This year, we have added several new teachers to our staff. As a result, our administration decided we should devote some time to team-building activities. Our school is the largest middle school in the area; and, consequently, we don't get many opportunities to interact with anyone other than those teachers who teach on our teams or those teachers who teach the same grade level.
To say I was a little distressed about the team-building activities would be an understatement. I am not an athletic person; nor am I an extrovert. My idea of "getting to know"other adults is sharing favorite authors or discussing timeless classics over a cup of coffee.
In a room filled with 12-year-olds, I love movement breaks and funny games. In a room filled with grown-ups, I'm the quiet one whose neck is covered with nervous blotches.
We all gathered in the gym after lunch; and I buddied up with one of my fellow language arts teachers. Like a good sport, I faced the first few activities with a nervous grin pasted on my face. It wasn't as bad as I had feared. For the first few games, we were able to choose our own partners. I felt safe in my comfort zone. Just as I was beginning to loosen up, we were instructed to find a new partner...someone we did not work with on a regular basis.
I moved frantically around the gym floor, scrambling to find a somewhat familiar face so I didn't end up the odd one out. Fortunately, Lora W., a sixth grade science teacher was jostled to the outside of the milling crowd about the same time I was. She and I high-fived (per direction from the leader) and waited silently, and awkwardly, for further instruction.
The leader pointed out two sets of cones set about four yards apart. He then began tossing all manner of objects on the floor between the cones...dog toys, foam pool noodles, various sized rubber balls, and a few items I couldn't even recognize. Next, he handed each team of two a blindfold and told us to decide who would walk through the minefield he'd just created and who would provide directions.
I ended up with the blindfold. I would be walking through the minefield. I can barely walk and chew gum at the same time.
I wondered if I should let Lora know that I would not be easy to direct. I wondered if I should tell her how clumsy I am. I wondered if we would be the last team to make it through all the obstacles.
Lora suggested that we walk around the perimeter of the minefield and get a good look at all the obstacles. Then it was time to line up at the starting cones.
I secured my blindfold, resisting the urge to leave a little space to peek out the bottom.
Lora began to guide me. She sounded calm and confident.
"Take three steps forward," she said. I took tiny, shuffling baby steps.
"Take three more," Lora encouraged.
"Wait a minute," Lora warned. "Someone just moved an obstacle."
I waited.
"Okay, move forward two steps. Now lift your right leg about knee-high and take a big step forward."
Worried that I might fall flat on my face, I swallowed my fear and stepped tall.
"Excellent!" Lora exclaimed. "You are so agile!"
Agile? I felt my cheeks turning pink beneath the bottom edge of the blindfold. Me? Agile?
"Turn 90 degrees to your right," Lora prompted. Her voice was loud and clear from the outside of the minefield. She wasn't allowed to enter the area between the cones.
I shuffled around.
"Perfect!" Lora hollered. I tuned out the other guides who were also instructing their blindfolded partners.
"Take four small steps forward. Now, you'll need to take another big step...just like last time. You can do it!"
I stepped with confidence. I was agile!
"Awesome!" Lora cheered. "We're almost through the minefield!"
I continued to follow her directions, making it to the end cones without one single misstep. I felt like an American Ninja Warrior.
I removed the blindfold, and Lora and I high-fived again.
"You did great!" she said.
"So did you," I told her. "I can't remember the last time I felt so encouraged."
It was nice to be told I was doing a good job, to receive an unexpected compliment, to make it through a series of obstacles unscathed, to have my own personal coach and cheerleader all rolled up in one.
I though to myself, "I need to REMEMBER (my one little word this year) this experience."
Sometimes I get to enjoy my comfort zone. Sometimes I need to get jostled outside my circle. Sometimes I need to coach and cheer; but sometimes I need to step into the minefield myself...so I don't forget what it feels like to try to be agile and social and confident even when I feel clumsy and quiet and insecure.
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Debris in the Middle
Great Granny and I stood on the raised walkway that connected the back porch to the car port. We watched as the brown water juggled sticks and whole limbs, their wooden fingers still clutching clumps of leaves. Occasionally, a pair of odd hubcaps clanged to the surface. Once, an old plastic Halloween bucket sloshed out of the frothy waves, its painted jack-o-lantern face grinning like a fool.
"The water's on the rise when the debris floats down the middle," Great Granny said. She called it 'deb-riss,' pronouncing the "s."
