perspective

This was not a barn-burner, but it will buy groceries for the month and then some. Not complaining. Organizers are top notch. I saw lots of friends. Not enough for the new laptop yet, but much closer now. Next week for sure. Saving to buy things instead of charging everything and paying twice for it later is at times a little frustrating, but it is mostly a wonderful thing. Save the charge cards for the emergencies. Own your toys free and clear. How freeing that is.

And I got my hot dog! (Thanks, Deb) It's been a year since I had a hot dog. Those things taste amazing to a lapsed vegetarian. Back on course tomorrow, though.

Next weekend is Open Studios which should be a good one for us, some books and cards for a shop and then a break. I may actually visit the basement. I hear there are machines there that actually wash and dry your clothes. I vaguely remember....

I'm glad I did this show. I'll probably do it again. Why not? It all adds in, makes a bottom line, pays for the tomatoes. And I get to have a Sunday off on a show weekend. That may be the biggest reason of all to keep it on the list.

day 2-get your hot dog early

That was my biggest lesson yesterday. They run out of food early. I also learned that people will spend 7 bucks on popcorn or chocolate that will be gone in moments, but 15 bucks for a handbound journal is too expensive.

My friend, Deb, convinced me to bring in mirrors today and, since the louvre upon which they will be hung can double as a screen to hide my neighbors boxes, seems like a no-brainer. Of course, I cannot imagine this crowd will bite on a 50 buck mirror when there are 5 dollar cute Christmas things around, but you never know.

I was going to get up earlier, but we all snuggled in this morning, hitting the snooze button, watching "Singing in the Rain". I've been watching this movie most of my adult life and every single time Gene Kelly finally drops the umbrella and spins joyfully through the puddles, I smile. Can't help it. And besides, how can you not chuckle at a song that proclaims, solemnly, "you opened heaven's portal here on earth for this poor mortal"? Gotta love how Debbie Reynolds smiles adoringly at him while he spins that bit of sugar. Total escape from real life, that film. Thanks, Gene, Thanks, Debbie. Thanks, Donald.

OK, I have mirrors to shine, a shower to take, a louvre to pick up, a show to do.

As Gene proclaimed a few moments ago: "Gotta dance!!"

the good, the bad, the ugly

There is a reason I don't do school "craft shows". It's the jewelry made from craft store beads and the pot holders (although I did buy some) and the dog scrunchies and the containers stuffed with twinkle lights and the plastic snowflake ornaments. Nothing over 3 bucks or so. You cannot compete with that. People are not there for my sort of thing. They are there for Christmas wreaths and dog scrunchies. I understand that. But I caved and signed on. We'll see how tomorrow goes.

The folks that run the thing are great. Professional, courteous, and really dressed nice. You could do worse. :)

So, I'm sitting there, peering between the slats of my shelves ...poor design philosophy today...wondering why I was there and a sweet woman comes by and is really studying my new little collage magnets. She was there so long I sort of forgot about her and since I was squinting between shelves anything was possible. But she came around the side with a couple in her hand and asked if she could buy them. (No, I'm here on an anthropological stake out. Put those back! You'll blow my cover!") I said, of course, with a smile and then she asked if I was the one who made them. Why yes, I told her, sliding them into a bag. And then she said the nicest thing I ever heard.

With a sweet, honest smile, she said it must be wonderful to know me.

I think I babbled something moronic in response, but I recovered and we got into a lovely conversation prompted by the quotes on my magnets. We talked about treasuring normal days, looking deeper than the obvious. She told me of taking a walk after Thanksgiving dinner to feel the world around her and reconnect and she spotted a forsythia in bloom. She smiled, lifted her eyes to whomever she personally believes put this sign of promise in her path and nodded a thank you.

It was a wonderful conversation. It filled my heart, a heart that has been bruised by much sad news lately. It was as if she had actually presented me with a twig bearing small, fragile yellow blossoms. It took self control not to hug her.

It was a day of highs and lows.

The folks next to me filled the back space with their boxes, making me grumpy as I squeezed further into a corner. Then they gave me chocolate popcorn as an apology. On the proper hormonic cycle, chocolate and salty together is soul food.

