The STUFF Sisters

The Past as Present

I have been coming to the beach in Florida on average once a year for 9 years. I’m lucky. I have firsthand knowledge of the healing powers of the surf and the sun. I can feel it on my skin and in my soul.

Hunting for shells is a part of life on the island we visit. It juts out from the southern tip of Tampa Bay and collects some real doozies from the Gulf of Mexico. I have the patience for looking for shells, and I find the work cathartic. But I’m not good at it. I have been laughed at for what I bring back and what I find beautiful, but it rolls off of me and I care little. Shelling is a private endeavor, and others need not really know too much.

I have excelled at acting like Madame Cousteau as my son – once little and now not so much – brings me his bounty from the sea. I ooh and ahh and am truly transfixed by his luck in the shallows and on the sand. (Many years ago, I saw a comic in The New Yorker of a young Jacques at the beach. It showed his mother in a beach chair absolutely surrounded by sea life, shells and rocks. The artist had her saying something sweet and alarmingly funny – I have forgotten it, but the image has stuck with me as my son has aged.) This past week, he has brought me miniature wonders and large treasures.

And yesterday – just yesterday! – I realized why I’m not the greatest shell collector. Well, not the greatest collector of perfect shells…why I am drawn to all the shells that are imperfect and broken and damaged. The realization had me looking up from the “shell dump” my son and I were digging in and looking toward the incredible sinking sun as I caught my breath. It had come catapulting through time to strike me straight in the heart.

When I was in the 4th grade, my parents moved us from Des Moines to Kansas City. It was a wee bit hard to join a class mid-year and fit in. Well, I didn’t actually fit in for several more years. I was not chosen for kickball or dodgeball teams. I was not waved over to join a group at a lunch table. I was not picked first for spelling bees or vocabulary teams. It was tough. I was the new kid.

It was well into my 5th grade year when I met the young woman who has remained my best friend to this day. And even then, when she fell in gym and broke her forearm, I was blamed by others because I was near her and fell at the same time. I felt like I was the odd duck and the 5th wheel. I just knew I was imperfect in my classmates’ eyes – broken in some way I could not see in the mirror – and it left me a bit damaged for several years.

This brings us back to the beach and the bounty I carry away and into my home. I have jars on a high shelf in a guest room that house my treasures. I used to be a bit more anal retentive, putting dates and locations on the inside of the lids, but now I mix and match my catches. I will occasionally bring a jar down and place it on my dresser for a few weeks so I can marvel at the different shapes. I can admit to liking the pristine pieces that look like they were purchased at a gift shop, but I mix them liberally with the majority of what I own – odd shells, barnacled shells, broken shells, cracked shells, tips and fragments.

Today I found the shells you see, in the surf up-island from our beach chairs. I dug them out of the sand and clear water, looked at them briefly, and silently told myself to throw them back. They were still been held together by membrane, and one side was barnacled and off-colored, but the other side was nearly perfect and barnacle free. I held it for over a minute while contemplating how these two halves could still be together in the rough and tumble of the sea. One was perfect and one was not. Then, because I knew tossing would damage them, I laid them back gently on the sand in the shallows and walked away.

Ten minutes later, my son joined me where I sat after I had left the flats, and he showed me his many amazing shells, one of which was the pair I had placed back in the sea.

Oui, Madame était très contente.

Sloane

Special note: a “shell dump” is a phrase my sister Casey coined years ago to distinguish regular beach from a section that had a lot of shells collected in it at the last high tide.

Translation: Yes, Madame was very happy.

Pursue Good Stuff goes to Florida

Here is the PURSUE GOOD STUFF travel album from my recent trip to Florida. My sister recently posted an album from Colorado. Like she said, life is about pursuing what is good, ALL that is good. Remember you are not passive…you can pursue good stuff today. That is my goal for the day.

Kayaking in Florida - PURSUE GOOD STUFF — An evening kayak trip.

: Explore by kayak.

: I great place to sit and watch the surf.

PURSUE GOOD STUFF and Fresh Peaches — Fresh Georgia peach. Yum.

: This is the life.

: Find a place to PURSUE GOOD STUFF.

: Beauty is everywhere.

: Sift through your choices in life.

: Boats come is all shapes and sizes.

: Keep your eyes on the horizon.

: Little doesn’t mean small.

: Make friends.

: There is strength in numbers.

: Spark ideas.

Grilled Shrimp with PURSUE GOOD STUFF — Eat well. Grilled Florida shrimp...fresh catch.

: Fresh Florida Mussels – OMG – this is some goooooood stuff folks.

: Steam up the room.

: Walk barefoot in the sand every chance you get.

: White sand, sunshine and nothing planned.

: And, never forget to play.

I will pursue good stuff…today.

Summer Blues

I am on “re-entry” from vacation. I was missing the bright blues of Florida today. I found them cheering me along from all over the store. Here are few.

: Summer blues surround me at work.

Collector

I collect. I am not crazy-freaky and have display cases of Pez characters or anything like that. (I will admit, I love Pez and find them somewhat difficult to resist at checkout lanes, however.) But, I do collect.

I am picky. I don’t just collect items because they fall into a category. I edit and curate. I don’t seek the perfect, re-saleable or considered “collectible” items. I simply collect items for my own pleasure.

I returned yesterday from a summer trip where I was able to go “shelling”, which soothes me. It’s a form of meditation.

My finds will not be getting to me in Kansas City until mid-August and when they arrive I will get to discover their natural beauty – again.

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 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

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

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

Heavy Metal

We didn’t leave the Greater Kansas City area last week during my son’s Spring Break. We stayed put, slept in our own comfy beds every night, journeyed to wonderful places during the day, and ate great food at all the wrong times of the day. It was awesome.

A month or so ago, we started making a list of all the places I had, though the years, been telling our son we would see “sometime”. I had been making this “sometime list” since he was old enough to read – maps, road signs, magazines, etc. Over the years, he has been known to say, “Hey, Mom, can we go to the Thomas Hart Benton Home this weekend?” or, “Mom, have I ever been to The John Wornall Home?” or, “Mom, when are we going Fort Osage?” To all of these, over many years, I have responded that yes we would go to these places but just not “right now/this weekend/soon”.

So Spring Break 2010 was a journey to of all these accumulated places we’ve never been to as a family. A listing of it all would be boring – although none of the destinations were dull – but a real highlight was the day we traveled to Sibley, Missouri, to see Fort Osage. Find out more for yourself here. It’s worth a trip. We had a ball.

And, just when I was least expecting it, one of my favorite art forms appeared – forged metal. This door lock had me transfixed, and I love the way the worn gray wood is the perfect backdrop for the metal. I was instantly reminded of all the blacksmith shops I’ve stood in with our son, over many vacations and just as many years, while he planted himself stock still as metal was bent with flame. (He still keeps by his bed the nail that was made right before his eyes at Monticello.)

My mind wandered while my husband took photos of the lock for me, and I thought of the new artist we are representing at stuff, George Rousis, and how his metal work has ignited keen interest in our store. We even started doing progressive stamping on metal. We have never carried a metal smith before. Silversmiths? Yes. Steel-, iron-, and copper-smiths? Not so much. Until now. I had a discussion with a customer just before Spring Break about the balusters and balustrade that George was custom forging for their home and how “organic” they were. His eyes were lit from within as he described it to me – and I had that same look a few days later in the crisp sunshine.

Yesterday it was back to the “real world”, as my son put it several years ago when vacation was over. He has returned to school. I, however, made sure I checked out George’s pieces in the cabinets and on our walls at work this morning. That way, I can pretend Spring Break hasn’t ended for me.

Sloane