The STUFF Sisters

Simple

Taking my daughter to see the Statue of Libertyfor the first time in 2009.

I have been thinking a lot about freedom lately. I am struck with how it complicates our world, our lives, and our beliefs.

For the last couple of weeks, freedom has been on my mind. I volunteered to work on an event for the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) called The Art of Expression. I mean, what could be simpler for me than celebrating the right to create art? Look at what I do for a living, how I live, who I choose to have in my life…simple right? Not so much.

It – freedom, that is – kept popping up everywhere I turned. It’s like that old phenomenon that when you buy a red car all of sudden you see a million red cars on the road. I chose to work on an event about freedom, and – presto – freedom is all over my roads.

It was on Facebook when I logged on each morning, a constant feed of posts about anything and everything people wanted to voice. It was at breakfast, lunch and dinner conversations. It was at the baseball game. It was at a bar when a guy talking to me got mad and stomped off because he found out I didn’t share his political views. It was at a party with girlfriends where we talked about kids, love, life, sex and our bodies.

I spent a bunch of time thinking about people that use hatred to spread propaganda and resort to violence and killing. I was shamed to realize how often I was willing to jeopardize my own freedom in wanting my government to control and stop these people.

Freedom wasn’t letting me get much sleep.

I thought about being a woman in America in 2011. Boy howdy, that got the freedom ball rolling.

It’s everywhere – freedom, lack of freedom, struggles for freedom, and limits on freedom. Make it stop. My mind was racing, my passion was running hot, John Lennon was rockin’ my iPod, my soap box was getting a new coat of paint. I am woman, hear me roar!

And then, last night, I stoked up my first fall fire in my fire pit. I sat for hours mesmerized by the flame. I fell into a fire trance. And there was freedom, dancing around my mind again. But, somewhere in that hour and burning in those flames, the realization that freedom isn’t the least bit complicated came to me. Freedom – itself – is as simple as simple gets.

When I wake in the morning, my eyes open as simply and naturally as our bodies were designed to work. It is the steps I make after leaving my bed that complicate everything.

Freedom is designed to open simply and naturally. It’s the steps we choose to take with it that makes it so damned complicated.

Casey

Raging Feminism

First, a few statistics. I am 45 years old. I have been married to the same man for 24 years. I have one child. I own my home. I co-own a small business with my sister. I am Caucasian. I finished “some college” but did not obtain a degree. I am an active community volunteer and currently serve on several governing and advisory boards. I am happy.

I sat in a public auditorium the other evening and, after arriving late, tried to settle in after a long and varied day to absorb four women’s words. They all chose great stories to share, and their answers during the Q&A were heartfelt and well received.

But I found myself making notes on paper – a questionnaire I had been handed upon arrival became my notebook – about what had brought me to that room. These women spoke eloquently and from many perspectives that were different from my own. In the end, the questionnaire was not fit to be turned in. This morning I re-visited my notes and noticed that my emotions ran to thankfulness to the woman who was older than me for forging a path, to hopefulness because the woman who was younger than me had much to teach me, and I delight that the women who were right near my age were finding themselves coming into their own.

The symposium was an intergenerational conversation about work and life. It was presented by Women, Girls, Ladies in conjunction with the UMKC Women’s Center and the UMKC Women’s Council. I figured it would be worth my time, given that I was a woman, a girl, and a lady, and I had a life and I

Raging Feminists — My niece and my mom several years ago. Both are raging feminists.

worked. Perfect fit, right?

More than perfect. My time in the auditorium reminded me that I had been raised by a woman – my mother – who is a raging feminist and that I had been deeply molded by two women – my grandmothers – who would have never admitted to being feminists in any form. These women gave me their best and let me catch glimpses of their worst. What shakes me to my core is that I never think about being a feminist myself because I really don’t have to very much. It is ingrained in me to believe that women can do anything and be anything. I have visual memories of the comics at the back of Ms Magazine that reminded me as a teenager to make more of myself than the boys around me and to insist on more than 69 cents to their dollar earned. I have been a hand in raising a child whose biggest argument at school to date – including middle school!! – is the one he waged about there not being “boy colors” or “girl colors” in art class when he was ribbed for pink being a favorite color that he used without fear in his work.

The phrase “Been there, have the T-shirt” could not be truer about my feminism. My family has recycled through two generations the NARAL T-shirts, the National Women’s Political Caucus T-shirts, and the Planned Parenthood T-shirts, and we have all treasured the posters, magnets and bumper stickers from the past. They remind us that “A woman’s place is in the house … and the senate”; that “War is not healthy for children and other living things” and that a female newborn is a “baby woman”.

This week I am co-chairing an event for the American Civil Liberties Union in my hometown. It’s going to be a wondrous evening full of amazing art and talented people. The ACLU will always need funding to continue their work protecting all of our civil liberties. I don’t work in those trenches every day, but I am thankful for those that do. Every issue women face – every obstacle they overcome – was and is a civil liberty issue. It wasn’t very long ago that women couldn’t vote, that women couldn’t own property, and that women had very little control over their bodies and its intended freedoms.

