S. Sloane Simmons and Casey Simmons
Sisters and business partners sharing life's stuff....
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.
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It’s an age-old dilemma…does art mimic nature, or does nature mimic art?
Today, while reading my July National Geographic magazine, I was unable to get past the article about the bower birds of Australia. It was mesmerizing and amazing at the same time. It struck me that these birds must share studio space with Andy Goldsworthy. My sister Casey has been on an Andy Goldsworthy binge lately, so he’s been in the forefront of my mind by professional and general sisterly osmosis.
My age-old dilemma, however, has been this: How am I going to afford to visit all the places in the world and see all the places and things that must be seen with the human eye – like bower birds in their habitat?
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Wow. Thank God for magazines.
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Casey and I would never knowingly put someone on a pedestal. The view can skew your perception; the fall can be perilous, and it can make you a target. That said…
Last week we held a private party at stuff after hours. It was an event that had been bid on at a charity auction, and it included a catered, sit-down dinner within the walls of the store. The evening was beyond fun, and the participants left very happy. Casey and I were the only staff on hand, and we had personally set the table for the magic that was to arrive an hour before the event.
And arrive it did. Jo Marie Scaglia, owner of The Mixx restaurants, had partnered with us for this donation, and she delivered the multiple courses herself. You can kick us now, because we got too busy to take pictures of the actual food at table. (But don’t hit the bruises we have from kicking ourselves, because we are starting to heal!)
It was so gorgeous, you didn’t want to lift a spoon or fork to disturb it. It was fresh, crunchy, savory, healthy and delicious. It was seasonal, and all dishes were served at room temperature because the day had been so hot. Jo Marie told us about how she took all of that into consideration when she planned the menu the morning of the event. She not only cares deeply about the properties of the food you eat, but she thinks presentation matters. And it does.
The lucky people who spent that evening dining and shopping couldn’t stop raving. It was the kind of food you didn’t want to stop eating; they were nibbling until they left – four hours after their arrival.
We placed Jo Marie and her restaurant on the Plaza on our all-time favorites list the first time we ate there the week she opened a few years ago. The talented team under her leadership has never let us down, and we crave it constantly.
We are delighted she’s our friend and even happier that she keeps us well fed. We’ll never place her on a pedestal, but we will sing her praises.
Dang, her food is good.
PS…We’ve had a few things to say about The Mixx in past blogs. Check this one out.
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These images from Veranda Magazine this month got me thinking. Not just that I love the Zulu wire work, which I do. It got me thinking about collecting and about the fact that I collected items when I was younger with wild abandon. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve edited those collections by either ridding myself of the collection entirely or by purchasing in a more calculated fashion. My husband and I jokingly blame it on “the kid” – braces, team sports, food, piano lessons, and all of his varied expenses. If I’m honest, I think we’ve just slowed a bit and are more educated.
I’m still wild for blue and white transferware “state plates” and always have my eye open. I’m still crazy for hand-embroidered pillowcases. And, hands down, I will never have enough handpainted dishware from the Deruta region of Italy. Ever. And glazed blue pots. And split oak baskets from the Ozarks. And….
I check up on a few blogs daily. If you are a collector, check out collectionaday2010.blogspot.com. The way each daily selection is presented is visually very stimulating, but what overwhelms me is when the description says “part of a larger collection”.
That’s when the minimalist in me overrules the collector.
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We recently held our first ever essay contest at stuff. We thought it would be a great way to have some fun and hear stories from our customers. I believe our store is a special place. I hear about people’s lives every day. Their triumphs, sorrows and joys are entrusted to us. It has always been this way.
Many years ago, a woman started visiting the store often. At first she kept to herself. She was suffering inside – you could see and feel it – but she was always pleasant, kind and thoughtful toward us and our other customers. As time went on she shared that her daughter was in a coma. And she was buying gifts for her to open when she woke.