When I first got to the venue I learned a last minute switch had been made and my spot in the bright, airy foyer had been switched with one deep in the corner of the gymacafetorium or whatever it is. This dizzied my claustrophobic soul until I saw i was directly across from a friend I see too infrequently. Hugs, reassurances, comfort.

Russell schlepped in my art show chair so I could sit high and next to the display instead of low and behind it and I started to breathe normally again. Cave dwelling is not for me. Plus, I could interact with the shoppers.

Tomorrow I am going to try very hard to resist the temptation of doggie winter scarves. Q would look so cute with one tied around his neck just before he pulled it off and ate it. I will not embarrass my dog. I will not.

So, the take was not phenomenal but still more than working a week at the theater. Part time. When there is no show. And I come in late and leave early. But still..

Tomorrow I will venture into the other building. Yes, there are two. One can only imagine what will be found there.

helpless heart

My son keeps me up to date on his struggle to adjust to the betrayal he has recently suffered. Today I am just confused, he will say or he will admit to having rushes of grief or anger or resentment. Some days the overwhelming prospect of packing up a life overcomes it all. Some nights he lies awake, imagining...

I listen to him vent, earphones in, while I paste and cut and arrange and glue. His pain moving through me to be woven into the patterns. I make pretty collages of paper, botanicals, paint and pain. And I can't make it better. The words no Mother ever wants to say. We are programmed to make it better.

Friday is the 1st day of a new show. I like old shows. I like knowing where to park and what kind of space to expect. Where the bathrooms are, if there are plugs for our lights. I like knowing the people who run it. New shows are filled with questions. Everything goes slower, feels awkward.

My work is going slow, too. My mind wanders, I am preoccupied by sadness and impotence.

It will be good to be done, to be on my way, to be of help.

I fill my boxes with product, counting out how many of each, is it enough, will they sell, will he get through this, how can I help.

The route to the venue is stored on the GPS. The load in instructions are in my folder. If only life was like that. Printed directions and a woman with a slightly British accent telling you "turn left, turn right. Recalculating".

I'm going to tell my son that one. He is recalculating. Maybe he will chuckle. That would be a good step, maybe make it a little better...

where's the porta-potty?

So, last night we did a little benefit show at a country club in Clarence. Clarence NY is either the richest or 2nd richest suburb of Buffalo. We drove our dented work van through the fancy gates and up a curving drive to the clubhouse, schlepped our battered boxes and totes across the marble floor to our assigned table (dressed and skirted in white) in front of a picture window that looked out over the sprawling grounds.



I wished I had dressed up more, although Russell did wear his good jeans.

There were appetizers passed on silver trays, even to us carnies. And a buffet that we were encouraged to enjoy and then a desert table of teeny, beautiful treats. Like one perfect raspberry atop a dollop of cream within a teeny tart. The next time a show promoter tells us that free coffee at setup is an "amenity" I'm gonna crack up.

Anyway, the show was pretty good considering it was just 3 hours long. We donated back 25% of the sales and I was happy that I could make a decent contribution to this group that raises money for pediatric hospice. Having experienced the mind-numbing, heart-stopping experience of a much loved nephew fighting cancer at the age of 6, this cause touched my heart.

So, another one down, now to get ready for the big school show that everyone swears is not your usual gym bazaar. OK, then. I'll give it all I got.

Oh, and my nephew? Lets see, I think on his last birthday he was 22. Sometimes you get a happy ending. :)

mothering, daughtering

The first Christmas show of the year is over and it was pretty OK, actually. Looks like I will be able to replace my laptop soon. :) I love Women's Gifts for it's large, spending crowds, but also for the women. Sisterhood, people, I tell you, cannot be overestimated.

There is a small benefit show Thursday and then Kenan Christmas, the show that said maybe. Boy, how I hate to be missing that one. I am very fond of the Kenan shows and when I can start and end the season there I am the happiest. But this year it looks like I will be ending elsewhere. I emailed the woman in charge, how's that alternate list looking? No cancellations yet, she wrote back. I responded that I will be sad to miss the show, but wished them a successful weekend. And I really do. She wrote back that they would miss me, also, wished they had more room. (The fact that they've had room for me several years in a row now is the unspoken "huh?") But perhaps this will make me the first alternate they think of if someone cancels. I will be ready.

