The STUFF Sisters

The Itch and The Dread

I have labeled this mental activity “The Itch and The Dread,” and I have been building comparisons in my mind for more than a few days.

Yesterday I sat for a little under an hour at my dining room table and watched my son and my niece work a huge LEGO project. A Parisian cafe with thousands of pieces that will fit into a city scene my son has been building for years. I watched them sort pieces by kind and by size, and I watched him teach her about “the books” – those multi-pages items that tell you how to put the pieces together so that you actually end up with a Parisian cafe. It is architecture and engineering with bound edges and slick paper.

IMG_20150611_112316 — This photo hangs above my sister’s desk. It is almost 10 years old. My niece is on the left, my son on the right.

I sat there soaking up every little piece of their back-and-forth. Her questions and his gentle answers. His watching her get excited and her looking quickly to him with a smile in her eyes as she completed a big area.

20150708_183733 — On the final leg of the flights home from Paris a few weeks ago.

And I sat there thinking about what I was going to do to the dining room after Dakota leaves for school in two weeks. What would be leaving us (the piano) and what I would miss (his impromptu playing). (He isn’t taking the upright piano. I’m just getting rid of it.)

I have labeled this mental activity “The Itch and The Dread,” and I have been building comparisons in my mind for more than a few days. I am itching to make changes to my life and surroundings, and I am dreading his departure from our home.

In general:

I am itching to clean his room with him next week, and I am dreading entering it without him while he is in New Jersey.
I am itching to move the kitchen table out, and I am dreading our first meal at the new table without him.
I am itching for the freedom that comes with no school schedule, and I am dreading how I will feel without limitations set by a young person.
I am itching for the silences I crave at my writing desk at home, and I am dreading the quiet he will leave in every room.

The Itch and The Dread. It continues.

One For Each Decade

And still, my sister – along with a bounty of other sneaks and fibbers – surprised me five times on Monday, the day of my 50th birthday.

I am virtually impossible to surprise. I am the first born of three girls. I am highly regimented in my scheduling, and I will cop to being highly organized in most facets of my life – personal and professional.

And still, my sister – along with a bounty of other sneaks and fibbers – surprised me five times on Monday, the day of my 50th birthday.

20150720_095358 — 4th grade on the left and 7th grade in the middle.

A breakfast with my family and two friends that have stood beside me and with me since 4th and 7th grade. Strong, good women who know secrets and keep straight faces.

A group of flowers, arranged the way I adore them, delivered to my desk.

A schedule cleared and staff hired to cover my immediately-demanded absence from work upon my arrival.

A lunch planned and executed with more family and more friends – one of whom already had plans with me on my birthday and just kept running with the lies and deceptions as plans changed – at a favorite place with favorite cake.

A home dancing with 50 blue balloons delivered and placed around my home by two children I love to my very core.

“One for every decade,” she said, while I thanked her at my door as she left my home on the first day of my new decade.

me and my parents — My mom, me, and my dad. Of course Casey took the picture. She’s just that amazing.

The Second Question Asked

He gave me The Look. You know The Look. He was saying to me silently, “Does everything have a story?” He knew the answer and was playing dumb just so I would respond to The Look. So I played along.

I have a great friend who knows more than a little bit about gardening and landscape design. Right after the first of the year, right after we had had very hot soup for lunch, I persuaded him to follow me to my house and give me advice on a very pressing issue. Well, it was pressing on me. Grand plans for the warmer parts of the year with no better time to contemplate them than the coldest and dreariest days of winter.

As we walked around my very small property, he asked many questions. Sprinkler head questions. “What grows here?” questions. “Who laid this?” questions. “When does this bloom?” questions. He wondered when we had done certain things. He never questioned our choices or our taste. When he spoke to me about my dogwood tree in the front yard, I answered, “A Mother’s Day gift from my son.” My favorite moment was when he asked about yet another winter-weary plant in one of our beds towards the back of our yard and I regaled him yet again with not only what the plant was but which grandparent had given it to me. And when. And why. I was brief, I hope.

