On our recent road trip, we had the good fortune wander into Joel Rayburn's establishment, GlassBoy Studios and Tourist Trap Tees, in Arcadia, Oklahoma. I was so captivated by Joel's stories and enthusiasm, I wanted to share more about his projects with you. Joel fell in love with the stories and signs of Route 66 after moving from Tennessee to Oklahoma in 2007. To share his passion, he created a collection of T-shirts and hand-out cards memorializing some of the Mother Road's most enduring legends and legendary tourist traps. After serving an apprenticeship with neon artist David Rivers, Rayburn now practices the craft in his own studio, recreating vintage signs from the highway's heyday. Come along with me for a visit with Joel. How did your interest in Route 66 begin, and what keeps it going? I really kinda stumbled upon Route 66. I had heard about Route 66 all my life, but was never just drawn to it. After moving to Oklahoma City from Philadelphia, I spent the weekends just investigating the surrounding area and taking weekend road trips. Route 66 happened to be five blocks from my home, and I thought I would see how far I could get on it going west. Needless to say, I was hooked from that first day on the Route. I believe it reminds me of the road trips that I used to take with my parents as a kid. My parents were always seeing new things and taking really long road trips in the 60s and 70s. The Route just transported me in time to a place that held a lot of comfort for me. The last road trip that I was to take with my parents was on Route 66. Pretty fitting, seeing that my future is now with the Route. When did you begin collecting stories about Route 66, and why? Where do you see this project going? I seem to have been privileged to be surrounded by some of the Route’s great artists, historians and road archaeologists. They all seem to have their little areas that fascinate them, and my area seems to center around the weird and unusual. I love collecting stories that lie deep under the pavement of the Route. It’s fun to hang out with Jim Ross, Shellee Graham and Jerry and Kathy Anderson and introduce them to a weird story about the Route that they have never heard of. It’s like “Stump The Route Royalty!” Right now we just use the stories as inspiration for our Tourist Trap Tees business. We have knocked around compiling all the stories one day into print, but we are just having fun sharing these new unearthed stories with our guests. How do you hope these stories will appeal to younger generations? Why is this important? I am a child at heart and grew up watching "In Search Of . . . " with Leonard Nimoy. There is something in a kid that is fascinated about the unknown or the unusual. Most people think that my maturity level is equal to that of the younger generations. The stories seem to ignite that sense of wonder and adventure within me, and I believe that thread runs through all generations. GlassBoy Studios is really geared toward the young and younger generations. If you visit the studio, you will understand. I want to catch the imaginations of the young so that we can have the assurance that the Route will survive through their interest. Do you have a favorite Route 66 story? I think the Apache Death Cave story out of Two Guns, Arizona. "Two Guns, Arizona began and ended as a tourist stop where Route 66 crosses Canyon Diablo west of Winslow. It is also the site of an Indian battle that was later fully exploited by the site’s operators and ultimately became part of the highway’s lore. "As the story goes, in 1878, Navajo settlements in north central Arizona became prey to Apache raiders from the south, who would attack and then inexplicably disappear. After one such raid, their hideout in Canyon Diablo, a cave, was discovered by a Navajo scout. After surrounding the cave, the Navajos built a raging fire at the narrow entrance, which was kept blazing throughout the night. In desperation, the doomed Apaches killed and stacked their horses next to the opening in hopes of blocking the smoke, but by morning all forty-two of the raiders were dead from asphyxiation." "Following the massacre, the Apache raids ceased. Thereafter, Navajos warned pioneers that the land there was cursed, and it is said that those who camped along Canyon Diablo often reported hearing eerie groans and the death chants of dying Apaches carried on the breeze drifting through the canyon." On Facebook recently, you mentioned that with visitors from Ireland, the UK, New Zealand, Spain, the Netherlands, Australia, Switzerland and Scotland, "the world came through the door today." What draws international visitors to Route 66? What are they most interested in and enthusiastic about? Our visitors from other nations are actually more drawn to the Route than Americans. I guess it could be the “Backyard Syndrome!” Route 66 is what true Americana is to the rest of the world. I believe through movies, the draw of the west, and music--our visitors have this wild adventurous road that they just have to experience for themselves. I think they are interested to see true Americana. They want to experience that "Andy Griffith Show” feel of America. Do you see yourself as an ambassador for Route 66? I just love people. I guess if you see a host as an ambassador, then yes. I want people walking out of my shop with dreams and yearning for that spark that Saturday mornings used to bring to us as kids. I’m really more about the people than the business. I know that may sound weird, but money can’t buy how people on the Route make me feel, and I hope it is reciprocated. Tell me more about your work with neon – how you got started with that and how the work ties in with Route 66. It all really started the first couple of times I drove the Route out west. When I saw the Skyliner Motel sign in Stroud, Oklahoma, I knew I wanted to learn how to make signs the way they used to make them after WWII when the Route was jumping. It was quite a change from my previous work as a church youth director! How long have you had the shop in Arcadia, and what's ahead for it? We celebrated our one-year anniversary at GlassBoy Studios on September 1st. Well, the first six months were spent remodeling! We will be constantly changing and morphing to make our stop a true must on the Route trip. I really just want to encourage people to have one heck of an adventure on America’s most famous road!