But first, Mom and I to the Doctor for some plain talk next week. I have no idea what to expect. Do you operate on the gall bladder of an 87 yr old woman with a funky heart valve? She is very tired of the pain. There are so many layers to this situation, most of which I am reluctant to peel back just yet.

And then my much loved son calls with sad and startling news from way West. He has been deserted in life and business by someone he trusted. His legs are folded beneath him, his head reeling with the implications. Good-bye, see ya, you are on your own, nothing you did I am just not happy here, you'll be fine, bye.

The cafe he is so proud of, already in survival mode to deal with the off season, now in jeopardy. The beautiful house on the water likely doomed without financial help. But worst of all, the pain of being hurt this way. As if he deserved punishment. He calls me to vent and writes me emails with tear inducing comments like he wished he could put his heart in a coma for 6 months and wake up when the worst was over. He talks about a friend coming into the cafe, saying nothing, just coming behind the counter and holding him in a long, tight hug. He can't finish the story without losing his composure.

I want to hunt her down and tear her hair out. There, that felt better.

Of course, I won't do that, really don't want to. I'm sure there is pain there, too. But he needs help to work through this and so I am going out there to hang with him for a while, help out, comfort, encourage, work through all the minutia. He says just knowing I'm coming makes him feel happier, he is looking forward to it. We will have Christmas together for the first time in many years.

We have a tight bond, my boy and I, forged over years of struggle as a single Mom and her kid toughing it out and crossing the finish line happier and healthier than when they started. A bond forged in honesty and acceptance and forgiveness and challenge. And love. So much love.

If a few weeks of companionship during a trying time will help him through it, will soothe some pain, ease a burden or two, I am there. Like I am there when Mom needs help understanding her medical stuff. Like Russell is here for me when I need comfort or help or encouragement. Like Mom was here for me when I almost flunked out of college and she took the prof to task before I could stop her. Like my son was there for me when he started bringing money home at the age of 10 with a paper route and never stopped working... as a dishwasher and a lifeguard and a stock boy and a store clerk.

The wheel spins and it is my turn again. It is, in many ways, a blessing to be loved enough to be needed.

what gets in the way

I will admit to being a creative person, always have been. Not necessarily good at anything, but always trying. Trying to draw, to paint, to play the guitar, to play the piano, to write poetry, to write fiction, to write non-fiction, to sew my own clothes, to sew a duvet cover, curtains, french shades. I have tried to knit, to crochet, to make rugs with a hooky thing and loops of yarn. I tried crewel and needlepoint and counted cross stitch. I have made bracelets, earrings and necklaces. I have failed at calligraphy, sum-i and stenciling. I made Christmas trees and ornaments of calico that I stuffed with fiberfill. Not to mention the reindeer made of candy canes and pipe cleaners or the pine cones with straw flowers glued to each petal.

Basically, there is not an aisle at Joanns or MIchaels that has not felt my desperate need.

But, even with that weird sort of energy running through my veins, sometimes the well needs to be primed or something. I sputter and stall, just when I should be accelerating.

This time it has been too many hours at work, and too many hours with my Mom.

My Mom. Gonna be 87 soon, not the end these days, but the beginning of things ending. The list of what she doesn't do anymore gets longer every day. She has been well except for arthritis and a creeping dementia that makes her so hard to be with. Then her gall bladder got all wacky and we started an odyssey of Dr visits. Turns out she has a wonky heart valve that may or may not be a problem. But that's not what gets in my way.

What gets in my way is the awkward part in her hair at the back of her head, that reminds me she doesn't comb her hair much anymore. The gray pants she wears all the time, even though she has drawers full of elastic waist pants that we dutifully buy her every Christmas and birthday as requested. The odd, quilted coat she has worn for decades. The way she needs her cane and a pull from me to get out of my Beetle. The way she waits dutifully for the Doctor, her knees tight together, hands folded in her lap like a school girl.

