The STUFF Sisters

Happy

I am on vacation. It is day two on the beach. And my incredible little girl presented me with the gift of a lifetime. I was hanging out in the waves and she was running, playing and creating in the sand. I often find her lost in her imagination, talking with herself, and building elaborate stories. So, today I assumed she was scripting a play all her own. An hour later, she came to the water’s edge and said, “Mom, come see what I made.”

This is what she presented to me.

There is no greater gift than knowing your child is happy.

The Bean with her sand art — The Bean with her art.

Today I Feel Like Dreaming

I just got back to work from a luncheon for the Women’s Employment Network. And, I don’t want to work. I just want to walk around in the sunshine aimlessly and dream. About what you ask?

Everything. The world, my daughter, my life, the coast at dusk, falling in love again, the taste of homemade fried chicken, skinny dipping after dark, driving across the country, walking across Europe, a first kiss, a giant hug, laughing until I snort, renting an over-the-water cottage in Fiji, the smell of kids covered in Coppertone in the summer…you know just dreaming.

Some days I don’t think to dream. It just doesn’t occur to me. (One of the big disappointments of being an adult.) But today, thanks to a room full of inspiration, I want dream.

Today I went for a long walk. My “baby girl” stayed behind with her Grammie and I enjoyed a very long walk. As I walked my mind roamed. And it landed in Japan. A great sadness came over me. I started to feel guilty. I felt like I should go home. How could I be so brash to enjoy a beach vacation with the devastation in Japan?

My body grew heavier with each step. My legs started to fail me.

I then thought of the book Eat, Pray, Love. There is a part of the book that chronicles her experience with meditation. I often think of meditation in a romantic way. I keep thinking I could one day learn to meditate. I am not there yet.

But today I tried. I tried to not think. I walked. I walked. I walked.

And this is what my walking meditation brought to me. Mother Earth is not a God. She does not reward or punish her children. She does not pick one country over another. She is just living and trying to thrive. She is random, beautiful, powerful, devastating and glorious.

I realize that trying to suffer for the people of Japan will not ease their suffering. That my daughter’s screams of delight in the waves is okay. It does not mean I am entitled, that somehow being in America makes me special and that I have somehow earned this pleasure.

It just means my joy was here – now – and I need to soak it in completely. I ran back to my family. I laughed, I played, I read, I napped, and I thanked Mother Earth for this peaceful day on the shore.

And I keep silently chanting – “you are here, you are here, you are here”.

Casey

Road Side Attraction

I would like to be here…

or here…

right now.

Casey

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

Taking a Walk on the Wild Side

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.

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.

Sloane

Ellen G

A few days ago, I posted a blog about the weird connections my brain makes when I see something curious. (Poisonous Snakes = My Love Life). It made me giggle. But, in case you think I don’t also make happy connections upon random discoveries at rest stops, here is another quick connect from my travels this summer.

Vases of Flowers at a Rest Stop in Paducah, Kentucky = Ellen G.

Ellen is one of our amazing stuff team members. Her life plans include working for us until we (she, Sloane and I) are in need of false teeth and walkers. And our life plans include her keeping that promise.

Ellen is an avid gardener. She finds limitless joy in her garden, and she has the gardener hands to prove it. She is also a kind, warm, thoughtful and sharing woman with limitless generosity, so, if you work at stuff, on your birthday you will always find a small vase of flowers from her garden waiting for you.

I have no doubt that a person with a soul as good as Ellen’s is spending time at the Whitehaven Welcome Center, Historic Site and Rest Stop.

Casey

Glue Gun Gary & The Vickster

Yesterday, I was hanging out at Starfish Co. in Cortez, Florida, having one of my all-time favorite meals – the Shrimp Box with extra hushpuppies, an order of clams to start, and a cold Corona Light with lime. I was half-heartedly reading a Country Living magazine (damp and wrinkled from being shoved in the bottom of the beach bag all morning) when I happened upon a feature about rope decorative items. And I was struck with a great memory of my dad and his sidekick in life, “The Vickster” (my stepmom).

Yup, my dad has a knack for interiors, and he loves to use adhesives. And my stepmom is addicted to home magazines.

It was many, many years ago when my dad purchased a lake home at the Lake of the Ozarks in Missouri for our family to enjoy. And I learned at that time that it is pretty common to buy vacation homes furnished.