During each visit, we learned more about her, her daughter and her fears. But she was never negative, pitiful or selfish. She gave me a priceless gift. She reminded me that everyone has pain. That everyone is tired. That everyone has a story to share, and many of those stories are filled with fear, loss and pain.
Our essay contest invited people to write an essay explaining “Why I Deserve a Happy Handbag”. The responses were breathtaking. I read every essay more than once. I struggled with how to make my picks. I shared some of the stories (anonymously) with friends. I witnessed bravery in each story and a willingness to reach out to others and share some of the most difficult times of their lives. I was overwhelmed. I searched for inspiration on how to pick only two from this stack of very personal and revealing stories.
It was then that I remembered the woman whose daughter had been in a coma. I remembered her extraordinary ability to smile, laugh and be joyful while faced with such an impossible situation. She would radiate with hope. Her hope and faith was so limitless, she would leave a wave of hope and faith behind each time she left the store to return to her daughter’s side.
I looked again at the invitation and re-read the essays to find the type of triumph, happiness, courage, laughter, belief, hope, faith and humor that I watched drag a young woman from a coma so many years ago. And that is how I cast my vote.
I have always been humbled by the willingness of people to share their stories. I have found more inspiration from them than they will ever get from me. I thank everyone who took the time to write to us and I wish for all of them to find happiness. And I believe, if they each dig deep enough, they will find it at the bottom of their very own handbag.
To the winners: I was inspired by your positivity. It was quite contagious.
And, finally, am forever thankful to have been at work the day our store friend brought her daughter to our store to meet us. The memory of that day will always bring me happiness.
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I swam on Monday in a deep blue pool and realized, like I do every summer, that I was home. It was my first time in deep blue this year, and I was in heaven. I splashed with my niece and tossed a ball with my son in waist deep water. Then I dried off on a lounger next to my best man. I could tell that my husband had to have gotten a wee bit tired of me mentioning all the ways that I was happy – a happiness I hold deep all winter long.
I have been escaping to pools since I was a pre-teen. I’m sure I dove into our pool at home thinking I was under great stress at 14. Whatever. Our family, like most, has had our fair share of challenges, troubles and loss since those easy summer days. The summer after my youngest sister died, my son was only a year old. It’s little wonder he’s such a greater swimmer now, because I gave him no choices as we loaded into the car almost every day that summer and made the trek to our public pool. Some days we were there for only an hour, and some days we were there for much longer while he napped for several hours. I spent those hours healing myself with quick dips in the water when the heat of my memories and the sun became too intense. I watched him sleep in the stroller, and I got lost in the din of other people’s children and their splashes.
This was all during the first several years of stuff. Casey was working her butt off every day of the week, except Sunday, when I was in charge. In addition, I worked during the week when my son was sleeping – or when he was peaceful enough to work “with” me in a retail environment, which wasn’t much. And I was in charge of all errands and chores that could be accomplished at 30 miles an hour with the little dear strapped into a car seat.
Casey and I had decided at that point to continue the corporate consulting that we had brought with us to stuff from our previous careers. Over the first six summers of stuff‘s life, the trade-off, in my book, for Casey working 6 days a week at stuff was me working the four summer months with the United Autoworkers and the Ford Motor Company. I was the lead developer and implementer for their joint special events and projects at the Claycomo Auto Plant here in Kansas City. It was exciting, fun and exhausting. We were building our dream business, I was building a family, and we were continuing to hone our consulting skills.
Most days were a blur during those summer months with my baby/ toddler/ little man – those months were crucial to our new business, but I nevertheless escaped to the pool and cooled off mentally and physically. It was then that I realized for the first time that stress can’t swim. It runs screaming from the hot concrete and waits in the nether regions. Upon further research, I found out stress can’t even float. This form of dedicated scientific research involved me floating on my back with my ears under the water and my eyes looking skyward. It is a divine was to spend a few minutes, and is something I do every summer when the sky is truly blue enough. I can swim by myself for hours and be happy, but put my teenage son in the mix and I’m beyond contented.