We were quiet as we watched the garish parade of flotsam rolling dead center down the North Fork.
The river never flooded Galley Street, though it climbed the banks and menaced us, jerking saplings off the side of the hill below Great Granny's house, leaving Papaw's garden covered in a layer of sludge.
"I learned how to swim in the river," Great Granny told me. "My brother threw me in and said, 'Swim or drown.' Right away, I began to drown."
"What happened, Granny?" I asked.
"Same brother who threw me in reached out a fist and grabbed my braid." She stopped and tugged my braided pigtails.
"He dragged me by the hair back to the river bank. He nearly killed me, but he saved my life. I'd be dead if not for this head of hair." She patted the thick coil of snow white hair pinned in a low bun at the nape of her neck.
I imagined the river, pulling at Great Granny's legs while her brother pulled her ponytail...a game of tug o' war, with Great Granny as the prize.
The river was our moody neighbor, lazy and handsome one day, ugly and fierce the next. He was not to be trusted, wielding the power to baptize or drown.
We watched him that day, spitting white caps. We were half disgusted and half awestruck. He churned the debris madly, yet methodically, revealing an empty milk jug, a kitchen chair with two legs missing. He waved what looked like a plastic red-checked tablecloth. He was a bullfighter, tempting us to charge.
We watched silently as our neighbor the river rolled past, showing off the trash that had become his treasure.
"The water's on the rise when the debris floats down the middle," Great Granny said. She called it 'deb-riss,' pronouncing the "s."
We were quiet as we watched the garish parade of flotsam rolling dead center down the North Fork.
The river never flooded Galley Street, though it climbed the banks and menaced us, jerking saplings off the side of the hill below Great Granny's house, leaving Papaw's garden covered in a layer of sludge.
"I learned how to swim in the river," Great Granny told me. "My brother threw me in and said, 'Swim or drown.' Right away, I began to drown."
"What happened, Granny?" I asked.
"Same brother who threw me in reached out a fist and grabbed my braid." She stopped and tugged my braided pigtails.
"He dragged me by the hair back to the river bank. He nearly killed me, but he saved my life. I'd be dead if not for this head of hair." She patted the thick coil of snow white hair pinned in a low bun at the nape of her neck.
I imagined the river, pulling at Great Granny's legs while her brother pulled her ponytail...a game of tug o' war, with Great Granny as the prize.
The river was our moody neighbor, lazy and handsome one day, ugly and fierce the next. He was not to be trusted, wielding the power to baptize or drown.
We watched him that day, spitting white caps. We were half disgusted and half awestruck. He churned the debris madly, yet methodically, revealing an empty milk jug, a kitchen chair with two legs missing. He waved what looked like a plastic red-checked tablecloth. He was a bullfighter, tempting us to charge.
We watched silently as our neighbor the river rolled past, showing off the trash that had become his treasure.
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
A Dog Fit for a Queen
Galley Street ran between the river and the road. Down the hill, the north fork of the Kentucky River snaked its way past Granny's kitchen window. Up the hill, Highway 15 curled like a ribbon around the base of the mountains.
Sometimes, the river or the road brought unexpected travelers to Galley Street. Missy was my favorite. She arrived one summer morning. Papaw and I had just finished eating scrambled eggs, and Granny was stacking our plates in a sink of soapy water.
I ran outside to check the weather. Missy was standing just outside the front door, as if she were waiting for someone to let her in.
I swallowed a squeal. Granny did not like dogs; and Missy was the most pitiful dog I'd ever seen. Her hair was mangy at best; and Granny later said we could have grown taters in her huge pointy ears. They were just that dirty.
As weak and small as she was, she managed to wag her tail. My heart broke in a million pieces.
Granny came to check on me.
I'm not sure whose eyes looked sadder, mine or Missy's.
"Who's this?" Granny asked.
"She was just standing here when I opened the door. We have to do something Granny. She needs help."
Granny looked skeptical. "She looks beyond help," she said, "but if you plan to help her, you'd better put on some gloves."
Granny went back into the kitchen and came out with some yellow rubber gloves. Missy and Granny watched as I slipped them on. They covered me from fingertips to elbows.
Missy didn't seem to mind. While I knelt beside her and petted her, Granny went in the house and brought out a biscuit left over from breakfast. Missy gobbled up the crumbs as fast as Granny could crumble.
