The STUFF Sisters

Knee High to a Grasshopper

I will never forget him standing there mesmerized at the glass of a fully-lit vintage jewelry case. Quiet. Arms by his sides. Eyes bright. I took a moment to really watch him.

There was a time, not long ago, when my 6′ 3″ son had to stand on tippy toes to see anything counter height. Food as I prepared it. Paperwork being looked at by my husband and me.

When he was five years old, and “knee high to a grasshopper” as my grandfather used to say, I stopped in to my second favorite store at the time, my own store being my first favorite. It was a clothing store that had been in Westport when we grew our business there, but it had moved to the Prairie Village shops not long after STUFF left Westport.

We were driving back from lunch with my father, and I thought we would just “bop in” for a quick look. My son was always delightful in shops and not a terror. I made a quick decision on a shirt and moved to the counter to pay. Nap time was approaching, and the clock was ticking to get home.

I will never forget him standing there mesmerized at the glass of a fully-lit vintage jewelry case. Quiet. Arms by his sides. Eyes bright. I took a moment to really watch him. He looked up at me with wide eyes and said, “Mom. I want to buy that for you,” in a voice that still burns me to remember.

On the bottom shelf was a double-strand turquoise, silver, and crystal necklace with a turquoise bead pendant. It was on the other side of a perfectly placed thread of red embroidery floss that delineated the items on sale from those that had yet to make the cut. This piece had made the cut.

The woman checking me out knew me and shopped at my store occasionally. She said, “What did he say?”

“He said he is going to buy that necklace for me.”

“Ahhhhhh…..How sweet.He obviously knows you like blue!”

We proceeded with the “how much” – with her asking him how much money he had, and with me buying it, and with her handing the gift-wrapped bag to him.

He beamed and glowed and gave me the greatest gift of waiting to fall asleep until we got home. Two hours in his own bed, not the car seat. Well, and that amazing necklace.

I loved that necklace to pieces. Two pieces, in fact. One day, earlier this year, it just gave out at the toggle. I was visited by this terrific memory and put the pieces in a Ziploc until I could deal with it without crying.

Near spring, I met with the artists at Hoop Dog Studio with my baggie in hand. I asked that the pieces be used to make a new piece. I wanted them to re-design it and use the beads any way they saw fit.

And now I have this. Gorgeous.

I am not the same woman I was when I was a young mother, and this new style fits me perfectly. One long strand and no symmetry.

I miss the little boy at the glass counter every day. Most mothers would give their left arms for little pieces of their children’s childhoods back. The day they reached for your hand and the sky was so blue and they didn’t let go. The night the sky was clear and they didn’t fuss once all the way through the midway at the State Fair. The day they stood up for themselves against odds. The high dive. The double dip that dripped on everything clutched in pudgy fingers.

Happy Mother’s Day.

p.s. No real, official research was done on which arm a mother would give for her children. I assumed left because the right arm is so useful.

Giving Thanks

We are indeed thankful. In so many ways, and for so many reasons. We wish you the most delicious and peaceful Thanksgiving. Ever.

We are indeed thankful. In so many ways, and for so many reasons. Each year, we take a moment right about now to thank our lucky stars for this amazing planet we all ride on and the lives we’ve built within that powerful grace.

We are thankful for each other’s strengths and weaknesses.
We are thankful for our parents’ continued gentle guidance.
We are thankful for our childrens’ patience in our absences and silences.
We are thankful for our employees’ diligent work.
We are thankful for our customers’ trust in our dream business.
We are thankful for the artists we represent and their commitment to handcraft.

And we are very thankful that you take the time to read our blogs and emails. We wish you the most delicious and peaceful Thanksgiving. Ever.

Bacon

I might have know then, when I inquired about the thick chunk of meat in butcher’s paper, that by the end of the week I would be struck with heartache when I opened the refrigerator to reach for the Greek yogurt.

Today I missed him for the first time. As in: My heart silently whispered to me, “I miss him.”

And it is all because of six slices of bacon. The fleeting pain I felt and the blink of quick tears were caused from the extra slices of salt-cured meat my husband bought for a recipe earlier this week that called for two. I might have know then, when I inquired about the thick chunk of meat in butcher’s paper, that by the end of the week I would be struck with heartache when I opened the refrigerator to reach for the Greek yogurt.

My son eats breakfast. When he was a baby, his happiness in the high chair with the sun coming in the kitchen windows was glorious to behold. He would make yummy sounds at just about anything I put on the plate, which within minutes was moved to the tray, where he enjoyed his food the most. Bananas chunk were fine, mandarin orange slices even better. This would keep him entertained while I put eggs in the pan. Cheese was always a small part of the mix, and, as he grew I slipped in vegetables – spinach (a favorite), tomatoes (not), roasted sweet potato leftovers (loved when available).

