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Sunday, July 5, 2015

Two old weavers meet the new generation, going to the fair (With apologies to Mother Goose and Simple Simon)


Life has been in the way the last month, and I never reported on the debut of my square at the P Flea, the first weekend of June. It was a good day with satisfactory sales for an inaugural event. Taking every advantage we could, Linda and I and two strong young women unloaded the entire booth—set up and contents—into my office the night before.


Unloading the night before the June Flea
Linda left her van far, far away the morning of the Flea, and I, anxious nothing go wrong, had us on the site at 7 am. Of course Emily and Laura had us set up by 8 am, and we toured the other vendors and generally twiddled our thumbs until 10 am opening.







Linda sold some stuff, I sold some stuff. Linda decided she wanted to return for the Flea yesterday, first Saturday in July. I told her it would be an even better day than the previous month, for the reason the world renown Boston Mills ArtFest was on, too.

In Linda's "real booth" all the area behind me is shelves of rugs!
She’s been in the business long enough to be skeptical of that remark, but as the road super explained when he stopped by for a look, “there is only one way to get to Boston Mills and it is right through town. The traffic creeps along, turns the corner, sees the tents, smells the brats and hamburgers and pulls right into our drive.” It took him five traffic light changes to get past the one light.

Linda did her usual business, including one gentleman who came back to be sure Linda could also do special orders for “the kids’ apartments in the city.” I took nothing this time; the previous Flea convinced me I no longer have the stamina to put in a day on the sales floor, while never lifting a finger to set up or tear down.

Before the first Flea, wanting to understand modern credit devices, I called an old friend who manages a gallery that holds quarterly events. Pop-up’s, these youngsters call them. She really wanted my “stuff” for a gallery she is opening in the old Wood Store, which I have mentioned from time to time. It currently is under renovation. She hoped for an opening this past weekend, but the work is proceeding slowly. Grrr….

The opening will be end of this month. I am sorry she could not dovetail with Boston Mills; I know from twenty five years ago what a lucrative weekend it is. However, I am pleased to be part of her new effort. I have sold at various galleries in the Wood Store since 1990; it is a good location and a good venue, and my sole obligation is to take things in, ready to sell. What more could a weaver ask for.




I signed us up for one more Flea this year, the first Saturday in September. I know from experience that is a good weekend in town, too. Emily and Laura will set Linda up and tear her down, I’ll keep her company, and tell customers they need to take a peek at the new River Light Gallery in the old Wood Store.



Wednesday, July 1, 2015

A non-fatal overdose of superlative


When I came to work this morning the road super had a big ole knife on his desk,


Watermelons on the lunch table,


And a picnic in the road garage.


The firemen brought the tanker,


and the squad.


They came on the train, then their buses brought them up the hill to the road garage.


The super poured drinks.


And now, if you're afraid of overdosing, look away.


Five years old.


Good little eaters.




Trash on the left, recycle on the right.


The fire engine, the fire engine!


Everyone hit the mud puddle on the way.


And I mean everyone!


The universal "form a line." Works every time.




I wonder if Mr. Blue Shoes is left handed?


Big step.


Then they went up to the museum, and went back down the hill to catch the train back.



Tuesday, June 30, 2015

A good week and it's only Tuesday

I've mentioned from time to time how inbred is my valley; these folks live here generation on end, and the Hatfields and McCoys have nothing on how long a grudge can be nursed. So, long story short, one fellow got mad at another and made a public record request for what amounted to seven hundred pages of personnel records and time records on a fishing expedition to prove who knows what. I hoped our legal counsel would tell me I could say it was too broad, but he tapped his finger on the letterhead of a very high power, big city attorney and said give them everything.

Now my artificial hip has been bothering me for the last several months, not to mention a back that does not tolerate standing, so I wasn't too happy. However, what's good for the goose is good for the gander or somesuch; I did file a FOIA in March against the federal government for wage information, got it (in May!), and have used it to my ends, so karma says return the favor. I enlisted two young women I know to tote boxes from storage and we set to yesterday.

Laura had box lifting and staple pulling duty, Emily ran the copier and I stood and restapled my copies back together. The high power fisherman get their 3" of paper loose; better hope they don't drop it on the way out the door. Now, that is petty (of me).

But a long day of standing and stapling and walking papers back to Laura to refile and heave on a shelf and I was barely walking. Thank goodness my long ago scheduled appointment with the orthopedist was today. I was convinced he would tell me a tune up was needed and I was working out why I couldn't see him again until after I go to Ann's later this month.

As I sat in the waiting room an extra hour waiting for the appointment I walked a friend through turning the heel of her first sock. I'm so proud of her, and she's so pleased with herself. Then off to x-ray my thirteen year old fake hip, and see the doctor I haven't seen in almost that long. He's getting so grey. My hip is perfect; I had a bursa. Son of a gun. A shot of cortisone dead center in the little bastid and I was out the door.

I went to pick up Emily from her sketching class with Mrs. P, and the thirty five steps to her studio were not daunting tonight! Here's what Emily is up to:



I said "Oh, look, prickly pears."
Shame on me; they're bing cherries.


But there's a story with her other sketch tonight. A couple of weekends ago she helped Linda at a show in Columbus. A man stopped in the booth, indicated he was deaf and said he was asking for donations for a baseball team for deaf young men. Emily said he did not speak as well as my niece, who is deaf, but she got the gist of it. She answered back in sign language, and they had a little conversation. 

He was surprised and pleased she knew enough sign to get by, plus the alphabet, to spell what she couldn't say, and will study it another year in high school. I am so pleased I told her to look into sign for the rest of her foreign language requirement and that the high school both offers it and counts it toward foreign language credits.




Emily and Mrs. P discussing how a hand looks.