I find my mind wandering when I try to focus on artful things. I see her and Dad dancing to the big band music they loved, Dad spinning her out and back, pulling her back to him with his hand around her waist before he spins her out again. People would stop to watch them. I see her bargaining at garage sales, wily and shrewd, winking at me as she sashays back to the car with a bargain. I see her rolling out dough to make pasta, the pin making a rhythmic slapping sound as she somehow makes the sheet of dough flip back around the pin. I'm laboring to give birth to my son, concentrating on the minutes and the effort when she pokes her head into the room and announces "I knew you'd be brave!" before she is whisked away. I see her as a young widow, weeping into the gray pinstripes of the suit she has had to choose for her husband. I see her and Dad and my Aunt and Uncle sitting around our dining room table, a pot of coffee and a plate of pastry in the center, Dad teasing his brother with a spoon hot from stirring coffee, laughter, old jokes, secrets told with the key phrases in Italian. I would watch them and long to be an adult.

And now I am an adult and my Mother has become the child in many ways. Such a cliche, but there is truth there. My brother and I, mostly my brother, watching over her, making choices for her, protecting.

I go upstairs and start to cut and paste and in the quiet of my little studio I hear Tommy Dorsey and the sound of secret laughter and it gets in the way.

stuck

I have so much to do and I am stuck. I have been working at the theater a lot and now I have some issues with my Mom perhaps needing more than a gall bladder operation. So, add Dr appointments to the list of things that keep me out of the studio. Still, no excuse.

I will be so unhappy when the shows start in 10 days and I'm not ready.

OK, tomorrow..well, today, actually since I've been up and wishing for sleep for hours.

I will visualize aisles of happy shoppers, boxes full of inventory, the new laptop I need...

Tomorrow.

I know once I start, it will flow. It's just getting up there. Aaargh!

Tomorrow.

Really.

art/business

You would think those 2 words don't relate, but they do. I have some friends who are really good at the business of art. They are able to do both without neglecting either. I have trouble with both.

Now, here's the thing. If you wander off into the art/craft world with stars in your eyes and visions of sunny festivals and gallery openings with champagne and nights spent counting pots of money you will be sorely disappointed. It rains at festivals. Galleries probably don't want you and if they do, there will be beer. Some days you may make pots of money but often you will make little.

I will admit to often hoping for the best while preparing for less. I'm working on that. But, in the interim, I need to be a business person. I get tired thinking about it. But I made a step that way recently. I'm so proud.

I sell my miniature book pins at the Historical Society Gift Shop. The lovely woman who manages the shop saw one and asked where it came from and she found me and placed an order. It has been a small, steady revenue stream for a couple of years. They were even mentioned last year in an article about Christmas shopping in unexpected places. I was tickled when the reporter quoted the cutesy narrative on the packaging (..perfect for short stories, haiku...)

So, anyway, just before we left on vacation, the manager called me and asked for more pins. I had some made but I whipped up a few more so she would have a selection and went to see her a few days later. On a whim. I grabbed the new miniature book earrings and brought them with me. She selected the pins she wanted and I took a deep breath and asked if she wanted to see the earrings. She did. (this is not easy for me for all sorts of reasons that only my imaginary therapist knows). She looked at them and looked at them and turned them this way and that and said that she wasn't sure they were right for the shop. Ouch. But, OK.

On the way out I was chatting with the woman at the reception area who adores the little books. I showed her the earrings. (Hey, why not, the blow had landed, the damage done. ) She adored them. Hmmm.

Now, in my past life, the one I was living moments before, I would have gathered my little pile of earrings and left, but something shifted and I turned back and told the woman to give 2 pairs of the earrings to Mary. "Tell her to put them out, see if they sell. No charge unless they do. If they don't, I'll pick them up next time."

This is not like me.

She took 2 pair and I started to leave, turned around and gave her one more. Then I went on vacation.

A week ago, an email from the shop. Was I home yet? They needed a dozen book pins.

And 6 pairs of earrings.

Heh.

Now, granted, anyone with a modicum of business sense is wondering what the big deal is. I'll tell you. Some of us are not blessed with the confidence and guts it takes to be a business person. Some of us like to hide in the attic with piles of paper scraps and pots of glue and glittery bits of ephemera and make stuff. Then we climb down and meekly wait for someone to like what we created. Like it enough to buy it. That was me. Deep inside, I knew what I was supposed to do.I knew I had to climb out of the pajama pants and flannel shirt and into pressed pants and a sweater or something and go out into the world. Marketing. The palms sweat.