The baby grew, the highchair moved on to others’ homes. A plate at the worn pine table was now full-time home to “special breakfasts”. Those were his words for breakfasts where I had time, usually on the weekends, to make bacon. Bacon takes time, and, if I try to rush it at all, I burn it. Bad. Like smoke fills the house. He likes his bacon very crispy, but not black, so I have been handed a lifetime challenge.

His hands-down favorite meal that I make on slow mornings – and with a teenager, that could be early afternoon – is crisp bacon, very cheesy scrambled eggs, cranberry juice, and thin pancakes my grandmother taught me to make.

And the best part of this meal is that I always eat it with him. The sun shines in the windows, but I make the yummy noises.

And he smiles every time.

p.s.These photos were taken in September when we visited him for Parent’s Weekend. I look forward to his return for Thanksgiving. I need to let my employer know I might be late one morning of our busiest weekend of the year because I will be burning bacon from lack of practice.

Bushel and a Peck

My daughter made this tile for me. It is a lyric from a short little song my Grandmother sang to me and I now sing to my daughter. Art makes me happy because when a person chooses to hand make something to share with a specific person or with the world, the love, passion and good intent stays with that piece forever.

The energy in each piece of art I have in my home feeds my soul. Today I will – once again – be surrounded by this magic because I live with art.

Pursue good art. Pursue good stuff…

Driving & Not Crying

I like to drive. I am at the most peace behind the wheel versus any other seat in the car. My husband calls me a control freak. Whatever.

On Sunday, I posted the following to Facebook:

“It’s official. Just one hour ago I was laid off from the best day-in-day-out job I ever had – full time mothering. After almost 19 years of dedicated employment, I have entered into a long-term consulting position that comes with the fantastic title ‘Parent’.”

All true. We had just dropped our son off for his freshman year of college in eastern New Jersey with a killer view of Manhattan from his dorm. I was between crying jags after an orientation I can barely remember. No disrespect to the presenters, but the sound in my head while listening to them was like the adults in a Peanuts animated short film.

I was able to focus for a few minutes on the tiny screen and the minutia of the app. I knew I would not be photo-worthy that morning, so I had saved a photo from the day before when we were on the road. I hit “post” and started driving west.

It was time to go home.

In Hershey, PA the day before, when all smart mothers take photos with their children. — In Hershey, PA. The day before, when all smart mothers take photos with their children.

I like to drive. I am at the most peace behind the wheel versus any other seat in the car. My husband calls me a control freak. Whatever. He hates to drive, so I see this as the perfect balance in a long marriage.

The seven-hour drive on Sunday was lovely. Western New Jersey and Pennsylvania are beautiful, and I didn’t miss much of the peaceful afternoon and evening. They soothed me deeply. We chose the turnpike for speed, because I knew a full-fledged emotional “come-apart” was being held in check by the lines painted on the Interstate. As I walked across the parking lot to the hotel in eastern Ohio we had chosen weeks before, my breathing changed and I felt a gasp coming from deep in my chest. In the dark, and within the encompassing sounds of the highway, my husband gently said, “You’re almost there.”

I don’t remember the process of checking in or being deeply thanked for my membership in the chain. Credit cards and politeness were presented and soon forgotten. It was time for privacy within my rich, full life.

Our son is thrilled with his choice. I am delighted for him. He saw no tears from me on Sunday, and I only remember his smiles and his command of his belongings in their new home. He, not we, set up his dorm. Upon arriving home, we found a card left by a friend, and he had written what I already knew to be true – our son is where he wants to be and is truly prepared by all that we have taught and shown him.

Eleven hours of driving on Monday was not the initial plan. We were going to take our time getting home, but the pull on my mind and body was too great, and I steered the car along I-70 until our exit on the Jackson Curve. 700+ miles virtually tear-free. My mind did wander, but, by keeping myself in the driver’s seat, I was accomplishing self-preservation by not wallowing in tears that would have come on the passenger side. That side of the car would have been a salt-water swimming pool had I perched there.

Years ago, I had three bracelets made in brass by a local artist. My son was very young when they were hand-pounded with quotes that I chose and hold quite dear. I wear them as a set throughout the year, but not every day. I did not have them on the trip. However, during my two days of driving home, I kept repeating one in my head – a mantra if you will:

“A long ride back, with stops along the way. To sort things out. Then forgive them. Then forget them. Then it’s time to move on.” – Patricia Raybon

Home is a different place. The dog is seriously puzzled. There are two rooms I did not enter the first day. The quiet is fantastic and scary.

But the freedom is something I am easily coming to terms with. As I dance through learning the limits of that freedom, I am letting the tears flow when they need to.

three at fallingwater — On our way into Fallingwater, a Frank Lloyd Wright home in Pennsylvania. All smiles a day before “the drop off”.

The Itch and The Dread

I have labeled this mental activity “The Itch and The Dread,” and I have been building comparisons in my mind for more than a few days.