Granny's resolve not to have a dog crumbled along with the biscuit. She decided that if the vet could help her, Missy could stay...for a while at least. On the car ride to the vet, Missy sat on a towel folded in my lap.
We came home that day with some worming medicine and a tube of cream to rub on Missy's bald patches. The vet said he thought Missy was a Welsh Corgi.
"The queen has those kinds of dogs, Granny!" I exclaimed. "She's a dog fit for a queen."
Granny liked that. Papaw named her Missy.
It took a while, but Missy grew into her ears. Her fur filled in; and her sad, soulful eyes brightened. Missy never strayed far from the yard. She played with me and the cousins, walked with Granny to and from the mailbox everyday, and guarded the kingdom of Galley Street for close to 15 years.
Sometimes, the river or the road brought unexpected travelers to Galley Street. Missy was my favorite. She arrived one summer morning. Papaw and I had just finished eating scrambled eggs, and Granny was stacking our plates in a sink of soapy water.
I ran outside to check the weather. Missy was standing just outside the front door, as if she were waiting for someone to let her in.
I swallowed a squeal. Granny did not like dogs; and Missy was the most pitiful dog I'd ever seen. Her hair was mangy at best; and Granny later said we could have grown taters in her huge pointy ears. They were just that dirty.
As weak and small as she was, she managed to wag her tail. My heart broke in a million pieces.
Granny came to check on me.
I'm not sure whose eyes looked sadder, mine or Missy's.
"Who's this?" Granny asked.
"She was just standing here when I opened the door. We have to do something Granny. She needs help."
Granny looked skeptical. "She looks beyond help," she said, "but if you plan to help her, you'd better put on some gloves."
Granny went back into the kitchen and came out with some yellow rubber gloves. Missy and Granny watched as I slipped them on. They covered me from fingertips to elbows.
Missy didn't seem to mind. While I knelt beside her and petted her, Granny went in the house and brought out a biscuit left over from breakfast. Missy gobbled up the crumbs as fast as Granny could crumble.
Granny's resolve not to have a dog crumbled along with the biscuit. She decided that if the vet could help her, Missy could stay...for a while at least. On the car ride to the vet, Missy sat on a towel folded in my lap.
We came home that day with some worming medicine and a tube of cream to rub on Missy's bald patches. The vet said he thought Missy was a Welsh Corgi.
"The queen has those kinds of dogs, Granny!" I exclaimed. "She's a dog fit for a queen."
Granny liked that. Papaw named her Missy.
It took a while, but Missy grew into her ears. Her fur filled in; and her sad, soulful eyes brightened. Missy never strayed far from the yard. She played with me and the cousins, walked with Granny to and from the mailbox everyday, and guarded the kingdom of Galley Street for close to 15 years.
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
Authors' Ears
Authors' ears
are sensitive
Quivering
at the slightest
change in tone
Sheltering
a whispered secret
or the tiniest of truths
Admiring
a turn of phrase
turned inside out
Cradling
the conversation of strangers
snatched in passing
Tuning in
to the static
of cicadas
Bringing
background noise
to center stage
are sensitive
Quivering
at the slightest
change in tone
Sheltering
a whispered secret
or the tiniest of truths
Admiring
a turn of phrase
turned inside out
Cradling
the conversation of strangers
snatched in passing
Tuning in
to the static
of cicadas
Bringing
background noise
to center stage
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
Under Surveillance
From the time my sons were newborn and two, until they were 10 and 12, we lived in a neighborhood where my sons were the only children. Elderly neighbors doted on them. It was not unusual for one of the many 80 year old grandmothers who lived across the street to call me while the children were in the front yard playing.
"Are you getting pictures of this?" they would ask. "Those boys are just adorable. Make sure you get pictures of them making that snowman..." or "playing in the sprinkler," or "riding their tricycles in the driveway..." I never needed to worry about the boys. Several gentle, keen, old eyes were always watching. Their own children and grandchildren lived far away or were simply too old to need oversight. My boys were freckle-faced reminders. They were funnier than afternoon TV, and they were more entertaining than a good book.
When the boys were 10 and 12, we moved to a larger town, into a neighborhood thick with adolescents. It seemed nearly everyone on the street had boys exactly my boys' ages. We needed more eyes to watch them all. Boys were everywhere, running through the unfenced backyards (armed with Nerf guns), wading in the creek (wearing my rain boots), riding their bikes to nowhere and everywhere (helmets dangling from their handlebars instead of on their heads). The boys made it through those years, thanks to an unnamed collective of watchful moms, dads, and neighbors, all eyes on duty.
