high one. I will do all these things, and not just on my birthday.
And, on non-party days when I’m at the pool for R&R, I can easily fall asleep on a lounger to the sounds of children splashing. General pool noise can lull me into a welcome nap.
My friend Andy said it perfectly this year when he stated, “Weren’t we just here?” And I shared his pain with how fast the years are rolling around for all of us. I cherish my day at the pool with my family, and I soak up every minute of it.
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Last weekend, I wasn’t able to attend what I just knew was going to be a fantastic fundraising event. The Coterie Theatre holds their annual fundraiser every year in early July, and it always seems to collide with my husband’s family reunion. I have never been able to go. Ever.
I was there in spirit. stuff trumped me, though: stuff was there in the form of two foot tall fully-lit carnival letters. I’ve written about them before, but the back story on how these letters became a part of the Lucky Lounge at the Coterie event is one of my favorites to tell.
My friend Jeff Church is the Producing Artistic Director at Coterie Theatre, and I met him for the first time 13 years ago in the T-shirt sales tent at AIDS Walk. Here was this happy, smiling man who had sparkling eyes, and he was very spirited and passionate about the cause. I immediately liked him. I’ve learned, as the years have gone by, that the tent he has worked in every year at the Walk is know for its “early in the day” cocktails. The tent I work in features Lamar’s donuts and Jell-o shots; his serves mimosas, bloody Mary’s, etc. Maybe that explains a bit of his “spirit”, but probably not.
So…early in 2009 I was out in front of the store setting up a new window with Casey. Jeff walked by and stopped in his tracks – and not just to talk. He was mesmerized by the letters Casey was hanging on the other side of the glass. He mentioned right then that the Coterie was doing a show in summer 2010 called “Lucky Duck”. He wondered out loud what the possibility was of borrowing these letters for their fundraiser in 2010. Now, here is where retailers and theatre producers are a bit different. Retailers see 12 months ahead, and theatre directors go even farther, planning whole seasons of shows 18 months in advance. He sees seats full of people at great shows taking away great memories, and we see everything we bring in walking out the door in the hands of happy customers.
I said, “No problem.” I knew it was highly likely that we would sell the letters long before then, but I was certain we could order in what we needed to fulfill his wish.
One month later, I was sitting in one of the Coterie’s sold out shows and knew a call to Jeff was in my future. I wasn’t looking to talk to the top dog because I was having a bad experience – not at all. I was just right then needing to know if stuff could borrow some of the set pieces and backdrops from “The Breakfast Club” when the set was struck.
The very next day on the phone, he said, “No problem.”
Our back to school window last fall was amazing, and his event last weekend was successful. I adore Jeff. Our friendship suffers from no problems.
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It’s an age-old dilemma…does art mimic nature, or does nature mimic art?
Today, while reading my July National Geographic magazine, I was unable to get past the article about the bower birds of Australia. It was mesmerizing and amazing at the same time. It struck me that these birds must share studio space with Andy Goldsworthy. My sister Casey has been on an Andy Goldsworthy binge lately, so he’s been in the forefront of my mind by professional and general sisterly osmosis.
My age-old dilemma, however, has been this: How am I going to afford to visit all the places in the world and see all the places and things that must be seen with the human eye – like bower birds in their habitat?
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Wow. Thank God for magazines.
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Casey and I would never knowingly put someone on a pedestal. The view can skew your perception; the fall can be perilous, and it can make you a target. That said…
Last week we held a private party at stuff after hours. It was an event that had been bid on at a charity auction, and it included a catered, sit-down dinner within the walls of the store. The evening was beyond fun, and the participants left very happy. Casey and I were the only staff on hand, and we had personally set the table for the magic that was to arrive an hour before the event.
And arrive it did. Jo Marie Scaglia, owner of The Mixx restaurants, had partnered with us for this donation, and she delivered the multiple courses herself. You can kick us now, because we got too busy to take pictures of the actual food at table. (But don’t hit the bruises we have from kicking ourselves, because we are starting to heal!)
It was so gorgeous, you didn’t want to lift a spoon or fork to disturb it. It was fresh, crunchy, savory, healthy and delicious. It was seasonal, and all dishes were served at room temperature because the day had been so hot. Jo Marie told us about how she took all of that into consideration when she planned the menu the morning of the event. She not only cares deeply about the properties of the food you eat, but she thinks presentation matters. And it does.