Somehow, in the dim, ornate lobby of a museum, that business part of me woke and shifted, yawned and stretched, looked around and said "What the hell are you doing?!?". Then she settled into my psyche and started to infiltrate.

Work smarter, not harder. Sell smarter. Expand horizons. Market.

I could be on to something here.

and then it was Christmas

I'm just adjusting to Fall, to cool weather and bright colors. We left home in the Summer. I packed cropped pants and t-shirts. Came home to frost. There was no easing into the change. And now my first Christmas sale is this week. The head spins.

This week is a small gift show at Fisher Price Headquarters for their employees. Last year the show happened days after a big downsizing. Nobody felt much like buying things. All the talk was about this or that person and how they were escorted out of the building with their sad boxes of accumulated personal things. I hope this one is better. I get to hang out with one of my favorite artists, a woman who works there and runs the gift show. That, alone, makes for a nice day.

Then we start to gear up for the big ones. every 2 weeks or so until mid-December.

I'm trying not to be bummed about not getting my best show this year. I'm choosing to prepare for being called off the wait list. But, just in case, I did add a couple I normally don't do.

There is an up side to having my last show fail so miserably. I don't have to hustle around building inventory for the 1st show. It's all packed up and ready to go. Always look on the bright side, right?

I'm already thinking about next year. Some new ideas and a renewed energy around the application process. I was sloppy last year and it cost me a couple of shows I normally do.

But first, Christmas.

Ho ho ho ...

why and if and counting blessings

We art carnies have invigorating discussions about the business at every opportunity. Behind our canopies at art shows, at lunch, on email lists, in forums. Blahblahblah, we go on and on, spouting wisdoms, conjecturing, cheering each other on or, on our less honorable days, sniping at someone's work or aesthetic or work ethic.

Basically, the art show circuit is like any workplace. You got your over-achievers, your slackers, your newbies, your holier-than thous, the always tardy, the always early. You have levels of achievement and tiers of accomplishment. And labels. Many labels. Crafter. Artist. Artisan. Master. Hack. Granny crafter. Arteeest.

We get to know each other. We tell tales. We gossip. We admire. We support. We whisper. We cheer. We deride. We help or hinder as it suits our purpose. Mostly we care about each other and circle the canopies against rotten promoters, bad juries, "civilians", thieves and those who would show disrespect to any of us. One of the things that warm me the most about this way of life, in all seriousness now, is how tight the community is, how special the friendships.

Which leads me to what my musing is all about today. A friend of ours who is a fine craftsman and very very successful had the audacity to share with a forum just how much money he made at a show and that amount was pretty much more than most of us make. Someone suggested he didn't make everything he sold, but he does. And a discussion ensued about what a person had to do to make that much.

Now, this fella has been in the business for 30 years. He makes a functional craft and he does it really really well, a real craftsman, and he prices things fairly and he is accomplished at his art and at his business. Kudos.

Now, I have been fiddling around with crafty things as long as I can remember. I did my first craft show in a fire hall when I was a young mother in need of Christmas cash. I made some stuffed Christmas trees and little ornaments and made like eighty dollars and I was sooo excited. (of course back then in the stone age you could buy a house for that) I was the person at work schlepping around crafts to buy every holiday. I made things to sell at the corner store. Over the years I learned most of the basic craft techniques and sold them all. What I wanted to learn was silversmithing but never had the time or money. Then I took a break from that and did some writing for money. Entertainment pieces for meetings and conventions. I had a cast and tech and we would perform skits I had written after meeting with the different businesses to ferret out the inside jokes. They loved us. I called my company "Funny Business".

About 15 years ago I realized that if I didn't take an early retirement from my job my soul would die. Truly. I had to finance it because getting out early meant a teeny stipend. I remembered craft shows. I was working with a man who did a lot of them and was pretty successful and he steered me along.

Now this is where I finally get to where I was going.

In deciding what I wanted to craft, I wound up learning to make paper and books. I had no idea if anyone would buy them, but I was in love. I have stopped making paper, but I am still in love with books.