He gave me The Look. You know The Look. It can take many forms, yet this one was saying to me silently, “Does everything have a story?” He knew the answer and was playing dumb just so I would respond to The Look. So I played along….

I thought of this again this morning when yet another person congratulated me on the graduation of our son from high school. The conversation rolled along, and before I knew it the question was “popped” again. This is the question that seems to escape people right after they ask where he will be attending college: “Are you going to sell the house?” It has become “The Second Question”.

It has puzzled, the fact that this has been such a frequently asked question this spring. Is it because we have only one child and his absence from our home will have us putting a sign in the yard from loneliness? Is it because we live in an older, historic, and larger home and therefore must be looking for the newer and the smaller?

My friend who gave me The Look on the coldest day this past winter already knows my answer. I’m not leaving the home I brought that bouncing baby boy to from the hospital. The memories live inside the house and outside as well. With the daylilies, a gift from my mom’s mom; the dogwood tree, a gift from my son; the surprise lilies, a gift from my mom’s dad; the bridal wreath bush, a gift from my dad’s parents. The list goes on and on.

And that’s before I regale anyone with what the days were like when each planting was made. They all live with me on the coldest and the warmest days.

Vividly.

p.s. The photo was taken this morning in my back yard. These daylilies were originally grown in the ditch near the entrance to my maternal great grandmother’s farm in Gasconade County, Missouri. They are majestic and stand almost five feet tall when they are blooming.

Hold On Tightly and Hire a Professional

I have heard them all. From the day my son was born until and including today, when he graduates from high school.

“Blink of an eye.”

“They grow so fast.”

“Take lots of pictures so you never forget.”

“Hold on. It’s a great ride.”

I have heard them all. From the day my son was born until and including today, when he graduates from high school in front of very proud parents and a loving family that sings his praises higher than should be allowed.

My advice to my sister, who has a child younger than mine, has been individual in its focus: “It all changes so fast.”

Last year, a full two or three days before portraits were due at school, I leaned upon a professional to capture for me a young man who would be leaving our protective hold sooner than I cared to accept. Both photographer and subject knew what they wanted and never butted heads. They let me have opinions – one of which left my friend, the photographer, with chigger bites that lasted for days – and a set of photos that I will treasure forever.

So, to my sister, I need to change my tune, or at least add to my mantra about change: ” Hold on tightly, and hire a professional.”

p.s. My greatest and forever thanks to Robbie Schraeder for being a photographer that captures the essence of a person, not just their image. It is a gift that cannot be undervalued.

Nosing Around

You never know what others will see in the rooms you live in. More importantly, what they will read into you in what they see about you and around you.

I have never toured the White House in Washington, DC. Not because I don’t want to, but because I’ve never planned my trips to this greatest of our cities in advance enough to actually book a tour. I would love to see the public spaces of that building, but I have never had a desire to see the private spaces where our president and his family reside. I firmly believe they are private for a reason, and they don’t need the rest of us nosing around.

I live in an historic home in our center city. It is pushing 110 years old, yet it is not a masterpiece nor overly important architecturally. It is, however, a home. With people living in it. A dog. Plants. We host many events, but we seldom let guests up to the second and third floors. Many reasons: one being the rooms are not as majestic; two being that projects have been completed on the first floor for many years yet linger undone on the upper floors; and three being that these are our most private quarters. Our bedrooms and baths. Our studies, dressing rooms, and over-sized closets. Not as tidy as our lower floor, and loaded with our treasures, valuable and not.

Two times last week we let people climb the stairs, past the magnificent crown molding and quarter-sawn oak of the first floor, to land squarely in our lives. One night it was the staff from our business that came for a meal and tour, and one night was a close friend who needed a place to change clothes before we waltzed out together for another night on the town for charity.

For the first evening, I spent multiple minutes preparing our spaces upstairs, and on the second evening I did not. I do not know why. Both were intimate and benignly invasive. You never know what others will see in the rooms you live in. More importantly, what they will read into you in what they see about you and around you. Your art. Your books. Magazines. Lotion bottles.

