Every day, someone enters a treatment center for cancer. Every day, good news is handed out. Every day, bad news is received. But for two days a year we childishly imagine cancer takes a break so we can celebrate a wonderful season full of hope and renewal. Join us this weekend. Help us raise money. Help us make this season bright. We thank you for your business. Every day.
Every day, someone enters a treatment center for cancer. Every day, good news is handed out. Every day, bad news is received.
“Every days” have happened to the people in these pictures. Our family. Our friends. Their family and their friends. It seems never-ending.
But for two days a year we childishly imagine cancer takes a break so we can celebrate a wonderful season full of hope and renewal. Those two days are when we open our store wide to our customers and our city and put on a great party, Wings of Hope. It is a holiday open house, and it is a crowning moment in our year. We take a breath right before our season kicks it into high gear to laugh, tell stories, and shop for friends and family.
As in years past, we are donating 20% of every purchase this Saturday and Sunday to a cancer research fund named for our friend Susan Henke Miller. She will be with us again this year – so many years after we thought we would lose her to her cancer.
Join us for an “every day” this weekend. Help us raise money. Help us consume great drinks, delicious snacks, and STUFF’s signature party food: peanut M&Ms.
Help us make this season bright.
We thank you for your business.
Every day.
p.s. These pictures from previous Wings of Hope parties remind us of our fantastic past. What wonderful days they all were.
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.
I received this care package in the mail last week.
I received this care package in the mail last week.
A gift of creativity is always appreciated.
It was unexpected. It brought me joy. It reminded me why people love getting gifts of art and creativity. Even a co-owner of a store, like me, dedicated to the mission of sharing creativity with the world, needs a reminder once in a while. The happiness it is spreading is immeasurable.
I had re-posted on Facebook an article about a recent study that found that coloring is good for adults. You can read about it here at the Huffington Post. Julie Cates, an accomplished artist and friend, had responded. And, I believe, that was where the seed for this deeply appreciated gift was planted.
Since my original post I have come across another post about coloring books intended for adults. Again, it made me happy to know that coloring, this seemingly “for children only” hobby, has many benefits. You can find out about the newly published coloring book here, coloring book for adults.
So, it turns out coloring is good for people of all ages. And, I for one, will be coloring more often and well into my years. Join me.
I have learned in the past year to not let ideas – and therefore chances – for getaways get by me. Life is looking shorter and shorter most days.
I left town for twenty-nine hours over the weekend with a friend. A road trip. You never know how much you need to leave town until you are in the car and rolling down the highway.
I was past ready to get out of town and away from some of my responsibilities. My traveling companion is pretty darn fantastic at pre-planning a road trip. Dinner reservations for the first night? Done. Snacks for the car? Done. Food and drink packed for late night cocktails and breakfast? Done.
I was the slacker as such. Well, I drove. That counts. There was gas in the car, a fresh oil change, and a music mix available with the punch of three buttons. Not as impressive as the rare mini bananas my friend provided. “Show off,” I said, as I bit into my first.
Art was what got us out of town. A desire to see a show that was closing at a museum in not so many days. It was the impetus we needed to spend much needed time away together.
I have learned in the past year to not let ideas – and therefore chances – for getaways get by me. Life is looking shorter and shorter most days. I am not known for my ability to relax, but I am willing to finally learn. Time away with friends has proved to be tonic for me and a great education in kicking back. Earlier this fall, I headed an hour south with two friends for a night of glamping – an incredible twenty-four hours away from our families and our to-do lists that felt like days, not just one day.
What was spoken one night well over a month ago while sitting in bar chairs – “Let’s go together and see that show!” – turned into reality because we made it so. My friend and I are both owners of small businesses, and the needs of those businesses can overwhelm and overstep. So, we danced right around them and carved out the time.
On the drive home, we kind of planned the next trip. A location was mentioned, a desire to go was announced, and we had just proved to ourselves that we travel well together. Quite well, actually.
I’ll be packed and ready.
p.s. All images were taken by me, and most are only small parts of some of my favorite pieces at the State of the Art exhibit that closes at the Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art in Bentonville, Arkansas, on Monday, January 19th. A few are images of pieces in their permanent collection. Again, close-ups of my favorite parts.
I have lived the last week with my eyes and my hands. My eyes and the hands of others. My hands holding the hands of others. In silence and in noise.
I have lived the last week with my eyes and my hands. My eyes and the hands of others. My hands holding the hands of others. In silence and in noise.
Yesterday I attended the funeral for a friend’s mother. I had a seat that afforded me the view of my friend’s right hand. I could see no faces, having only a limited view from several rows back. Her hand rarely left her father’s right shoulder. It gripped him to hold him up, with every muscle in her forearm defined. It caressed his back gently and then returned to its grasp. Nails polished a burnished steel, her hand told a story that left me in tears. The quiet kind that slips out while your eyes are wide open and you are unaware until you swipe them back.