If you asked me if I was feminist, I wouldn’t deny it, nor would I immediately embrace it. To me, the true feminists are those women who changed the world as we know it in the 1970s, not me. I can vote, own things, and speak openly with my doctor. I just get to be me … a raging feminist.

Sloane

Boats

I have spent a lifetime on Powerboats. My parents both speak with a starry look in their eyes of me as a four-week-old in a basket on the floor of their speedboat and out of the sun for hours at a time. Their voices drift on about “happy baby” and “slept really well” and “lulled so easily”. It was the 1960s, so having a newborn in a basket without a life preserver was the norm. And, if I know anything about boating, hours really means all day.

This summer, I reminisced about my lifetime at the lake with my best friend. She too, through her friendship with me, has spent hours on boats and days on the water. She remembers vividly the large cabin cruiser my parents had when we both met in the 5th grade. We would leave the marina on Friday night – fully loaded with food, water and friends – and not return until late Sunday afternoon. We slept in quiet coves throughout the summers of the late 1970s under pitch black skies. The gentle lapping of dark water on the sides of the boat and the gentle winds pulling us on our anchor line could put any slightly sunburned and exhausted child to sleep. It was magical.

To this day, I can drift to sleep so easily on a boat just by being near the engine. Currently, my father owns two boats. One is a vintage treasure, and the other is a fairly new 30-foot pontoon boat. One I can take out and drive on a whim. The other, not without my father. The vintage treasure looks brand new, and the utilitarian pontoon is gently used.

His vintage boat is a 1973 Fino. It is immaculate – from the twin 440 Chrysler engines to the rolled and pleated white interior upholstery with chocolate brown piping. The wood in the cabin is teak. Remarkably, it is not a “blast from the past” that needs to be updated. It doesn’t reek of all the bad design that came from the 1970s. It is brim full of glamour and high design. I have seen a lot of boats on the water – and wooden boats are my favorite when they are in the water – but this fiberglass wonder is still sporting its original paint, and I challenge anyone to find a boat that sits more beautifully in the water. It doesn’t look like it has been placed in the water; it looks like it is of the water. It is a testament to my father’s dedication to preserving boats that are worthy of that kind of attention and financial commitment. The boat only has 300 hours to her name and virtually purrs under power.

When you ride on it – which I haven’t for probably 5 years – you feel like a rock star. Or maybe you’re Grace Kelly or George Clooney skirting around the Mediterranean on a perfectly appointed Italian racing boat. It rides like a dream and has never seen salt water. It was purchased new at the Miami Boat Show in the early 70s and was brought directly to the Lake of the Ozarks. My father is only the second owner.

Twelve years ago, I took my newborn aboard this boat for a ride. Yep, he was in my arms and in a lifejacket, not in the basket of yore. He was smiling and happy until the engines roared to life and then, miraculously, he was sleepy long before naptime. We didn’t see his eyes for three hours – the entire time we were away from the dock that day. It was a magical afternoon, and he spent a small amount of time in the V-berth while I sat daydreaming in the sun. I will never pass up a chance to ride on a boat – even if it’s just for a short trip to the gas dock. And I will never pass up a chance to ride with my father. We usually ride in silence because it’s the best way to take it all in. You can’t hear the wind and all the nuances of a boat if your mouth is open.

My best friend and I had to make a very quick trip to the lake in early September. We left at 2:30 pm on a weekday afternoon, drove directly to my Dad’s place at the lake, and retrieved the items that had been forgotten the weekend before. Then we made the turn for home, but not until we had spent a good 1/2 hour on the dock with the Fino sleeping quietly under her custom cover and perched on her lift. We spoke for a while but were silent for longer. The water was being smoothed by a gentle shower, and I was drifting off to a time I remember with her on the Fino. It was her first ride on this magnificent boat, and we were both allowed to ride on what we called “the bimbo deck” – those two long cushions with built in pillows that make up the back third of the boat and cover the hatches to the powerful engines. I remember we rode talking for a while, and then we were asleep. The basket that was holding us that day was much larger that the one I was in as a child, but it was just as sound – and I’m guessing my father was just happy that the children were asleep and he was left in peace.

Sloane

PS…The photos above are of my father’s treasure. It was exciting this summer while I was on vacation to have “his” boat show up in two national magazines, Town & Country and Vanity Fair. Click the images at the right to read these little snippets and see why, in my humble opinion, the Riva boat company knows exactly where to go in its archives to find one of the greatest boats ever designed. And click here to find out about new boats reinterpreted from Riva’s classic designs.

Church on Sunday

When I was a child, there was a billboard on Highway 50 near the Catholic church in Tipton, Missouri, that stated, “A family that prays together stays together.” It showed the Madonna and child, and, I believe, her hands were folded in prayer. I’ve never really forgotten it – great sky, spiking rays of sunshine, billowing clouds. It may be gone now; I don’t know. Today heralded a gorgeous blue sky much like that billboard from long ago,…

Team 16: My sister, my niece (with Emily), Lori, my mom, and my son.