Yesterday I sat for a little under an hour at my dining room table and watched my son and my niece work a huge LEGO project. A Parisian cafe with thousands of pieces that will fit into a city scene my son has been building for years. I watched them sort pieces by kind and by size, and I watched him teach her about “the books” – those multi-pages items that tell you how to put the pieces together so that you actually end up with a Parisian cafe. It is architecture and engineering with bound edges and slick paper.

IMG_20150611_112316 — This photo hangs above my sister’s desk. It is almost 10 years old. My niece is on the left, my son on the right.

I sat there soaking up every little piece of their back-and-forth. Her questions and his gentle answers. His watching her get excited and her looking quickly to him with a smile in her eyes as she completed a big area.

20150708_183733 — On the final leg of the flights home from Paris a few weeks ago.

And I sat there thinking about what I was going to do to the dining room after Dakota leaves for school in two weeks. What would be leaving us (the piano) and what I would miss (his impromptu playing). (He isn’t taking the upright piano. I’m just getting rid of it.)

I have labeled this mental activity “The Itch and The Dread,” and I have been building comparisons in my mind for more than a few days. I am itching to make changes to my life and surroundings, and I am dreading his departure from our home.

In general:

I am itching to clean his room with him next week, and I am dreading entering it without him while he is in New Jersey.
I am itching to move the kitchen table out, and I am dreading our first meal at the new table without him.
I am itching for the freedom that comes with no school schedule, and I am dreading how I will feel without limitations set by a young person.
I am itching for the silences I crave at my writing desk at home, and I am dreading the quiet he will leave in every room.

The Itch and The Dread. It continues.

The Second Question Asked

He gave me The Look. You know The Look. He was saying to me silently, “Does everything have a story?” He knew the answer and was playing dumb just so I would respond to The Look. So I played along.

I have a great friend who knows more than a little bit about gardening and landscape design. Right after the first of the year, right after we had had very hot soup for lunch, I persuaded him to follow me to my house and give me advice on a very pressing issue. Well, it was pressing on me. Grand plans for the warmer parts of the year with no better time to contemplate them than the coldest and dreariest days of winter.

As we walked around my very small property, he asked many questions. Sprinkler head questions. “What grows here?” questions. “Who laid this?” questions. “When does this bloom?” questions. He wondered when we had done certain things. He never questioned our choices or our taste. When he spoke to me about my dogwood tree in the front yard, I answered, “A Mother’s Day gift from my son.” My favorite moment was when he asked about yet another winter-weary plant in one of our beds towards the back of our yard and I regaled him yet again with not only what the plant was but which grandparent had given it to me. And when. And why. I was brief, I hope.

He gave me The Look. You know The Look. It can take many forms, yet this one was saying to me silently, “Does everything have a story?” He knew the answer and was playing dumb just so I would respond to The Look. So I played along….

I thought of this again this morning when yet another person congratulated me on the graduation of our son from high school. The conversation rolled along, and before I knew it the question was “popped” again. This is the question that seems to escape people right after they ask where he will be attending college: “Are you going to sell the house?” It has become “The Second Question”.

It has puzzled, the fact that this has been such a frequently asked question this spring. Is it because we have only one child and his absence from our home will have us putting a sign in the yard from loneliness? Is it because we live in an older, historic, and larger home and therefore must be looking for the newer and the smaller?

My friend who gave me The Look on the coldest day this past winter already knows my answer. I’m not leaving the home I brought that bouncing baby boy to from the hospital. The memories live inside the house and outside as well. With the daylilies, a gift from my mom’s mom; the dogwood tree, a gift from my son; the surprise lilies, a gift from my mom’s dad; the bridal wreath bush, a gift from my dad’s parents. The list goes on and on.

And that’s before I regale anyone with what the days were like when each planting was made. They all live with me on the coldest and the warmest days.

Vividly.

p.s. The photo was taken this morning in my back yard. These daylilies were originally grown in the ditch near the entrance to my maternal great grandmother’s farm in Gasconade County, Missouri. They are majestic and stand almost five feet tall when they are blooming.

Hold On Tightly and Hire a Professional

I have heard them all. From the day my son was born until and including today, when he graduates from high school.

“Blink of an eye.”

“They grow so fast.”

“Take lots of pictures so you never forget.”

“Hold on. It’s a great ride.”

I have heard them all. From the day my son was born until and including today, when he graduates from high school in front of very proud parents and a loving family that sings his praises higher than should be allowed.

My advice to my sister, who has a child younger than mine, has been individual in its focus: “It all changes so fast.”

Last year, a full two or three days before portraits were due at school, I leaned upon a professional to capture for me a young man who would be leaving our protective hold sooner than I cared to accept. Both photographer and subject knew what they wanted and never butted heads. They let me have opinions – one of which left my friend, the photographer, with chigger bites that lasted for days – and a set of photos that I will treasure forever.