Today, it is storming outside; and my boys, 14 and 16, have friends over. A dozen teenaged boys are slouched on the old sofas in the downstairs den, taking turns with the Xbox controls. A few are playing cards. Someone's playlist, accompanied by rumbling thunder and drumming raindrops, is the soundtrack of the day. So far, they have eaten their way through several bowls of homemade salsa, two bags of tortilla chips, several dozen Chips Ahoy cookies, a teetering mountain of barbecue sandwiches, and a crockpot full of chili con queso. My trips to the basement, bearing snacks, give me ample opportunity to make sure all is well. I take in the scene as subtly as I can, keeping an eye out for trouble, or danger, or spilled drinks on the carpet.
I think of all the watchful eyes that have looked out for my sons over the years, and I am grateful. I imagine all those eyes, peering from beneath gardening hats, looking through bay windows, watching from back porches and patios, covertly taking it all in as they gather up empty bags of chips and restock the mini fridge with cans of soda. I imagine how the eyes of so many mothers and fathers and teachers and neighbors have tracked my sons' growth and progress, cheered for their accomplishments, monitored their safety, reported their transgressions, overlooked their shortcomings, and silently applauded their good manners.
I remember our neighbors, years ago, watching my boys be boys. "Are you getting pictures of this? Those boys are just adorable." I realize now that their childhoods have played out on a stage much larger than I'd ever imagined, their fan base spanning two neighborhoods, two towns, three schools, and three churches. Their activities, antics, and accidents becoming anecdotes for all the eyes that have watched over them over the years.
"Are you getting pictures of this?" they would ask. "Those boys are just adorable. Make sure you get pictures of them making that snowman..." or "playing in the sprinkler," or "riding their tricycles in the driveway..." I never needed to worry about the boys. Several gentle, keen, old eyes were always watching. Their own children and grandchildren lived far away or were simply too old to need oversight. My boys were freckle-faced reminders. They were funnier than afternoon TV, and they were more entertaining than a good book.
When the boys were 10 and 12, we moved to a larger town, into a neighborhood thick with adolescents. It seemed nearly everyone on the street had boys exactly my boys' ages. We needed more eyes to watch them all. Boys were everywhere, running through the unfenced backyards (armed with Nerf guns), wading in the creek (wearing my rain boots), riding their bikes to nowhere and everywhere (helmets dangling from their handlebars instead of on their heads). The boys made it through those years, thanks to an unnamed collective of watchful moms, dads, and neighbors, all eyes on duty.
Today, it is storming outside; and my boys, 14 and 16, have friends over. A dozen teenaged boys are slouched on the old sofas in the downstairs den, taking turns with the Xbox controls. A few are playing cards. Someone's playlist, accompanied by rumbling thunder and drumming raindrops, is the soundtrack of the day. So far, they have eaten their way through several bowls of homemade salsa, two bags of tortilla chips, several dozen Chips Ahoy cookies, a teetering mountain of barbecue sandwiches, and a crockpot full of chili con queso. My trips to the basement, bearing snacks, give me ample opportunity to make sure all is well. I take in the scene as subtly as I can, keeping an eye out for trouble, or danger, or spilled drinks on the carpet.
I think of all the watchful eyes that have looked out for my sons over the years, and I am grateful. I imagine all those eyes, peering from beneath gardening hats, looking through bay windows, watching from back porches and patios, covertly taking it all in as they gather up empty bags of chips and restock the mini fridge with cans of soda. I imagine how the eyes of so many mothers and fathers and teachers and neighbors have tracked my sons' growth and progress, cheered for their accomplishments, monitored their safety, reported their transgressions, overlooked their shortcomings, and silently applauded their good manners.
I remember our neighbors, years ago, watching my boys be boys. "Are you getting pictures of this? Those boys are just adorable." I realize now that their childhoods have played out on a stage much larger than I'd ever imagined, their fan base spanning two neighborhoods, two towns, three schools, and three churches. Their activities, antics, and accidents becoming anecdotes for all the eyes that have watched over them over the years.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Weather Aware Day
The meteorologist,
on the news at noon,
says, "It's a day
to stay
weather aware..."
I watch from the porch.
The sky is bone white
and eerily still,
a clean sheet,
a canvas...