Let us all now ponder just where on the craft show profit chain handmade books fall. Right.

But I love books. I love their heft. I love the way the pages stack so cleanly and then ruffle. I love that people will record their days in them, take them on trips, paste in pictures and ticket stubs. A stack of them in all their colors and styles makes me smile. I have added other things made of paper. I'm not blinded by my affection. But I have made a choice.

My choice is to create a life and a product that fills me up. Why give up a pretty good, benefit-heavy government job if not to move higher, happier? Could I make more money honing a different craft? Undoubtedly. But would I be happy? Maybe. Creative work always soothes me on some level. I just know that I found my little niche. It speaks to me.

Now this may sound very corny, but I'm telling you, you have to seek this. If you do not love what you do it will matter not how much money you make in the long run. I know this now. Yes, I do have to make a certain amount of money to survive. I'm not sitting on a hilltop chanting here. I'm working. A lot.

There are realistic benefits to having a rather obscure craft. You can get better shows sometimes. You are usually the only one there with what you make. People remember you.

That's not why I chose it. Or why it chose me. I'm just glad we found each other.

contemplating...

Thud.

That is the sound of being dropped back, rudely, into real life. I have tons of laundry, a house full of dust, an order to finish by tomorrow , 3 or 4 show contracts/apps to return and I've already worked 2 days at the theater. I feel like getting back in the car!

Christmas shows are coming. I'm wait listed on my best one, but the others are all in place and a new one is there to try. A couple of small gift "events" that may or may not turn out to be worth it. And then the silence of Winter. Time for decisions.

Part of me wants to pursue other sales options like more shops and the web. Another part wants to concentrate on bringing my work to a higher level and trying for better and better shows. My experience with a couple of the "cadillac" shows has been a revelation. I want more of those. That circles me back to the quality of my work.

Most of my cohorts are at Letchworth this weekend. I wish we did well there. It is a glorious place. But every time we do it the same thing happens. I sit in my booth and watch thousands of people walk by with decorative items covered in raffia. Or, worst case scenario, black plastic garbage bags. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas decor is big. I don't do that. Last year we had the chain saw guys cranking out hundreds of tacky lawn doodads that sold as fast as they could make them. My stuff just doesn't fit. But every once n a while I sign up anyway.

So many art carnies are bemoaning the economy, but we didn't see that this year. We had horrific storms at almost all our shows and still did a little better than last year. With the tiniest break in the weather, it would have been a banner year. Unless we did Letchworth, of course. :)

I have to figure this all out.

But first, have to get those forms in the mail. And crank up the washer. Vacuum some more. Mom got some more government mail she doesn't understand so it's off to Orchard Park to help her decipher it. This is not to put Mom down. I wouldn't understand it, either, if I hadn't worked there for 23 years. I mean, really, would it kill them to send understandable forms?

Was I really away for a month? Doesn't feel like it. I need a vacation.

Home again, home again

The cats keep yelling at me. Demanding to be held, expecting an apology. Other than that, all is as it was.

Since I wasn't able to blog from the road, I'll have to do a montage of sorts. Moments, images.

The puppy was restless for the first day, didn't understand why we never got anywhere, but he settled down. Handled the mountains well, but I think the winding roads in Oregon made him a little fidgety.

The trip West is an unfolding. Lakes to fields to hills to mountains. Cities to towns to hamlets to open fields. Leafy trees to corn fields to sage to rock to evergreens that seem to touch the sky. Coming back East is like coasting down a hill and coming to rest in a cozy bank of color and life. I am tired of it now, but I will be itching to do it all again very soon. The "road" either calls to you or it doesn't. It calls to me.

Our vacation house was perfect. welcoming, cozy, felt like home immediately. We were able to put up various kids and friends for the weekend, have laughing breakfasts together and dinners with wine and pasta and more laughter. I wish I hadn't decided to do the show. It was not a good one for me and it sort of tied everyone we wanted to be with to the back of my booth. We could have had a lot more fun. The first night I was so exhausted, I hobbled upstairs and left a room full of people I wanted to be with. Never again.

My son's coffee shop in Friday Harbor is a delight. He and Cassie are doing such a great job with it. I pray the slow WInter months will not hurt their success. I was really proud of them. I wish we lived in the same place.

