The STUFF Sisters

Keepsakes

My husband has a unique name: Harl A. Van Deursen. When we married, I did not take his name. I liked my name just the way it was, and, to this day, he will tell you he wishes he had bucked the status quo and taken my name.

Sloane and Harl, August 1981 — Here we are, the happy couple in August of 1981. I may have been, like most young girls, writing his name mingled with mine in a "practice" signature. Alas, common sense won out five years later when we married.

His unique name made for very interesting direct mail, and I started saving mailing labels 20 years ago from credit card companies and those just generally wanting us to commit to a product, sale or promotion. These labels still make me laugh out loud and, occasionally, I add a doozy to the binder clip. A general sampling:

Van Harl

Harl Harl Van

Carl Bandeursen

Harl Vandevresen

H. Van Van

Harz Van Dee

Reich Barl Van Deursen

Van Sloane Deursen

Lately I find myself keeping great spam email because sometimes I can’t stop laughing – not only at the subject line, but at the thought of who actually opens these missives from the ether. (I can assure you I don’t. They are safely locked in my special spam folder and are virtually untouched.) Most of the good ones are sex related, and please stop reading now if you are faint of heart.

My current subject line favorites:

ELECTtrifying bed-action

be her wild banger

Want a King banana down there?

BECOME A MATING CHAMPION!

Some magic for your wand.

Torpedo her ALL night

make your woody outstanding!!

Stress Cooling Lovemaking?

BANG Ladies Like Crazy

(All capitalization and punctuation has been left intact from the originals.)

Casey is a little fed up with my cackling, but she seldom fails to bite and ask, “What’s so funny?” Mass marketing hasn’t really changed that much with the advent of electronic mail. My husband and I knew not to give much heed to a company that not only didn’t know our names but mixed them liberally. And, as a heterosexual female, the spam I receive daily doesn’t warrant a click.

If you want to talk me into something, know a little bit about me. Now, that’s true marketing.

Sloane

Alignment

I did not have the best day on Friday. Nothing bad happened directly to me. I just never caught my breath or reached my stride. I did not accomplish what I set out to do, and, by the time I got home, I was wiped out from too much discombobulation to my life that day. All visions of what my day was to have been when I started it were blurry and tattered. I was so emotionally tired that, for the first time in years, I had a “come apart”. (I picked this phrase up from my friend Karen Townsend years ago, and it just hit home as a great pairing of words.)

The incredible thing about my low point last evening was that, right before I let the tears fly at the kitchen table, I received a “just catching up with you” call from my best friend. She was making sure I had made it through the week and that all was well. Remarkably, however, within an hour of of drying my tears, I received two more calls from cherished women in my life who were also just making sure I was OK – one to ask me to lunch next week and the other to see about drinks yet that night. These women do not really know each other and definitely do not know each other’s phone numbers. Therefore, this wasn’t a planned circling of the wagons – this was some form of karmic, one-day-past-the-full-moon intervention.

Earlier this past week, I was part of a circling of the wagons as my mother endured another breast cancer surgery. So really, in contrast to her week, I had very little to be tired of or fed-up about. I wasn’t still flushing anesthesia and pain killers out of my systems, and I wasn’t dealing with the loss of any body parts and their cancer cells. I think I was just done with that one day.

Now I’m better. Actually, I was better as soon as I stopped sobbing and wiped the tears with a dish towel. Once I released all my pent-up crap into the ether, I felt a great weight lift, and I moved right on through my night with my husband and son.

I’m thinking what I experienced was an alignment that was buffered delicately by three women who just knew something was wrong in the universe. They set out to make it right.

Cathy, Brigid and Missy, I’m all right now. Really.

Sloane

Quirks & All

It is finally Christmas Eve, and we are snuggled in at Sloane’s home. We closed the store at 5:00 today, and the last two gifts we sold were to two different young men for their grandmothers. The day was filled with quirks and lots of laughter. We had to drop one of the cash drawers on the floor from three feet to get it to open…. A customer had to tell Casey what an item number was after Sloane had told her three times…. The Minsky’s pizza guy told us he would miss us next week while we are away from the store…. And, yes, we popped a bottle of champagne at 12:30 to share a mimosa toast with our shoppers – which may explain some of the quirks.

Now we are having a sing-along of holiday songs led by a 5-year-old in red polkadot PJs while a 13-year-old performs a “light show” with lit LED balls on strings…. early presents very well received.

We wish you a very merry Christmas… quirks and all.

casey & sloane simmons
sisters & co-owners

Thankful for the Dream

Two little girls, many years ago, decided to play office. They set up shop right there in the warmth and security of their grandparents’ basement. They had everything they needed: phones, paper, pencils and support staff.

Casey (left) and Sloane (right) at work in the office, circa 1971.

Our grandmother played along with our every fantasy and grand scheme. Some days our office was just for “plain business” and sometimes it was the back room of a very busy restaurant or store. Whatever it was, it was awesome.

But it wasn’t real.

What we have now is real, but it’s still two girls – women if you must – having the times of their lives. We’re looking back, as we always do at Thanksgiving, and we are counting our lucky stars in an economy that hasn’t been kind to all of our friends in small business. We haven’t laid a single person off – in fact, we’ve hired and trained new people. We haven’t reduced salaries – in fact, we’ve invested in training our employees for more responsilbilities. And we’ve added more local artists to our mix – which only strengthens our local economy.

We like to think all of these goals and dreams started years ago in a basement in Mid-Missouri. They may have, but we’ve handed over the outcome of that dream to our customers.

We hope you can come and shop at the most amazing store that’s just chock full of treasures. We need you like we always do, and we can never thank you enough for believing in the dream of two little girls.

Have a happy Thanksgiving and glorious holidays.

casey & sloane simmons
sisters & co-owners

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

Pool Party

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.