Not a week before that, I was standing in the living room of a friend in the company of many. I was listening intently to the quick speeches of two other friends when I realized one of them was veering into speaking about me. I reached immediately for the arm of a dear friend to my right, and his hand found mine and never left. Having been summoned, I left him to walk into the realm of the speakers. I can still feel the comfort of his grip. The knowledge that he was there for me and would have held on through thick and thin was transforming.
I know that my friend’s dad felt that from his daughter. The thick and the thin. Through the liturgy, the Eucharist, and the final hymn.
The gentle power of the human hand has been a wonder for me to behold.
True silence was visited upon me that night. A slowly darkening night sky was mine to behold each time I smoothly crested the surface. Long, quiet minutes. An hour perhaps.
My desire for quiet is occasionally overwhelming. Our store plays lovely and fun music – which I sign and dance to! – but there are days when I sigh deeply when we turn it off. And mornings when I groan when we start it up.
This summer a friend invited me to swim at a lake. My initial delight was in spending time together. Then my mind latched onto memory of the silence that follows me into water. Both were thrilling and ultimately rewarding.
A few weeks later I was invited back, and I was so forward as to ask if we could swim in the dark, a secret pleasure I remember from my childhood spent in fresh and chlorinated water. My sisters, my parents, and my friends were muted while I explored the capacity of my lungs. The depths never scared me.
True silence was visited upon me that night. A slowly darkening night sky was mine to behold each time I smoothly crested the surface. Long, quiet minutes. An hour perhaps. The magic of friendship that night was when my friend retreated to the house and left me truly alone. I could have wept, and no one would have been the wiser.
Upon his return, we swam into the evening – two voices meeting each other in the dark. I treaded water until my legs were rubbery when I made it back to the dock.
My lungs have a diminishing volume with age, but my love of occasional and deep quiet is met in the embrace of silky, warm water.
– sloane
p.s. Original painting by Philip Robl. Titled: “The Distance”.
It was wine night on my deck. Two good friends, a few bottles of wine and some snacks. I was ready for adult conversation. We were kid free. I was craving
It was wine night on my deck. Two good friends, a few bottles of wine and some snacks. I was ready for adult conversation. We were kid free. I was craving talk about subjects you save as a parent to talk about when there are no kids around. I know men believe that when women get together we talk about our “periods” and other “women stuff”. Not true! We talk about politics, world views, sex, drugs and rock n’ roll. We are evolved women dammit.
Well…most of the time.
This night we were discussing our daughters “coming of age”. We are fast approaching this next adventure in parenting. One of my friends already has older girls, so we leaned in while she shared her sage advice.
We are still a couple years from the big, looming menstrual cycles. So, we somehow got into a discussion about deodorant. Yes, the day your baby girl needs to start wearing deodorant is a big deal.
My own childhood deodorant story is traumatic
I was on a much anticipated trip with 5 family elders. I was the only kid invited to go on their summer vacation. My grandparents, two great aunts and one great uncle all to myself. We drove in two cars to Colorado Springs, Colorado to stay for a week in a mountainside cabin. I rode alone in the backseat of a Duster with no A/C owned by my great aunt, Eunice. I would slide on a pool of my sweat when we made turns. It was bliss. I was on-my-own in an all adult world.
My great aunt, Eunice, a single woman, was the only member from that generation of my family that lived in Kansas City. All my other “greats” were in mid-Missouri. So, I was close to her. She was the “great” that took us to the Zoo and World’s of Fun every summer. We had bunking parties at her house. She made individual jello servings in little bowls with fruit when we visited. She took us shopping and lunching about town.
Eunice was generous and loving. Eunice traveled. Eunice was a “city girl” that lived in her own house. She was independent and worked full time. She dressed nicely and lived simply. I looked up to her and loved her deeply.
She was also very direct and pragmatic. So, when I was stinking up the cabin with my sweaty 10 year old funk, she told me, directly to my face, in front of a room full of my elders without any softness…no hug, no let’s “have a talk”, no warning. Just a flat out “you need to get some deodorant kid, you stink”, I was crushed. I was embarrassed. I was mortified. These were not subjects you discussed in public.
My grandmother Gladys, her younger sister, saved me. She called me into the kitchen under the guise to help her cook and then took me outside the mountain cabin for a short walk to let me cry and to give me a much needed hug.
She also took me the next day to get my very first deodorant.
As I sat on my deck with my friends I shared my story. I also shared my plans to guarantee that my daughter did not suffer the same humiliation. That when she was in her mid-forties sharing wine with her friends she would not have the same sad tale. She would tell a story of her remarkable mother that handled every situation with gentle, loving kindness.
The next day, out of the blue, my daughter walked into the kitchen and said, “Hey Mom, we need to go to CVS and buy me some deodorant. I am starting to get stinky pits.” I was speechless.
I laughed until tears fell down my cheeks. Check that off my parenting list. I thank my Mom and her generation of fellow feminists for championing women’s rights and a world where open, honest, frank discussion about our bodies is common place.