Now, how do I put this nicely? This home was not furnished with the “Simmons Aesthetic”. There was a whole lot of brown – and not the “good” brown. But who in the world is going to march out and buy all new furnishings for a weekend lake home for use by a family of adult children, their kids, your friends, and a small kennel of dogs? Not this handy dude.

My dad took it upon himself to whip that place into shape. With family labor, he managed to paint everything he could in white, off-white and cream. He broke down and re-carpeted the joint (again off-white – not a popular choice with the family, but it did brighten the place up). After he gave a bunch of junk away (designers call this “editing”), he was ready for some decorative character.

So he went out and bought a huge amount of raw rope and his favorite adhesive for the job, and he meticulously (he does everything meticulously) wrapped and glued the rope around a large vase-like lamp that was pretty darned awful looking. No doubt with plenty of “guidance” from his trusty pardner. And I’ll be damned if it didn’t turn out great. Who knew it could have been featured in Country Living magazine?

If memory serves, I did hear him admit that it would have been cheaper to buy a new lamp, since it took a lot more rope than he initially thought. And I think I heard him mumble, “I will never do that again.” But what’s the fun in that?

I promise to get a photo of the rope lamp for y’all soon. But, in the meantime, I’m on island time.

Casey

Beware of Poisonous Snakes

I love to travel. The sheer randomness of where my mind wanders fascinates me. I saw this sign at a rest stop and thought it was funny.

I went back to the car to get my camera. And, as I was taking the shot, all I could think about was my love life.

Casey

Smokin’ Good

One way we used the letters last year. Now, they're all over the store.

In my last blog, I alluded to our having eaten great food during our Spring Break and the fact that we did not eat on a schedule. Every spring break week is a prelude what our summer will be like – looser scheduling and eating at odd intervals.

The day that we went to Fort Osage, we drove through Buckner, Missouri. To many people, this would not be a bonus, but I had insider information garnered from a customer I had met at stuff. Right before the holidays, I struck up a conversation in the store with a woman named Tammy. She was oohing and aahing over our fully-lit, reproduction carnival letters. We talked a good long time – she mentioned needing a few of them, and we discussed all the ways Casey and I had used them in the store. Then she told me about her BBQ business in Buckner, Hawg Shed. The woman she was traveling with that day became the “rave squad” for her friend’s business and regaled me with its magic. (I’ve seen this behavior in my own friends about stuff, and it always warms my heart that they love what I do as much as I do.) Tammy stood their quietly smiling, and I stood there with my mouth watering.

Our talking came to an end as the store filled with people. I made a promise to visit in the future, and she, jokingly, mentioned saving her pennies to buy letters to spell HAWG SHED. And then we parted ways.

I have to preface my next comments about the Hawg Shed with the fact that I was basically raised on Kansas City barbeque (and bar-be-que and BAR-B-Q and Bar-b-que and BBQ). My parents – both when they were together and since they’ve been apart – are barbeque junkies. I truly believe my father could eat it every day, and my mother was once a team contestant in the American Royal BBQ contest and the Lenexa BBQ Contest. Serious red sauce runs through these veins. I won’t digress into the quagmire of debates over thin sauce vs. thick sauce, toasted buns vs. soft bread, etc.. I will also not profess to be an expert on barbeque myself.

So, that being said, I will tell you that Tammy’s place in Buckner has the finest pulled pork I have ever consumed, and her baked beans are tops. Both were authentically smoky – no trace of smoke flavoring, one of my least favorite things on the planet. No one at our table ate anything but pork, so I can’t speak to the other meat offerings. We will be going back sometime this summer when our little group of three is hungrier.

This photo perfectly reflects our lax meal schedule during Spring Break: our son had eaten breakfast and a snack, so he just had a small bowl of baked beans; my husband had only eaten breakfast, and he had the pork sandwich. I had consumed nothing all day, and, when we sat down at 3:30pm, I had the amazing Pork Nachos. My sister would have been delighted with the freshly fried corn chips. Great crunch….

The fountain drinks were perfectly mixed, and we all left happy. The Hawg Shed has four total tables, but it has the cutest drive thru window on Highway 24! It is not much larger than a true shed, but the glimpse of the kitchen area I got showed spotless quarters. And I can tell you, having been there, that Tammy is right: the carnival letters would look “kick butt” on her building.

If you go on a weekend night, I’m told, you’d better be prepared to possibly eat in your car. They sell food by the pound, and we considered that for a few minutes but then decided that returning another time was the best option.

So, as we always do when traveling to a new place, we left a reason hanging wide open for another visit.

Sloane