I know that when I looked up from my bed last night and saw this sight before me, I was reminded that evenings with my son in our home bent over a book studying while typing endlessly on a keyboard are limited. I can actually count them on my two hands.

Our personal spaces are our respites, and I will miss my son crashing about in my private and quiet spaces on the upper floors of our home.

Just as I will miss doing the same in his.

p.s. More about my son and his impending departure for college here.

And So We Tussle

In general, those in the Simmons tribe like opposition that is clearly defined and worthy of our full battle abilities.

Two nights ago, in low light and with a drink in my hand, I was asked how my dad was. A good friend was wondering about the ongoing cancer that lives in my father. This friend can handle most of what I put out, and I blinked twice before answering.

In general, those in the Simmons tribe like opposition that is clearly defined and worthy of our full battle abilities. My father lives with a very picky strain of non-Hodgkin lymphoma that is a bear to treat. His goal, our goal, for the last four years has been to gain remission so he can undergo a bone marrow transplant and possibly knock this cancer down a notch or two and then put it to bed. Three completed chemotherapy protocols have not done that – but one got him damned close. “Close, but no cigar,” as a grandfather used to say.

In the next few days, my father will enter another treatment that he and his doctor already know will not bring him remission, but it is the only option available to him at this time. It’s like we are all waiting for science to catch up to his need. His need, and the needs of probably thousands of others as well.

And so we will tussle with cancer. I am viewing this as not a full-fledged fight but a skirmish. We will help, and hold, and laugh, and cry. And wait. He will be sick again from the poisons he will ingest, and we will all dream of limited reactions on his part.

I asked my friend, with a voice that quietly betrayed my emotions: Who really wants an all-body rash?

Photo note: This is my dad, my stepmom, and my son on the night my son was crowned Homecoming King last fall. There will be more nights just like this in all our futures. Of this I am certain.

Creative Gifts

I received this care package in the mail last week.

A gift of creativity is always appreciated.

It was unexpected. It brought me joy. It reminded me why people love getting gifts of art and creativity. Even a co-owner of a store, like me, dedicated to the mission of sharing creativity with the world, needs a reminder once in a while. The happiness it is spreading is immeasurable.

I had re-posted on Facebook an article about a recent study that found that coloring is good for adults. You can read about it here at the Huffington Post. Julie Cates, an accomplished artist and friend, had responded. And, I believe, that was where the seed for this deeply appreciated gift was planted.

Since my original post I have come across another post about coloring books intended for adults. Again, it made me happy to know that coloring, this seemingly “for children only” hobby, has many benefits. You can find out about the newly published coloring book here, coloring book for adults.

So, it turns out coloring is good for people of all ages. And, I for one, will be coloring more often and well into my years. Join me.

Fake It to Make It

This year the Brookside St. Patrick’s Warm-up Parade snuck up on us. And, frankly, we were not in the mood.

This year the Brookside St. Patrick’s Warm-up Parade snuck up on us. And, frankly, we were not in the mood. Winter had managed to get us down. We were snapping at each other about little details daily. This is not like us. We are snappy about stuff all the time, because we read too much news and care sometimes too much about the condition of the world. But we are not often snappy at each other. This year the parade preparation had us acting like snapping turtles. (At least they are green, which is somewhat in the spirit of St. Patrick’s Day.)

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So we arrived at the parade grounds with fake smiles on our faces – the ol’ “fake it to make it” trick. As the parade began, we looked at each other and silently shared, “Let’s get this done.” With each step of the parade, our real smiles grew. Every shout out helped heal our frustration. The bright and warm sunshine burned off the winter fatigue. As we pulled onto the final block, we looked at each other and smiled – giant smiles of pure joy. There was nothing fake about these smiles.

We were bathed in our community and the power of sunshine and happy people. In one short mile, we were healed. We lingered at the end and resisted letting it come to an end.

Until next year….