Coming home, the road seemed longer. We tried to drive through the night a couple of times, but breaks became whole nights spent curled under a quilt in the soft light of rest area parking lots. Note to self: resist the temptation to drive it straight through. You are too old for Spring Break marathons.

Other than that, I guess it just flashes of memory already. I'll post pictures soon and there will be stories attached. But for now, there is laundry to do, lots of vacuuming, apps due for some Christmas shows. Life slows and idles then revs up.

Vacation is over.

saying goodbye

Well, hell I hate this part. Short on time and money, projects waiting at home, product to create for the coming Christmas shows, a puppy who misses his dog park. It's time to leave for home.

But with all our kids hugging the left coast, where is home, really? It is something to ponder over the long Winter to come.

But this morning, home is a couple thousand miles away and we need to head in that direction. Friday Harbor is treating me to an incredible moonset. I have never seen this before. An enormous full moon lit the house all night and now, with the sun edging its way in, the moon is gently sliding into the sea as I watch. Still full, still bright as day, slowly slowly inching down over the water. It has kept me enthralled all morning.

So, we will hang out at Billy's cafe for a while, having his famous oatmeal for breakfast, our car and dog waiting in the ferry line, the minutes I have with my boy ticking away. I haven't been able to be with him much this time, he is so busy with his new venture. But how wonderful to watch him at work. I am so proud of what he and CAssie have accomplished.

Time to pack the car. The moon is still sliding slowly down. I wonder if there will be a sunrise competing with the sunset on different sides of the house? Anything is possible on a magical morning like this. Well, anything except for a rewind, more time.

Off to the cafe. My throat tightens thinking of it. Leaving them all behind again.

And on we go.

finally...

A computer to use. Yes, this is an addiction. If I didn't have an iPhone, I'd be in rehab.

The sad thing is that the past 2 weeks of travel and family and funny stuff and touching moments are lost to me, at least in the kind of detail the blog would have provided. Even now, looking back at the past few entries, I have already forgotten about some things-even the aspiring writer desk clerk that made such an impression on me at the time.

I blog for me, as it turns out. Could I write it in a journal? Sure, but for me, this type of free flowing musing moves too quickly to be slowed by a pen. Odd for a book artist, eh? Then again, there is that carefully worded, artful sort of writing that suits the heft and touch of a real book. The kind that sighs for an old fashioned fountain pen.

Anyway, for now, I am sharing quiet time with my son. Watching CNN, typing on the laptops. Russell is the smart one. He is on the deck, soaking in the amazing view over the water, the lights of Victoria, BC just starting to twinkle in the fading light, dark clouds with gold tips floating slow and high.

At some point next week, when I am home and rested I will try to recreate the past few weeks. But I know the way these clouds reflect the sun will be remembered mostly because I wrote it in the blog. It saddens me to think what else I will lose.

I guess I'll just be here now. What a concept. :)

Unplugged

So much to report but the
laptop died. Next week from Friday Harbor. Stay tuned.

horizons

Eastern Wyoming is infinite. The horizon is unbroken by trees or hills or civilization. You feel that if you walked to the edge you would fall off. Makes you understand why it was once thought the Earth was flat. You can watch rain storms form and fall miles away, as if it was right in front of you.



But you will drive for a hundred miles before a drop falls on your windshield. Yesterday we had a constantly changing reel of rain, clouds, lightning and rainbows. Beautiful and humbling. When we began to see the mountains that gathered around the edges, I felt a sort of relief, a loosening of muscle, as if I had been on guard. I told Russell that this part of the drive would be a nightmare for an agoraphobic.

The rains slowed us down a little bit and so we stopped just short of the Utah border, choosing a cheap, clean HoJo with a ceiling so low I could paint it on tiptoe.

We should get very close to our destination by tonight, Lord willing. Through the edges of Utah and Idaho and finally into Oregon.

So much is waiting for us there.

husker harvest days

This, apparently, is why the hotels were all booked up on a Monday night. It's all over the local news this morning. I assume it is some sort of farming convention. Russell says if we had known, I could have applied for a booth. Funny guy, huh?