As our son’s love of the water has increased, so has mine. I thought it would be impossible for me to love it more. But I guess there is a kernel of truth in those old sayings about how much the human heart can hold.
Mine can hold the Pacific Ocean. And maybe the Atlantic, too.
Here’s the link to windows installers: https://troysglass.com/visalia/.
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I gave up on envying hair and hair styles when I stopped paying for very smelly perms that I thought would make me look like Andi McDowell. Twenty years have passed since I tried curly hair, and I’ve managed without the help of a therapist.
But coveting is something I have not grown beyond.
I don’t have to look too far up either side of my family tree to see grey hair. One grandmother had what some have called a “skunk stripe” when grey hair came along, and the other grandmother I never knew as any way but natural silver grey. Both, at the end of their lives, were true silver, and it was lovely when cancer didn’t leave it patchy. My grandfathers were silver, but mostly bald – or closely shaved – and my father has been slowly introducing more salt to the pepper for quite a while. My mother has dabbled with hair color for many years, I believe, and she does it very well. But it’s my sister, Casey, that has carried grey hair to what I see as a pinnacle.
Her hair is amazing and totally natural. Part silver and part brown with remnants of blonde. She stopped all chemicals when she was pregnant and has never looked back. I think she looks like a super model of the Ralph Lauren and Sundance variety, but I’m one of her greatest fans and am possibly a tiny bit biased.
This past Friday, I joined the ranks. My friend, John, said over the sink before cutting my hair, “Oh my gosh, you have grey hair, and quite a bit of it.” I took him by surprise when I said, “Awesome,” and I know the surprise continued around the room as I looked at the faces of those in the other chairs. I’m not so naive as to think that my wanting grey hair has put a stop to the multi-million dollar hair coloring industry. It was the next comment he made that was the icing on the cake for me: “You know, grey hair is thicker than all the others.” Imagine my luck! I got my wish for grey hair and thick hair in one trip to the beauty salon! Can you imagine what I’ll be like if the grey hair comes in curly, too?
Yes. I can admit it right here in “group”: I have coveted my sister’s hair for going on five years. I have even coveted strangers’ hair as I have moved through my daily life. I even walked up to a total stranger at the convention center in New York, told this woman I really like her hair, and asked if she colored it. The answer was No, but I think I already knew that because it looked authentic. (And, yes, you can just tell.) Our conversation continued for a few minutes, with me finally asking the question my sister had prodded me to ask before setting me free: “Did you live as a brunette or a blonde before grey set in?”
She had been both. First blonde, then brunette. With a stranger in my camp, and with my family there as well, I’m on my way to happy times.
I can’t wait to see how this turns out.
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The school my son attends had a policy, when he was starting out there, that no seats could be held at musical programs. “Come and claim a seat for yourself early, but don’t save any for others” was the open invitation. At the time, the school was still sharing a stage in the building of its neighbor church, and these rules served a purpose. I guess. I really wouldn’t know, because 
for years I surreptitiously laid my scarf / jacket / briefcase across six or seven chairs to attempt to hold seats for our son’s supportive and extended family. Divorce may divide families, but it acts as a multiplication factor when it’s time to sit and listen. Yet, six or seven was never enough; some of us still stood. I took major ribbing from many factions, 
but I never received a citation, and the school never threw my kid out of school. (Questioning authority runs deep in me. I push most boundaries gently.)
You see, our son has been raised by a village. A village that loves him deeply and supports everything he has set his mind and body to, and that village shows up in force to 
his performances, games and recitals.
Just this past Tuesday, he performed his semi-annual piano recital at semester’s end, and 13 people from his village showed up to quietly cheer him on. His tribe, his people. It’s remarkable, really. My parents have been divorced for over 25 years; 
they show up at all their grandkids’ events when possible, sit next to each other, and speak rather easily between themselves. I know this behavior is exceptional when I mention it to friends whose parents are divorced and I learn how they have to “divvy up” the school event calendar as to which parents will attend which event. That way, the grandchildren can’t see or feel the simmering emotions. 