A page from my daughter’s journal.
I wish Eunice was still here. She and my daughter would get along perfectly.
PS. I will look for a photo of my Great Aunt Eunice and share it soon.
Independence Day – The 4th of July – always makes us think of parades. To us they are part of the American fiber, parades followed by family picnics and fireworks after dark. It is a day to celebrate our freedom and democracy. We wish you a happy Independence Day. Let freedom ring!
Independence Day – The 4th of July – always makes us think of parades. To us they are part of the American fiber, parades followed by family picnics and fireworks after dark. It is a day to celebrate our freedom and democracy.
Brookside doesn’t have a parade on July 4th. We enjoy our parade in early spring near St. Patty’s day. And every day in Brookside we enjoy the fellowship of this genuine classic American neighborhood. Our store is always filled with people that take the extra steps it takes to choose local, American-made goods. We share these treasured blocks in Kansas City with other outstanding local businesses. This neighborhood is powered by people.
Once a year, when we take our neighborhood pride to the streets, we march with our friends, families and loyal customers. We collectively celebrate the past and present authenticity of Brookside. This small friendly neighborhood where kids and families still stroll down the sidewalks with ice cream cones…it is home to us all and it so very American.
We look forward to sitting on the sidelines of other parades this July 4th and we look forward to next spring when we take to streets once again to honor our traditions. We wish you a happy Independence Day.
Two days ago, I cried mercy. This blog has started a little more dramatically than I intended. It was two days ago when I realized that my dual-self-employed-only-child-in-his-junior-year household was not going to get its spring yard work done.
Two days ago, I cried mercy.
This blog has started a little more dramatically than I intended. It was two days ago when I realized that my dual-self-employed-only-child-in-his-junior-year household was not going to get its spring yard work done. My husband and I don’t have green thumbs, and, with the side-effects of three very large old growth trees on our little patch of heaven, hostas, perennial vines and plantings are our friends. These choices we made twenty-plus years ago make for very little annual yard work. We had spent hours here and there over the past three weeks doing the very small amount of things that needed to be done in the warming weather, but there was about three hours of work left to do on one side of the house that was languishing. Undone. Messy.
And for the first time ever – besides lawn mowing – I called in a professional to finish our yardwork. I had never hired anyone to remove the winter’s leaves from all they were protecting. That is actually a job I adore, because I can say hello to my green friends that have been resting over the long winter. Their little, pale, white-ish shoots are usually found reaching for the sun and fresh air. And my gentle words of welcome.
My husband and our friend Scotty last year. Obviously not in the yard….
Today, my friend – and professional self-employed yard genius – stepped in and took us to the finish line. I really struggled with reaching out for help this time. Not that I am opposed to hiring people – plumbers, electricians, painters – who know exactly what they are doing, like that Oakland County’s best plumbing service our neighbours using on the regular basis. I stand in awe of their capabilities and knowledge. I think my problem with reaching out was about me, not her. I like to be the one to take the spring projects to the end. I like to stand back and see the fresh rake marks and the tender buds. It is the final nail in winter’s coffin.
Today I handed the hammer to Scotty and I couldn’t be happier.
I had a wonderful Saturday night. Friends everywhere, drinks easily at hand, conversation that stimulated, outfits and costumes befitting a ‘black & white masquerade’, kisses, stolen glances, and little nibbles of food too delicious for plates. I am lucky. I know it.
I had a wonderful Saturday night. So many elements leading into it: warm weather, freshly cleaned car, one-day-old pedicure, great work day behind me.
Saturday night held a charity fundraiser in her grasp for me. A stunning and mysterious location would hold a little over 1,000 people who wanted to do good while having fun. Many friends had served on the planning committee and gave it everything they had. Truly, no detail was missed.
This photo was sent to me the day after the event. Neighbors and friends were everywhere.
My husband was unable to join me due to a client project, and I looked no further than a girlfriend who has shared bits and pieces of her life with me while I have done the same. We now have a great foundation for a friendship that keeps growing after ten years. She delights me and is a great date.
Having married my high school sweetheart, I have never had the learning curve of a one-night-stand. Whatever that curve holds for others – and I’m sure it varies – I just want to go back to Saturday night. One more time. Friends everywhere, drinks easily at hand, conversation that stimulated, outfits and costumes befitting a “black & white masquerade”, kisses, stolen glances, and little nibbles of food too delicious for plates.
I am lucky. I know it. But not luckier than the men and women served by the Kansas City CARE Clinic who will be served with the dignity and respect we all deserve when pledging allegiance to good health and well-being.
These are two things I felt deeply on Saturday when my world was spinning gloriously. I was healthy and well.
p.s. If you want to see more photos of BLOOM, check them out on Facebook here.
Every day, someone enters a treatment center for cancer. Every day, good news is handed out. Every day, bad news is received.
