Amish furniture

I had an opportunity this past weekend to wander a bit in one of my favorite types of showrooms. I found the Amish Furniture Gallery on University Boulevard in Littleton, just north of County Line Road. I’m always amazed at how deeply affected I am by the beauty of this craftsmanship. I steep myself in the rich brown tones of the wood, the slick-smooth finish of the table tops, the solid, simple lines of Shaker and Mission styles, along with soundless solid wood gliders with upholstered seats. There were a good number of more contemporary angles and undulating table sides and chair backs, too, with intricate slats, ladders, and cross pieces. And when the creators combine two richly toned types of wood, I can only sigh. Such elegant, practical works of art.

This particular store had an array of Quoitzel art glass lamps as well, and the making of glass panels has been a strong love of mine at points in the past 16 years. Yes, it’s been many moons now since I’ve found the time, but oh – what a balm it was to see so many in one place. One that particularly caught my eye was the most simply designed – it was built with thin trapezoidal pieces in various veiny shades of natural jade.

My brief wander through the store (Did I trace my steps a couple of times to try a different chair or look again at the name of a table style, pull open a drawer just to sense its smooth slide on perfectly-placed track hardware? I most certainly did!) was like a mini-vacation, inspiring, and restful. My natural assumption was that my own creative output in my current routine would be multiplied one hundredfold if I could surround myself with such creations. Yes, I’m almost certain it would.

As I walked away from the store in the cold, though, I wondered something else. Obviously, this kind of artistry calms and rejuvenates me, makes me wish I “could make something as beautiful.” Whether it be two-dimensional art, an essay, or another panel of glass work in my own basement shop. I insist that full-time “regular” work and family obligations keep me from the attempt of such things; where’s the time? However, the real barrier to my own attempts could be the fact that I believe that what I might accomplish in the time I have would most certainly be inferior to these specimens of crafted artistry. My guess is that the folks who conceive and built and finish these pieces aren't part-timers. But, is my failure to even attempt it because I believe the result can’t be exquisite?

Therein lies my dilemma. How many of us hold ourselves back from whatever would bring us a deep, satisfying joy with that kind of reasoning? I’m among them, minority or not…

I’m most grateful, though, that the artisans who spend glorious days shaping trees into hands-on works of household art have found a way to do just. The rest of us – slackers – can benefit. May these dear Amish artisans live many long and productive days and enjoy quiet evenings with their feet up and the satisfaction of a job well – marvel-ously – done.

I left a note about that...

A couple of young friends checked in on the cats while the fam and I were away this weekend. I left a note about water, food, and the disposal of output. These are great kids and always happy to be helpful around the house and in the yard in warmer seasons.

The cats were fine, no issues there. One scooper was left in the middle of one of the two litter boxes. Okay, no big deal -- they had second location if that little hurdle threw them off. But one tiny issue caused a sudden sensory overload as I started to unpack my suitcase...here's how our conversation went when these dear little friends showed up shortly after our return...

I entered the kitchen with my bathroom trash can in tow. "Hi guys! Thanks for keeping the cats safe this weekend!"

"You're welcome!"

I lifted the trash can. "Do you want to smell the trash from my bathroom?"

(pause, glance) "NO!"

"Why is there cat poop in this trash can? Did you see the note?"

One said, "We didn't see that note until the second day."

I said, "So after you saw the note, why didn't you take the poop outside?"

They just shrugged and grinned.

I handed it over and said, "Now would be a good time."

Two said, "She was the one who..."

And I said, "I'm thinking there's probably a second trash can you can carry?"

Out they went through the back door. (Still smiling, I think?)

Payment was fulfilled, as was a lesson learned, I trust.

I'm thinking happy thoughts that it was just a three-day weekend.

Flash Cards

Life moves too fast most of the time, and as I get older, it's speeding. How many thousands of times have I heard "old" people tell me that would happen? I know I probably just chuckled to myself and thought 'how pathetic, to fall into that old cliche!' But guess what, there are many hours when my conscious can't keep up with what (or who) is right in front of me. One prime example was pointed out to me before breakfast this morning. Middle kid came downstairs, evidently after having had a little interchange with my spouse's current level of consciousness.

"Mom, Dad and I are having a flash card session tonight. You have to join."

"What kind? Do I have to study math?"

"No, I'm planning to make a pile of photo flash cards with pictures of me and my sisters on them." Her hands illustrated the depth of said "pile"... It was about 14 inches thick.

"Your pictures?"

"Exactly. I will lift them one at a time and you tell me whose picture you see. You and Dad have NO excuse for calling us by the wrong names! You seriously need to practice."

Maybe so. But I drove her crazy until she left for middle school by calling her name over and over and over and over again as she went back and forth through the kitchen gathering her stuff. And I got it right every time!

Planting ...

One sunny afternoon last summer, my youngest and I were enjoying some freshly shaved roast beef sandwiches in the van with the side doors wide open. A young woman came across the parking lot from the credit union, pushing a stroller. It was a double stroller with both seats occupied by little ones, and two older boys walked beside. My first glance made me wonder – wow, she’s young to have four kids. Maybe she’s a nanny, or a family friend just out with the kids. A glance at her face showed fatigue, no emotion. One of those days? Or longer than a day? I dug a little deeper in wonder: Trying hard not to be negative, so saying nothing?

She took the stroller across a strip of grass, just to the left of a line of newly planted shrubs, bumping over the mulch, toward a sidewalk. The older boy came along after her to the right, oddly, I thought, as he was aligned with the closest of the small bushes. Tromp. One foot went right to the center of the young plant. One solid crunch, and on he went. In the fleeting instant that followed, as I was baffled by his evident need to be musher of the universe, the younger walking boy backed up from where he had already passed in the wake of the stroller, and made a forceful effort to align himself in his older brother’s footsteps. Literally. He didn’t have the height or clearance of the older boy, so he took two forceful steps through the plant, sending its little branches splaying to either side with ugly bounces. There was a clearer path to the left, or even a narrower one to the right, for that matter, but these boys chose the tough way through the little green leaves.

It had all happened so fast, I wasn’t sure if my own child had seen what I had seen in those few short seconds. We looked at each other. “Did you see that?” I asked. She had. “Why did they step on the plant, Mom?”

I recalled the woman’s face. I saw the blueness of the sky and recalled the tiny flash of joy that fragile greenness brings to me. To so many people.

“I have no idea,” I said, “but it makes me so sad.”