So, to my sister, I need to change my tune, or at least add to my mantra about change: ” Hold on tightly, and hire a professional.”

p.s. My greatest and forever thanks to Robbie Schraeder for being a photographer that captures the essence of a person, not just their image. It is a gift that cannot be undervalued.

Nosing Around

You never know what others will see in the rooms you live in. More importantly, what they will read into you in what they see about you and around you.

I have never toured the White House in Washington, DC. Not because I don’t want to, but because I’ve never planned my trips to this greatest of our cities in advance enough to actually book a tour. I would love to see the public spaces of that building, but I have never had a desire to see the private spaces where our president and his family reside. I firmly believe they are private for a reason, and they don’t need the rest of us nosing around.

I live in an historic home in our center city. It is pushing 110 years old, yet it is not a masterpiece nor overly important architecturally. It is, however, a home. With people living in it. A dog. Plants. We host many events, but we seldom let guests up to the second and third floors. Many reasons: one being the rooms are not as majestic; two being that projects have been completed on the first floor for many years yet linger undone on the upper floors; and three being that these are our most private quarters. Our bedrooms and baths. Our studies, dressing rooms, and over-sized closets. Not as tidy as our lower floor, and loaded with our treasures, valuable and not.

Two times last week we let people climb the stairs, past the magnificent crown molding and quarter-sawn oak of the first floor, to land squarely in our lives. One night it was the staff from our business that came for a meal and tour, and one night was a close friend who needed a place to change clothes before we waltzed out together for another night on the town for charity.

For the first evening, I spent multiple minutes preparing our spaces upstairs, and on the second evening I did not. I do not know why. Both were intimate and benignly invasive. You never know what others will see in the rooms you live in. More importantly, what they will read into you in what they see about you and around you. Your art. Your books. Magazines. Lotion bottles.

I know that when I looked up from my bed last night and saw this sight before me, I was reminded that evenings with my son in our home bent over a book studying while typing endlessly on a keyboard are limited. I can actually count them on my two hands.

Our personal spaces are our respites, and I will miss my son crashing about in my private and quiet spaces on the upper floors of our home.

Just as I will miss doing the same in his.

p.s. More about my son and his impending departure for college here.

We Went North for Spring Break

The final spot on the map, just a few months before he would be college bound. Sounded like a spring break trip made in heaven…by an only child with doting parents.

Dakota had a dream. A wish, really. A desire to visit all 50 states “before I go to college.”

Those last words were spoken to us, his parents, when he was maybe five years old. To him, and to us, that deadline seemed forever away.

He has always loved maps. Even as a small child, he would hold them while strapped into his car seat and look them over. Occasionally the map was indeed upside down, but that only made the flash on my camera react faster.

We thought he might not continue with this wish. I mean, really, most children that age will tell you they want to be policemen and firefighters and veterinarians when they grow up. Few of them follow through on those adamantly delivered statements. Things change. They change.

But not our son. This wish to visit all the United States stayed with him. Our driving trips to Florida became missions to see Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Georgia “on our way.”

Our son was insistent from the beginning that you could not count a state as “finished” just by driving through it. You had to do something real or see something real – a Confederate cemetery, the Tuskegee Airmen Museum, a Usonian town – and then you could chalk it up as completed.

So, state number fifty presented itself to us this year. North Dakota. The final spot on the map just a few months before he would be college bound. Sounded like a spring break trip made in heaven…by an only child with doting parents.

We loaded the car – with only two days provided for this journey to and fro – with pillows, water bottles, cameras, a mom, a dad, a kid, sweets, and a dear friend of mine. My friend and I met in junior high – not middle school! – and she has a desire to visit all the states as well. (North Dakota was #34 for her.) She shares a deep love of travel with Dakota, and they adore each other on multiple levels.

It was short, sweet and delightful. Too much food, too much driving, too much cold. But never enough friendship, laughter and smiles.

There can never be enough of those last three.

Note #1: All photos were taken in one day in two states. Many were in North Dakota and a few in that other Dakota.

Note #2: In an effort at full disclosure, state number forty-nine was Delaware and was mistakenly overlooked last year during the “East Coast Mop-Up Tour” with his grandfather. Dakota also visited Delware during this spring break, with his friend, Ryoko. Every member of our family has seen to it that Dakota had help – financially and transportation-wise – reaching this amazing goal. To my mom, her partner, my sister, my dad, my step-mom, and everyone else, I say thank you for making this amazing dream come true. Wow. What a lucky kid.

Note #3: The Grand Forks Herald – and the amazing Marilyn Hagerty – saw the magic in this trip. Our lunch with her was the the trip’s focus, the thing we “did” in that state so it could be checked off and counted as complete. She left us wanting to spend even more time with her. Read her words in the Herald here.