Today heralded a gorgeous blue sky much like that billboard from long ago, and “Team 16”, as I have named them, rode 16 miles throughout downtown and northeast Kansas City. This was a serious cycling troupe due to the four experienced riders plus support staff in the from of two volunteers and one emergency / pace car driver.

This was the day of the 6th annual AIDS Bicycle Challenge – a charity event that my son and niece have been raised with. My niece rides tandem with my sister, who informs me that, when my niece pedals that third wheel, it’s bliss. When she doesn’t, she’s merely a wind foil and a lot of excess weight. My son agrees that my sister is correct when she says the “challenge” part needs to stay in the title of the event.

My mom not only paced her family and was there for any emergency that might arise within her flock, but she actually did assist a non-family rider who had tire issues, making a return trip to base camp with her new friend and the bicycle cargo before heading back out to check on “Team 16”. My friend Lori actually rode injured after a morning spent breaking up a feline wrestling match that clearly left its marks. When you bleed before you even get on your bike, you are truly dedicated. Harl and I were just pretty things that helped with registration and provided direction on the first turn on the route.

My son with his "leadership trainers", Josh Strodtman & Michael Lintecum.

When the riders had all returned to the park and my family was busy telling each other the amazing stories, that church billboard came screaming into my mind. I think we did actually go to church this fine Sunday. We were all together at the Church of Good Health & Community Involvement.

Church can be an amazing place. You can usually find one right where you are.

Sloane

PS…I was so proud of our son today. He was asked again to be the official starter for the three different races. We left him with the event directors, Josh & Michael, where he again learned so much about event management. And it filled my heart with joy to see my niece finishing all 16 miles with her mom while caring for her new American Girl doll, Emily. As she told me last night, “This is going to be Emily’s first AIDS party.” Proud isn’t even the word….

Artistic Ability

I reviewed these photos when they came in an e-mail today, and my initial comment to my sister was, “Geesh. It bothers me deeply that he has no talent.” Total tongue in cheek on my part, because I was stupefied and felt tied to my chair in amazement. But my soul was soaring….


		I reviewed these photos when they came in an e-mail today, and my initial comment to my sister was, “Geesh. It bothers me deeply that he has no talent.” Total tongue in cheek on my part, because I was stupefied and felt tied to my chair in amazement. But my soul was soaring.

This is amazing art and incredible talent. This is what art is all about. This is about being just a wee bit crazy.

This is about following a powerful muse.

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

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

Lucky Update

Last weekend, I wasn’t able to attend what I just knew was going to be a fantastic fundraising event. The Coterie Theatre holds their annual fundraiser every year in early July, and it always seems to collide with my husband’s family reunion. I have never been able to go. Ever.

I was there in spirit. stuff trumped me, though: stuff was there in the form of two foot tall fully-lit carnival letters. I’ve written about them before, but the back story on how these letters became a part of the Lucky Lounge at the Coterie event is one of my favorites to tell.

My friend Jeff Church is the Producing Artistic Director at Coterie Theatre, and I met him for the first time 13 years ago in the T-shirt sales tent at AIDS Walk. Here was this happy, smiling man who had sparkling eyes, and he was very spirited and passionate about the cause. I immediately liked him. I’ve learned, as the years have gone by, that the tent he has worked in every year at the Walk is know for its “early in the day” cocktails. The tent I work in features Lamar’s donuts and Jell-o shots; his serves mimosas, bloody Mary’s, etc. Maybe that explains a bit of his “spirit”, but probably not.

So…early in 2009 I was out in front of the store setting up a new window with Casey. Jeff walked by and stopped in his tracks – and not just to talk. He was mesmerized by the letters Casey was hanging on the other side of the glass. He mentioned right then that the Coterie was doing a show in summer 2010 called “Lucky Duck”. He wondered out loud what the possibility was of borrowing these letters for their fundraiser in 2010. Now, here is where retailers and theatre producers are a bit different. Retailers see 12 months ahead, and theatre directors go even farther, planning whole seasons of shows 18 months in advance. He sees seats full of people at great shows taking away great memories, and we see everything we bring in walking out the door in the hands of happy customers.

I said, “No problem.” I knew it was highly likely that we would sell the letters long before then, but I was certain we could order in what we needed to fulfill his wish.

One month later, I was sitting in one of the Coterie’s sold out shows and knew a call to Jeff was in my future. I wasn’t looking to talk to the top dog because I was having a bad experience – not at all. I was just right then needing to know if stuff could borrow some of the set pieces and backdrops from “The Breakfast Club” when the set was struck.

The very next day on the phone, he said, “No problem.”

Our back to school window last fall was amazing, and his event last weekend was successful. I adore Jeff. Our friendship suffers from no problems.

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