I can’t imagine what that’s like, and I’m reminded that I live in grace in this category of my family life.
Last week, we attended my niece’s vocal music show at school – the school she shares with my son. With the new stage in our new building, 
the rules for saving seats seems to have weakened and isn’t spoken as vociferously. I did notice that my sister was ultimately unable to “save a seat” for my husband’s and my late arrivals that day. And I can guess why: the ribbing got too intense, and she gave up what she’d laid claim to. I’ve been there. I know all about it.
People have jokingly said – and still say – to me, “Well, you can’t say he’s not loved,” or, “Is there anyone you didn’t invite?” or, “Wow. For an only child, he packs ’em in!” Each time, I just smile, say little, never apologize, and know in my soul that our tribe runs in a pack and invests everything in its young.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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I am blessed with a beautiful daughter.
During my first month of motherhood, I had the realization that I had missed my calling. Motherhood came naturally for me. It just felt right the minute she was laid on my swollen belly. I looked at her and whispered, “It’s you and me kid.”
I was very, very, very lucky to take to motherhood so easily. Don’t get me wrong – I was sleep-deprived, questioning, reading and learning like every new mom. But for me it just felt comfortable…deep in my core. I had never felt that way before. Every other challenge in my life had always come with sweaty hands, sleepless nights and anxiety. Motherhood for me did not.
Less than a year later, my marriage incinerated and I became a single mother. And, even though I was grieving deeply at the loss of my marriage, I never missed a beat with mothering. How to parent alone was never a worry. How to live, finance our life and plan alone was a different story.
But mothering brought me peace. I almost resented my other responsibilities if they took me away from my daughter. I had to learn to find balance. You see…when you find your calling and at the same time realize you missed the boat by about ten years, all you have left is to find balance. That peace came with time and the loving support of my amazing family and friends.
As Mother’s Day quickly approaches, I find myself laughing at the idea that my child is supposed to do something for me. She is the gift. She is one that has given my life purpose, clarity, peace and wisdom.
Every time I used to toss a penny in a wishing well I would wish for “true love”. I didn’t know then that it would come in such a lovely little package.
Happy Mother’s Day.
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It’s true: I married they guy I went to prom with in high school. I only went to one prom, and I’ve only had one husband. I like the simplicity of that.
When our son was taking our photo in the neighbor’s yard before we jetted off to DIFFA’s “Dining by Design” last weekend, he smarmily stated, “It’s like Parent Prom.” He has a fantastic dry humor, and this aside had me smiling for several blocks as we headed downtown. And the next day, that same comment had me digging for a high school treasure, finally found in a frame in the guest bedroom.
What struck me the most about the two photos I’ve included in this reminiscence is that the back story for each one is almost the same – something old, something new.
In the photo from 1981, I’m wearing a dress I permanently borrowed from my mother’s closet. It was a stunning Ralph Lauren cotton dress that I couldn’t get enough of but only wore once. I followed a simple aesthetic then and stayed with pearl earrings and ballet flats. I can vividly remember that the boutonnière itched like crazy on my fair skin and left me with a rash. My husband is wearing a tuxedo that was his father’s. He had spent time at the tailor having the original garments trimmed down to a size he didn’t swim in. They were “tails” and I found it amazing.
In the photo from last weekend, I’m wearing a fantastic jacket that had hung in my closet for a long time but needed a renaissance. It found a second life in the hands of my dear friend Jon Fulton Adams and his trusty assistant, Ron Megee. I practically wept when it was delivered. It is piece of true magic. My charming date is sporting a rented tux but the memory of his long gone father is still there in the studs on his shirt and the cufflinks at his wrist.
We hadn’t sported full formal attire for almost 20 years. It was a blast for a great cause, and we were with great friends.
I liked parent prom. Very much.
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