Ducks on the creek bank
tuck their beaks
under their wings.
A crow flies over,
silent for a change.
In the distance,
a lawnmower hums, then stops.
Someone thought better of it.
Leaves on the trees wave,
barely revealing their silver undersides.
The hot air closes like a fist,
as summer teeters
from June to July.
on the news at noon,
says, "It's a day
to stay
weather aware..."
I watch from the porch.
The sky is bone white
and eerily still,
a clean sheet,
a canvas...
Ducks on the creek bank
tuck their beaks
under their wings.
A crow flies over,
silent for a change.
In the distance,
a lawnmower hums, then stops.
Someone thought better of it.
Leaves on the trees wave,
barely revealing their silver undersides.
The hot air closes like a fist,
as summer teeters
from June to July.
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
Etsy Envy
Etsy is bad for my self-esteem. I can spend hours marveling at the sheer genius of those crafty people who can turn duct tape and bottle caps into jewelry that does not look as if it is made of duct tape and bottle caps.
"Why didn't I think of that?" I ask myself when I see people cleverly covering mason jars with inverted cupcake wrappers. They claim it keeps bugs out of the sweet tea, and it looks adorable! I have only ever used those little cupcake papers for cupcakes. For Heaven's sakes, who comes up with these fantastic ideas? How do they do it?
For as long as I can remember, I have longed to create something unique that others will want to purchase from me. Growing up on Pear Street, I spent my summers manning lemonade stands; but those long afternoons of squeezing lemons and sloshing the sweet and tangy beverage into Dixie cups did not satisfy my entrepreneurial spirit.
After trying a soft pretzel, drizzled with spicy mustard, at an amusement park, I went straight home and grabbed a bag of crispy Rold Gold pretzel twists out of the cupboard and a plastic squirt bottle of French's mustard out of the fridge. I dragged out the card table and the rusted lawn chair and set up my pretzel and mustard stand. I tried to sell each tiny twist, covered neatly in mustard, for a nickel a pretzel; but no one seemed interested. I ended up sharing the mustard-covered pretzels with my best friend who had agreed to keep me company at the pretzel stand instead of riding bikes. She was a good friend.
Burned by the food business, I ventured into art. My teachers always complimented my drawing, and I took special care to make sure all my projects were neat and creative. Perhaps I could make my fortune drawing those funny caricatures that I had seen artists creating on the spot at little booths in Gatlinburg.
I set up my card table and lawn chair and brought out a tablet of white drawing paper, a nice ink pen, and a Christmas cookie tin filled with crayons and colored pencils.
My first customer was a girl who lived down the street. She agreed to pay a quarter for a caricature of her older brother. I knew her brother well; but I suggested that she go and get him to sit for the portrait anyway. I was nervous and suddenly couldn't remember exactly what he looked like. She said he didn't want to sit still that long; so she brought me his most recent school picture instead. I worked hard on the drawing, biting my lower lip in concentration. The neighbor girl looked over my shoulder the whole time. When I handed the completed caricature to her, she shook her head and held onto her quarter.
"My brother's head is not that big," she complained. I guess she'd never been to Gatlinburg.
"It's supposed to look like that," I told her.
"You made him look like he's got a giant's head and a little body. He's not going to like it."
"Sorry," I said.
I felt defeated; but I did not let my failed caricature stand keep me down for long.
Over the years, I kept trying. In high school, I sketched out hand-lettered birthday banners. I ended up making them for free, though. I felt bad charging anyone who was nice enough to surprise a friend for his or her birthday.
In graduate school, I spent a summer sewing adult rompers from an old pattern I'd found. Even though the adult romper was not really in style, I modeled my creations that summer and actually sold one for $15 to my mother's friend.
One autumn, when my husband and I had been married for only a couple years, I actually convinced him to join me in my craftiness. The two of us repurposed logs as Stumpkins! My husband used the power saw to slice one end of the logs at an angle. We stood the logs on their flat ends, and I painted friendly scarecrow faces on their angled tops. We wrapped flannel scarves under their painted faces and topped the Stumpkins with straw hats. We set the Stumpkins next to our porch stoop and added hand-lettered welcome signs that we painted on wooden slats and wrapped around the Stumpkins with a length of wire. We sold several, stashing away our proceeds to use as extra Christmas money. It was a lot of work, and we eventually ran out of logs.The Stumpkin business was short-lived; but I still remember it as the most successful of my mostly unsuccessful crafting projects.
