The STUFF Sisters
S. Sloane Simmons and Casey Simmons
Sisters and business partners sharing life's stuff....
Several days ago, while walking through the living room on my way to my bedroom, something caught my eye. New art in the living room …
A well-appointed home makes room for painter’s tape and Scotch tape.
My husband and I have lived in our historic home for over twenty-five years. We have started and completed many projects, with and without help. Early in our time here, we did most of the work ourselves. Plaster repair, painting, wall-to-wall carpet removal, flooring repair. We have light skills in electrical and plumbing. Continue reading “Classy”
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We had already seen one snake slither across our path, which we were sticking diligently to as the map at the trailhead had prescribed.
When I got to the top of the hill, I turned to him and said, “We are the people that you read about in the paper. You know that, right?” I threw the word “paper” in for dramatic effect, knowing full well that most of us, sadly, read news on small screens.
The day was simply gorgeous in the Flint Hills. Big round clouds in crisp blue skies. Of course the hills were green with all the rain. Flowers were blooming at all heights within the tall grass. We were past the hottest part of the day, but it was not cool at 93-degrees.
Continue reading “Stupidest Humans”
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“Arctic air is not to be trifled with.” His words when I asked about the slightly grimy cardboard after I sighted it the first time. I was in my early twenties.
My grandmother and grandfather lived in two homes during my childhood that I vividly remember. Both had carports, which as a child I found mesmerizing. Our old homes in the big city did not have these “modern” features. Low brick walls and a slick concrete floor defined the second and last carport.
In the heat of summer and on breezy days, they could be known to park the car further back in the driveway and not under the carport. This signaled that part of the evening would be spent in aluminum-framed folding chairs with the plastic webbing reforming our thighs.
Continue reading “Cold Air & A Voice”
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We talked of going back outside in slightly wilted tones – rare for us. We had just come in from the 95-degree day that was blasting with sunshine in a clear blue sky. We were drying off by sitting still.
I have changed my ways. Well, “added to my ways” is a better description.
I have always enjoyed art museums. Loved, really. I hold the one in my own hometown so close to my heart as to think of it as my own. My museum. When I was young and reading The Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E.Frankweiler, the museum I saw in my mind’s eye was my own, The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. I have roamed freely its many rooms most of my life, reconnecting with the pieces that have always been there and making sure that new art is fully taken in and welcomed. I don’t have to actually like it to welcome it, but it never hurts.
Continue reading “Going Backwards”
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I want to be able to look back – even if over just a few months or years – and see us. Us as we are. Us as we were.
I looked up that day into the far distant branches of the tree above him and noticed I could see more of the sky than ever. The leaves seemed smaller, and the branches less full.
“I…can’t…talk…about…this…right…now.” My words were choppy as I tried to catch my breath with my voice wobbling into sobs.
In my marriage, we divide and conquer. We share a great deal of the responsibilities of owning a home that’s over a hundred year old. In fairness, my husband takes on more of the burden in the fourth quarter, my busiest. I, however, rule the other nine months.
Coordination of the trimming of our three large, old trees fell to him. He called the arborists, set the appointments, kept the appointments, and booked the work.
Continue reading “She Was Seventy Feet Tall”
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I try not to dwell on things that I can not change anymore. I still need lots of practice. Since I am not cured of this curse, I would like to vent my frustration with spammers.
I try not to dwell on things that I can not change anymore. I still need lots of practice. Since I am not cured of this curse, I would like to vent my frustration with spammers.
I believe that any person that has any hand in creating the noise we call spam and wastes the time of their fellow humans should be inconvenienced in equally frustrating ways.
Here a few suggestions:
Feel free to add to my list. You will find more joy in facing your email inbox.
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New Year’s resolutions have never held an allure for me. I don’t make them. Never have. I can’t imagine that, after several months of revelry and celebration …
New Year’s resolutions have never held an allure for me. I don’t make them. Never have. I can’t imagine that, after several months of revelry and celebration, you will change all your behaviors in the turn of a calendar page; that just seems far fetched. Un-doable. Heck, it’s ripe for failure, and who needs that?
For the past 10 years, the month of August has found me battling desires to change due to travel. My family has our vacation in early August, and somewhere during those two weeks of slower pace and solace I find myself thinking about how I will change my ways when I get home. The ideas range from speed-of-life to intake-of-food to time-spent-relaxing during the rest of the year.