The lucky people who spent that evening dining and shopping couldn’t stop raving. It was the kind of food you didn’t want to stop eating; they were nibbling until they left – four hours after their arrival.
We placed Jo Marie and her restaurant on the Plaza on our all-time favorites list the first time we ate there the week she opened a few years ago. The talented team under her leadership has never let us down, and we crave it constantly.
We are delighted she’s our friend and even happier that she keeps us well fed. We’ll never place her on a pedestal, but we will sing her praises.
Dang, her food is good.
PS…We’ve had a few things to say about The Mixx in past blogs. Check this one out.
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These images from Veranda Magazine this month got me thinking. Not just that I love the Zulu wire work, which I do. It got me thinking about collecting and about the fact that I collected items when I was younger with wild abandon. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve edited those collections by either ridding myself of the collection entirely or by purchasing in a more calculated fashion. My husband and I jokingly blame it on “the kid” – braces, team sports, food, piano lessons, and all of his varied expenses. If I’m honest, I think we’ve just slowed a bit and are more educated.
I’m still wild for blue and white transferware “state plates” and always have my eye open. I’m still crazy for hand-embroidered pillowcases. And, hands down, I will never have enough handpainted dishware from the Deruta region of Italy. Ever. And glazed blue pots. And split oak baskets from the Ozarks. And….
I check up on a few blogs daily. If you are a collector, check out collectionaday2010.blogspot.com. The way each daily selection is presented is visually very stimulating, but what overwhelms me is when the description says “part of a larger collection”.
That’s when the minimalist in me overrules the collector.
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I swam on Monday in a deep blue pool and realized, like I do every summer, that I was home. It was my first time in deep blue this year, and I was in heaven. I splashed with my niece and tossed a ball with my son in waist deep water. Then I dried off on a lounger next to my best man. I could tell that my husband had to have gotten a wee bit tired of me mentioning all the ways that I was happy – a happiness I hold deep all winter long.
I have been escaping to pools since I was a pre-teen. I’m sure I dove into our pool at home thinking I was under great stress at 14. Whatever. Our family, like most, has had our fair share of challenges, troubles and loss since those easy summer days. The summer after my youngest sister died, my son was only a year old. It’s little wonder he’s such a greater swimmer now, because I gave him no choices as we loaded into the car almost every day that summer and made the trek to our public pool. Some days we were there for only an hour, and some days we were there for much longer while he napped for several hours. I spent those hours healing myself with quick dips in the water when the heat of my memories and the sun became too intense. I watched him sleep in the stroller, and I got lost in the din of other people’s children and their splashes.
This was all during the first several years of stuff. Casey was working her butt off every day of the week, except Sunday, when I was in charge. In addition, I worked during the week when my son was sleeping – or when he was peaceful enough to work “with” me in a retail environment, which wasn’t much. And I was in charge of all errands and chores that could be accomplished at 30 miles an hour with the little dear strapped into a car seat.
Casey and I had decided at that point to continue the corporate consulting that we had brought with us to stuff from our previous careers. Over the first six summers of stuff‘s life, the trade-off, in my book, for Casey working 6 days a week at stuff was me working the four summer months with the United Autoworkers and the Ford Motor Company. I was the lead developer and implementer for their joint special events and projects at the Claycomo Auto Plant here in Kansas City. It was exciting, fun and exhausting. We were building our dream business, I was building a family, and we were continuing to hone our consulting skills.
Most days were a blur during those summer months with my baby/ toddler/ little man – those months were crucial to our new business, but I nevertheless escaped to the pool and cooled off mentally and physically. It was then that I realized for the first time that stress can’t swim. It runs screaming from the hot concrete and waits in the nether regions. Upon further research, I found out stress can’t even float. This form of dedicated scientific research involved me floating on my back with my ears under the water and my eyes looking skyward. It is a divine was to spend a few minutes, and is something I do every summer when the sky is truly blue enough. I can swim by myself for hours and be happy, but put my teenage son in the mix and I’m beyond contented.
As our son’s love of the water has increased, so has mine. I thought it would be impossible for me to love it more. But I guess there is a kernel of truth in those old sayings about how much the human heart can hold.
Mine can hold the Pacific Ocean. And maybe the Atlantic, too.
Here’s the link to windows installers: https://troysglass.com/visalia/.
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I gave up on envying hair and hair styles when I stopped paying for very smelly perms that I thought would make me look like Andi McDowell. Twenty years have passed since I tried curly hair, and I’ve managed without the help of a therapist.