Oh, Etsy! Where were you when I was a kid trying to make my mark as a caricature artist? Where were you when I tried to single-handedly popularize the hand-sewn, adult jumpsuit? Where were you when I was cranking out those crazy Stumpkins? I was a fan of crafting before crafting had a fan base. When I retire, perhaps I will go back to the drawing board. Maybe then one of my crafty ideas will find its way to Etsy; but until then, I will continue to be amazed by all those crafty geniuses.
"Why didn't I think of that?" I ask myself when I see people cleverly covering mason jars with inverted cupcake wrappers. They claim it keeps bugs out of the sweet tea, and it looks adorable! I have only ever used those little cupcake papers for cupcakes. For Heaven's sakes, who comes up with these fantastic ideas? How do they do it?
For as long as I can remember, I have longed to create something unique that others will want to purchase from me. Growing up on Pear Street, I spent my summers manning lemonade stands; but those long afternoons of squeezing lemons and sloshing the sweet and tangy beverage into Dixie cups did not satisfy my entrepreneurial spirit.
After trying a soft pretzel, drizzled with spicy mustard, at an amusement park, I went straight home and grabbed a bag of crispy Rold Gold pretzel twists out of the cupboard and a plastic squirt bottle of French's mustard out of the fridge. I dragged out the card table and the rusted lawn chair and set up my pretzel and mustard stand. I tried to sell each tiny twist, covered neatly in mustard, for a nickel a pretzel; but no one seemed interested. I ended up sharing the mustard-covered pretzels with my best friend who had agreed to keep me company at the pretzel stand instead of riding bikes. She was a good friend.
Burned by the food business, I ventured into art. My teachers always complimented my drawing, and I took special care to make sure all my projects were neat and creative. Perhaps I could make my fortune drawing those funny caricatures that I had seen artists creating on the spot at little booths in Gatlinburg.
I set up my card table and lawn chair and brought out a tablet of white drawing paper, a nice ink pen, and a Christmas cookie tin filled with crayons and colored pencils.
My first customer was a girl who lived down the street. She agreed to pay a quarter for a caricature of her older brother. I knew her brother well; but I suggested that she go and get him to sit for the portrait anyway. I was nervous and suddenly couldn't remember exactly what he looked like. She said he didn't want to sit still that long; so she brought me his most recent school picture instead. I worked hard on the drawing, biting my lower lip in concentration. The neighbor girl looked over my shoulder the whole time. When I handed the completed caricature to her, she shook her head and held onto her quarter.
"My brother's head is not that big," she complained. I guess she'd never been to Gatlinburg.
"It's supposed to look like that," I told her.
"You made him look like he's got a giant's head and a little body. He's not going to like it."
"Sorry," I said.
I felt defeated; but I did not let my failed caricature stand keep me down for long.
Over the years, I kept trying. In high school, I sketched out hand-lettered birthday banners. I ended up making them for free, though. I felt bad charging anyone who was nice enough to surprise a friend for his or her birthday.
In graduate school, I spent a summer sewing adult rompers from an old pattern I'd found. Even though the adult romper was not really in style, I modeled my creations that summer and actually sold one for $15 to my mother's friend.
One autumn, when my husband and I had been married for only a couple years, I actually convinced him to join me in my craftiness. The two of us repurposed logs as Stumpkins! My husband used the power saw to slice one end of the logs at an angle. We stood the logs on their flat ends, and I painted friendly scarecrow faces on their angled tops. We wrapped flannel scarves under their painted faces and topped the Stumpkins with straw hats. We set the Stumpkins next to our porch stoop and added hand-lettered welcome signs that we painted on wooden slats and wrapped around the Stumpkins with a length of wire. We sold several, stashing away our proceeds to use as extra Christmas money. It was a lot of work, and we eventually ran out of logs.The Stumpkin business was short-lived; but I still remember it as the most successful of my mostly unsuccessful crafting projects.
Oh, Etsy! Where were you when I was a kid trying to make my mark as a caricature artist? Where were you when I tried to single-handedly popularize the hand-sewn, adult jumpsuit? Where were you when I was cranking out those crazy Stumpkins? I was a fan of crafting before crafting had a fan base. When I retire, perhaps I will go back to the drawing board. Maybe then one of my crafty ideas will find its way to Etsy; but until then, I will continue to be amazed by all those crafty geniuses.
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