This year I actually pondered the fact that I do not own casual clothes. I have the clothes I work in and the clothes I exercise in, but I do not own sweatpants or whatever it is that people lounge in at home after a long day…clothes you could actually answer the door in (and they wouldn’t be your PJs). I also reached deep into the bottom of my psyche and discovered that basically I am either moving or at a full stop. As in: I work and play in one set of clothes, and, when it is time to read and sleep, I am in pajamas – fully showered and ready to sleep. There is no in between for me. I spent days thinking about this in the quiet of my chair on the beach and on the patio. It was easy to do in a swimsuit or a sarong. Nothing to bind me too tightly.
Usually soon after returning from Florida, I travel to New York every August with my sister for business. I love New York. Deeply. It does not scare me with its noise, scale or vibrancy. It does not make me feel un-cool for not living there. It does not make me feel lessened. However, it does make me want to go home and live a fuller life. It makes me want to walk to work and shop for groceries in smaller batches. It makes me yearn for public transportation and bakeries.
And then the month is over. So far, I have not hunted down new clothes for relaxing. Vacation is well over, and the bra is back on. I have not walked to work one time. We are shopping for groceries in smaller batches, but probably because grocery shopping has somehow become one of my least favorite things. I have not ridden the bus to work, because it doesn’t seem to want to take the route to drop my son at school, swing by Office Depot, and possibly run by the coffee shop to replace the iced tea I left sitting on the counter at home in my rush and bustle. The beautiful part of all of this is that my rich, full life is still just that. And, not having attempted actual and broadly stated resolutions, I have not failed at them.
That leaves bakeries.
p.s. Plant photos were captured in August in New York, Kentucky, Tennessee and Florida. I imagine that their resolutions were to bloom and grow. Right where they are.
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How extravagantly Bohemian eclectic.
I envision myself traveling by ocean liner to buy a huge collection of these pieces and then return home. On the way back “across the pond”, my traveling companions and I will sit in a small grouping of the furniture on the covered deck of the ship which was made by Dumond’s designs. We will smoke, drink, discuss literature, argue about politics, and remarkably discover the meaning of life.
PS…Find this incredible collection online at http://www.squintlimited.com/.
PSS…I couldn’t resist watching this video on youtube before I wrote this blog.
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Earlier this week, I attended a morning get-together with several women. There was coffee served, but, since I don’t drink coffee, I feel funny saying, “I had coffee” or, “I went to a coffee”. Enough with the digression. Time for the story….
This little get-together was relaxing and low key. There were no raised voices, no preening or positioning. Just a handful of women visiting about their children and the school year ahead. The conversation generally involved the whole group, and we all got to hear the longer versions of each other’s concerns, plans and dreams. I liked that part very much. We gravitated toward the family room after the intial round of beverages were poured. I chose to sit in a chair that proved to be fantastically comfortable, and, after the rain started to fall, I kept to myself the desire to tell our hostess that I would be staying for naptime.
I found myself, as we were all talking, mesmerized by the texture of the upholstery on my chair. It was the same upholstery on every chair and sofa in the room, and I hope my friend doesn’t blame her beloved dogs for the possible “wear and tear” on the corner I covertly fondled. The cotton fabric had a weave to it that didn’t follow the pattern of the bold stripes, and it held me in its sway.
Our hostess has a divine sense of style, and what set the room off for me – beyond the tooth of the upholstery – were the magnificent conch shell resting triumphantly on the low table in front of us all and the small basket of collected shells at my elbow.
Just last month on vacation, I took my camera to the beach every day. Initially, I was on a mission to capture sunsets and to not let details get away from me, as I’m prone to do. As I edited and curated my photos on the computer, what stuck out over the many days were the textures we found on the beach and in the water. Every day, the beach ignites in me the desire to stay even longer than the day before. I never want to miss a thing, and I never want to leave.
I spent almost an hour one evening trying to capture the amazing foam near the shore. In the fading light, it was an effort in futility. However, the texture of the sand under the water ended up being as exciting to me as the foam.
Texture can awaken me visually. However, if touching is the truest form of remembrance, I’ve got memories to last a lifetime.
p.s. All of these pictures were taken on Anna Maria Island this summer. I wrote a blog a while back about sunsets and their strange allure. See it here.
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