But coveting is something I have not grown beyond.
I don’t have to look too far up either side of my family tree to see grey hair. One grandmother had what some have called a “skunk stripe” when grey hair came along, and the other grandmother I never knew as any way but natural silver grey. Both, at the end of their lives, were true silver, and it was lovely when cancer didn’t leave it patchy. My grandfathers were silver, but mostly bald – or closely shaved – and my father has been slowly introducing more salt to the pepper for quite a while. My mother has dabbled with hair color for many years, I believe, and she does it very well. But it’s my sister, Casey, that has carried grey hair to what I see as a pinnacle.
Her hair is amazing and totally natural. Part silver and part brown with remnants of blonde. She stopped all chemicals when she was pregnant and has never looked back. I think she looks like a super model of the Ralph Lauren and Sundance variety, but I’m one of her greatest fans and am possibly a tiny bit biased.
This past Friday, I joined the ranks. My friend, John, said over the sink before cutting my hair, “Oh my gosh, you have grey hair, and quite a bit of it.” I took him by surprise when I said, “Awesome,” and I know the surprise continued around the room as I looked at the faces of those in the other chairs. I’m not so naive as to think that my wanting grey hair has put a stop to the multi-million dollar hair coloring industry. It was the next comment he made that was the icing on the cake for me: “You know, grey hair is thicker than all the others.” Imagine my luck! I got my wish for grey hair and thick hair in one trip to the beauty salon! Can you imagine what I’ll be like if the grey hair comes in curly, too?
Yes. I can admit it right here in “group”: I have coveted my sister’s hair for going on five years. I have even coveted strangers’ hair as I have moved through my daily life. I even walked up to a total stranger at the convention center in New York, told this woman I really like her hair, and asked if she colored it. The answer was No, but I think I already knew that because it looked authentic. (And, yes, you can just tell.) Our conversation continued for a few minutes, with me finally asking the question my sister had prodded me to ask before setting me free: “Did you live as a brunette or a blonde before grey set in?”
She had been both. First blonde, then brunette. With a stranger in my camp, and with my family there as well, I’m on my way to happy times.
I can’t wait to see how this turns out.
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The school my son attends had a policy, when he was starting out there, that no seats could be held at musical programs. “Come and claim a seat for yourself early, but don’t save any for others” was the open invitation. At the time, the school was still sharing a stage in the building of its neighbor church, and these rules served a purpose. I guess. I really wouldn’t know, because 
for years I surreptitiously laid my scarf / jacket / briefcase across six or seven chairs to attempt to hold seats for our son’s supportive and extended family. Divorce may divide families, but it acts as a multiplication factor when it’s time to sit and listen. Yet, six or seven was never enough; some of us still stood. I took major ribbing from many factions, 
but I never received a citation, and the school never threw my kid out of school. (Questioning authority runs deep in me. I push most boundaries gently.)
You see, our son has been raised by a village. A village that loves him deeply and supports everything he has set his mind and body to, and that village shows up in force to 
his performances, games and recitals.
Just this past Tuesday, he performed his semi-annual piano recital at semester’s end, and 13 people from his village showed up to quietly cheer him on. His tribe, his people. It’s remarkable, really. My parents have been divorced for over 25 years; 
they show up at all their grandkids’ events when possible, sit next to each other, and speak rather easily between themselves. I know this behavior is exceptional when I mention it to friends whose parents are divorced and I learn how they have to “divvy up” the school event calendar as to which parents will attend which event. That way, the grandchildren can’t see or feel the simmering emotions. 
I can’t imagine what that’s like, and I’m reminded that I live in grace in this category of my family life.
Last week, we attended my niece’s vocal music show at school – the school she shares with my son. With the new stage in our new building, 
the rules for saving seats seems to have weakened and isn’t spoken as vociferously. I did notice that my sister was ultimately unable to “save a seat” for my husband’s and my late arrivals that day. And I can guess why: the ribbing got too intense, and she gave up what she’d laid claim to. I’ve been there. I know all about it.
People have jokingly said – and still say – to me, “Well, you can’t say he’s not loved,” or, “Is there anyone you didn’t invite?” or, “Wow. For an only child, he packs ’em in!” Each time, I just smile, say little, never apologize, and know in my soul that our tribe runs in a pack and invests everything in its young.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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