Casey & Sloane

Casey & Sloane Simmons
Sisters & Co-owners

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We Went North for Spring Break

The final spot on the map, just a few months before he would be college bound. Sounded like a spring break trip made in heaven…by an only child with doting parents.

Dakota had a dream. A wish, really. A desire to visit all 50 states “before I go to college.”

Those last words were spoken to us, his parents, when he was maybe five years old. To him, and to us, that deadline seemed forever away.

He has always loved maps. Even as a small child, he would hold them while strapped into his car seat and look them over. Occasionally the map was indeed upside down, but that only made the flash on my camera react faster.

We thought he might not continue with this wish. I mean, really, most children that age will tell you they want to be policemen and firefighters and veterinarians when they grow up. Few of them follow through on those adamantly delivered statements. Things change. They change.

But not our son. This wish to visit all the United States stayed with him. Our driving trips to Florida became missions to see Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Georgia “on our way.”

Our son was insistent from the beginning that you could not count a state as “finished” just by driving through it. You had to do something real or see something real – a Confederate cemetery, the Tuskegee Airmen Museum, a Usonian town – and then you could chalk it up as completed.

So, state number fifty presented itself to us this year. North Dakota. The final spot on the map just a few months before he would be college bound. Sounded like a spring break trip made in heaven…by an only child with doting parents.

We loaded the car – with only two days provided for this journey to and fro – with pillows, water bottles, cameras, a mom, a dad, a kid, sweets, and a dear friend of mine. My friend and I met in junior high – not middle school! – and she has a desire to visit all the states as well. (North Dakota was #34 for her.) She shares a deep love of travel with Dakota, and they adore each other on multiple levels.

It was short, sweet and delightful. Too much food, too much driving, too much cold. But never enough friendship, laughter and smiles.

There can never be enough of those last three.

Note #1: All photos were taken in one day in two states. Many were in North Dakota and a few in that other Dakota.

Note #2: In an effort at full disclosure, state number forty-nine was Delaware and was mistakenly overlooked last year during the “East Coast Mop-Up Tour” with his grandfather. Dakota also visited Delware during this spring break, with his friend, Ryoko. Every member of our family has seen to it that Dakota had help – financially and transportation-wise – reaching this amazing goal. To my mom, her partner, my sister, my dad, my step-mom, and everyone else, I say thank you for making this amazing dream come true. Wow. What a lucky kid.

Note #3: The Grand Forks Herald – and the amazing Marilyn Hagerty – saw the magic in this trip. Our lunch with her was the the trip’s focus, the thing we “did” in that state so it could be checked off and counted as complete. She left us wanting to spend even more time with her. Read her words in the Herald here.

Care Team

My first email received today was from my son’s pediatrician’s office. Today, on my son’s eighteenth birthday. And the subject line stated:

“You have been removed from Dakota’s Care Team.”

It made me laugh to my core. My husband was already on the highway to a client, my son on his way to school. I sat in my office at home and laughed out loud. The dog looked at me, then placed his head back down on the carpet. Should call the carpet cleaning service in Kissimmee tomorrow, by the way.

The three sentence email went on to state things about “Dakota having reached the age of majority,” and “state regulations.” I’m sure all of that is true. Now cleaning kept coming to my mind, I started to remember all the times I needed a cleaning service, they were excellent, they can make your lot brand new in no time and even clean the parking lot which mine had many painted prints of my baby’s years.

Removed from the Care Team? Not in my lifetime. I might not be able to access his health records online, but I will never stop caring. No combination of letters and numbers in password sequencing will keep me from remembering every little thing about him. Every fine blue vein on his baby eyelids, noticed best when he was sleeping in my arms. Every tear cried over the toddler ridicule of his favorite color. Every fitting for tiny eyeglasses. Every mole, scrape, and hairstyle.

My baby is eighteen years old today. My, how time does fly….

p.s. Dakota pushed this box of Coke around the floor for over an hour just a few months after turning one. We were preparing for a party, and he considered himself a huge help. The smile never stopped….