There are only two of my children missing from this photo, and they are my nieces who live in Chicago. I miss them on my birthday, but I swim with them when I can throughout the year.

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.

Sloane

Tribal Instincts

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.

Sloane

The Writing’s on the Wall

The outside of my sister's amazing home, with two beaming children.

I am officially the mother of a teenager. The first day was flawless and full of special breakfast, a “cold” lunch, a special dinner, cards, singing, small gifts from friends, phone calls from family, and an overnight with his cousin in his own bunk beds.

The inside of my sister's home, as seen in the Kansas City Star.

I know all the days of my living with a teenager won’t be like this – for him or me. I won’t get cocky and think that the bad days will pass me by. Let’s be serious: a working mother like myself cannot be relied upon to make “cold” lunch every day. Why do these kids think hot lunch became a reality in schools? Because, all those years ago, mothers who work inside and outside of the home had vision for a life less hectic. Or, that’s my take on the situation.

What I miss the most as my child grows up is that with each passing day it seems the chance of his having one of those amazingly deep belly laughs diminishes. They’re not gone; they just don’t happen several times a week like they used to. We still laugh together, and he smiles all the time, but now I find myself rating the smiles like I used to rank the belly laughs.

And a few days ago my sister and her band of hooligans gave him a smile that came from so deep inside him I think it even surprised him.

You see, my sister has a concrete retaining wall on her property that faces a park. Yes she has fabulous views and an amazing home, but she also can be the victim of graffiti artists and their “tags”. Tags to me are cheap imitations of the true art that graffiti artists are capable of. Where is the art in painting your signature all over midtown? But I digress….

The morning of my son’s birthday, Casey was tagged. She found out about it via a phone call and immediately knew how to fix it. She became the graffiti artist she always knew she was and “fixed” what was clearly not art. Late in the afternoon, she formed what I will loosely call an “artist alliance” – her mom, her mom’s partner, her daughter, and another 5-year-old – and took her spray paint for a little walk around the block. They painted an amazing and happy masterpiece that celebrated my son’s birthday with a “D” and a “13”.

If you want to see a teenager be happy for a very long time, graffiti a wall in his honor. Hands down, it’s the best gift he’s ever received, and you can see it in his smile.

Sloane

Crossword

It’s Presidents Day. I am at home with a head cold and a barfing child, trying my best to get some work done from home. It’s actually not going too badly, all things considered.

I am also cleaning off my desk. There was this giant pile on top of my printer that was threatening to topple for the last couple of months, and I decided to explore what was actually in that pile that was important enough to keep, but that was not necessary enough to remember it was there.

I came across some stacks of photos from the last couple of years. (I am embarrassingly behind on the family photo albums.) In the middle of that stack were photos from Thanksgiving 2008. (I told you I was behind.) And in that set of photos were these fabulous photos of my mother trying to work on a crossword puzzle – a hobby she inherited from her father.

I gather that she would have gotten more done without the “help”, but she was good sport. I love my family.

Casey

Colors of Winter

I have said for years that snow makes the Midwest much prettier in winter. The other three seasons of the year are beyond pretty in and around Kansas City, but winter can be gray, brown, bleak and dismal without the cover of snow.

I found our blizzard two weeks ago delightful in what it left behind for us to look at. It coated every branch, blade and rooftop. Even where the snow blew it from those perches, it took it to where it could form drifts and deep piles. The nights were clear, and the snow shone rather blue and silver in our urban setting. It reminded me of rides I took between Boonville and Jefferson City, Missouri, while a child.

My grandparents lived in each of those towns, and the journey between them at the holidays from my vantage point in the back of my parents’ car was amazing. We took a two-lane road that lead us through small farming communities and mile after mile of family farms. The snow whooshed and swirled across fields barren of their row crops and formed the most wonderful castles of snow on the shoulders at the north and west sides of the road as the wind worked its magic through the taller weeds and fences. It could look like icing dripping down the side of a cake or bubble bath left to swirl and foam in a filling tub.

Once, on a rare trip between the two places with my grandfather, he pulled over so that I could see just how tall and deep those castles were. When I stepped down into the ditch that makes the edge of most secondary roads in Missouri, I was engulfed in snow to my midsection. I remember vividly being elated and wishing I could tunnel deeper into it right then. A big, great hand pulled me up and out and back to the waiting car. One word describes that experience to this day: fantastic.

I like snow. I can even, most days, embrace cold temperatures. Both make me happy, but I’ve mentioned the cold part in earlier blogs.

What I have not liked in the past week is what the slightly warmer temperatures have given us – huge melting piles of snow and, sticking out of it, miscellaneous detritus carried to the pile by snow plows. The piles aren’t so much melting as looking like they are experiencing atrophy with a touch of gangrene. The piles are black and gray and ugly. Some have even taken on the appearance of that lovely landscaping folly of the 1970s – lava rock. Not our best look.

And the warmer temperatures this early in the winter game make me worry that the flowers and trees will start a journey to spring that will be cut short by what I am sure will still be a bit of winter.

I have always stayed warm and hopeful for spring by surrounding myself with great colorful scarves, socks, and the occasional brightly-colored sweater. I’m still saving my money for a once-in-a-lifetime sweater from the Oslo Sweater Shop. My retail research leads me every year to their website, the Gorsuch catalogue, and, sometimes, L.L.Bean. I am still building in my head the perfect sweater. Is it a cardigan? Is it a pullover? Is it tunic length? I’m getting close…

All I know it that I will be wearing it when my son and my niece and I tunnel our way into a monster snow mound on a cold winter day within the next few years. The snow plows have been building a great one near our public library on the Plaza, but I’m keeping my eye out for one formed by nature that looks like the one I keep near my heart, on a back road in Missouri not too far from home.

Sloane