Anyway, what can I say about Nebraska? They have the best rest stops in the country.



Of course, the fact that I was taking potty pictures, sort of says a lot about what there is to see along the Interstate here. I decide to try for artful potty shots :)






The people here are very nice, the sweeping farm vistas are inspiring, the number of radio preachers on the AM dial is a revelation. Pun intended.

This morning we head for Wyoming. I love this part of the trip. The roads suddenly start to rise and fall, the corn gives way to tumbleweeds, mountains appear in the distance, the locals change from John Deere caps to cowboy hats, tractors replaced by horses.

Hmm..John Deere has a jumbotron in their booth this year. The local news guy is pretty excited about it.

The front desk clerk is an aspiring writer. She has been submitting her book of "adult humor" but no takers. The rejection letters have referenced specific passages, so at least she has the comfort of knowing she was read. I wished her luck and encouraged her to persevere. Her eyes filled up. She said it is so important to her.

I want to remember her, the too blond woman in a slightly stained Holiday Inn blazer, a manuscript and her future on a card table somewhere waiting for the interview with Matt Lauer. ("Tell me, Cynthia, why adult humor?") I want to believe her courage and desire will be rewarded and she will never have to work the night shift again.

She says this hotel has the best breakfast in the country. I'm ready. Wyoming waits.

new motto

"A journey of 3000 miles begins with 12 rest stops"

Or so it seemed yesterday. We worked until late Saturday...Russell on the house, me in the studio. Sunday morning we finished loading the van, taking care of last minute details, finally hitting the road about 8.

But we were tired. Worn to the bone by the culmination of a busy Summer's work. We stopped at the first rest area...just 25 minutes down the Thruway. Coffee, tea, walk the dog. This was going to be tough.

Quincy was perplexed. We drove and drove and never got anywhere...like the dog park. He was restless and anxious. When he had to pee, he would throw himself on the driver and make odd, almost human groany sounds. He doesn't understand waiting for rest stops. And so we stopped at almost every one. Letting Q zoom, changing drivers, limping along.

Around Cleveland, I said to Russell that this might be an even longer trip than we thought.

But we are almost to Iowa today. All 3 of us rested now. Quincy was entertained most of the morning by a large mirror that came down to his level. He is very intrigued by the puppy with the same squeak toy he has in his mouth. Every so often he puts his nose to the glass and whimpers. At least he has stopped barking at it.

And so we approach the endless part of the journey. Iowa and Nebraska. Pretty places, but the scenery seldom changes. Flat. Farms. Corncorncorn. This is where I usually read aloud to Russell. The iPod transmitter seldom works here, cell phones get better every year but it's iffy.

Onward. The sun is out and it is a beautiful day for corn.

what I remember

I remember that all of a sudden the phones all started ringing on every desk. Family members, spouses. Did you hear? Turn on a radio. Sign on to CNN. Planes into skyscrapers in New York.

People wandering cubicle to cubicle, numb expressions, quizzical and edging to panic. The Pentagon. The Pentagon?? Dear God, this is real.

My phone rang again. My son in Colorado. His voice sleepy and vulnerable. Confused. He was 20-ish, grown. Accomplished, Independent. 2 time zones away. It was probably just becoming dawn over the Rockies. "Mom? What's happening? What's happening?" Mothers can feel their childrens' fear over mountains and time zones. My man child awoke to crashing planes and bewildering violence and he called me. He called Mom.

My heart squeezed with love for him, with desire to be with him, to weather this as family. comforting and reassuring each other.

Later, we talked to the rest of the families, learned that one sister was unaccounted for. A sister who sometimes worked in Building 7. All night, as we watched the buildings fall, and fall and fall again, the strange plumes of debris, oddly graceful, cascading, I saw Dorie tumbling in the smoke and ash. Head over heels, like an acrobat. Riding the wave to the ground. We finally got the call late that night that she had spent the day with a friend and had no idea the family was frantic, was actually unaware of the tragedy until a few hours before.

And finally, there were tears. Relief morphed into grief into fear into a sadness too heavy to carry.

There are so many memories of that day, those weeks. But what I will never forget, ever ...

"Mom? What's happening?"

And I had no answer.