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On last month's road trip, Ray and I spent a couple of days in Hannibal, Missouri, boyhood home of Mark Twain and inspiration for many of his stories. The visit not only got me thinking about hometowns, but also gave us a concentrated dose of Twainisms. Since our return, I've unearthed a few more to share with you. (I also learned that many quotes attributed to Twain were actually spoken or written by someone else. I've tried my best to verify the ones I'm including here, relying on twainquotes.com‚ a site created by Twain House friend Barbara Schmidt. So I do hope they're all authentic.) As a bonus, I'll throw in some photos of Hannibal, MO at the end. Nothing so needs reforming as other people’s habits. Always do right; this will gratify some people and astonish the rest. Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime. Grief can take care of itself, but to get full value of a joy you must have somebody to divide it with. The calamity that comes is never the one we had prepared ourselves for. When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained. In America, we hurry--which is well; but when the day's work is done, we go on thinking of losses and gains, we plan for the morrow, we even carry our business cares to bed with us, and toss and worry over them when we ought to be restoring our racked bodies and brains with sleep. We burn up our energies with these excitements, and either die early or drop into a lean and mean old age at a time of life which they call a man's prime in Europe. When an acre of ground has produced long and well, we let it lie fallow and rest for a season; we take no man clear across the continent in the same coach he started in--the coach is stabled somewhere on the plains and its heated machinery allowed to cool for a few days; when a razor has seen long service and refuses to hold an edge, the barber lays it away for a few weeks, and the edge comes back of its own accord. We bestow thoughtful care upon inanimate objects, but none upon ourselves. What a robust people, what a nation of thinkers we might be, if we would only lay ourselves on the shelf occasionally and renew our edges! Diligence is a good thing, but taking things easy is much more--restful. Honor is a harder master than the law. We do not deal much in facts when we are contemplating ourselves. All good things arrive unto them that wait--and don’t die in the meantime. When we think of friends, and call their faces out of the shadows, and their voices out of the echoes that faint along the corridors of memory, and do it without knowing why save that we love to do it, we content ourselves that that friendship is a Reality, and not a Fancy--that it is builded upon a rock, and not upon the sands that dissolve away with the ebbing tides and carry their monuments with them. "Are you excited to be going home?" Ray asked. I had to stop and think for a moment about how to answer. We were nearing my hometown in Oklahoma, and while I looked forward to the time we'd spend there, it was the word "home" that tripped me up. I left that town nearly fifty years ago; it's been a long time since I've thought of it as home. My parents are long dead. The house I grew up in has passed through many owners. Homes and lawns have replaced the woods and orchard where I once played. And yet Stillwater, Oklahoma, the place where my story began, is still something to me. During the four days we spent there recently, I kept returning in my mind to Ray's question, thinking about what "home" does mean to me, where my home is—after living in nine cities or towns in five states and one territory—and where my town of origin fits into the picture. The questions were even more sharply drawn, because we'd just visited another town I once called home: Lawrence, Kansas, where I lived for six years while attending graduate school. Though I knew at the time Lawrence wouldn't be my permanent home, I literally put down roots, planting a big garden and filling my backyard and window boxes with flowers. From my pretty little Cape Cod on a leafy street, I could walk to campus and to the Co-op to buy tempeh-burgers and cheese. I got to know my neighbors—a mix of students, working couples and a trio of elder women who spent summer evenings sitting in lawn chairs on Mrs. Wingert's driveway, discussing the events of the day and of their long lives. While classes, research and teaching consumed most of my days, my cohorts and I found plenty of time for concerts, art exhibits, midnight movies, two-stepping and Western swing at a local dance hall, and some of the most imaginative and all-out fun parties I've ever been to. I threw parties, too, and cooked impromptu dinners for friends. Life in Lawrence was rich, I was connected to a community and busy with fulfilling work and play. I felt at home. So when Ray and I passed through the town on our way to Oklahoma last month, I was excited about that homecoming, having been back only once or twice since I moved away thirty years ago. It didn't take long, though, for me to realize the Lawrence of today is not the place where my memories reside, even though some of my old haunts are unchanged or at least recognizable. The unique combination of people, places and pastimes that once made Lawrence feel like my home has morphed into something equally interesting and appealing but foreign to me. What, then, of my hometown Stillwater, which certainly has changed at least as much in forty-seven years as Lawrence has in thirty-three? Would I find anything there that spoke to me of home and belonging? On the way into town, Ray asked if I wanted to drive by my family's old house. I didn't—not yet. I knew from previous visits that the split-level my parents meticulously decorated and cared for had fallen into disrepair, the brick retaining walls crumbling, the flower beds filled with weeds. Seeing it would only remind me of what is no more, not what remains. So we drove on. Passing through town, I caught glimpses of memory-triggering landmarks: a rock stairway I used to climb on my walk home from school, the hill where my brother took me sledding. Hints of the person I used to be and the people and events that shaped me. Still, though, no sense of being home. Then, a few days into our stay, we visited my cousin Margaret and her husband Joe at their home overlooking Boomer Lake. Built by Margaret's parents—my Aunt Opal and Uncle A.J.—in 1961, it's the house where my cousins spent their teen years and our families shared special occasions and everyday get-togethers. As I toured the house with Margaret, I quickly realized it's no mere storehouse of remnants from the distant past. Yes, there are family heirlooms and framed pictures of grandparents and parents, but there are also photos of Margaret and Joe's children and grandchildren and a cozy nook where Margaret now works on her writing projects. Margaret and Joe's home is a vital, evolving place that not only reflects their past, but also supports the life they're living now. Seeing that, I began to think differently about my hometown, a train of thought that continued as we left their house and went to dinner at a trendy restaurant in what was once the department store where I bought my first bra. The old Katz store is barely recognizable now, and after spending an enjoyable evening talking writing with Margaret over spinach salads, I didn't wish it any other way. My hometown doesn't need to stay the same, I concluded. It just needs to contain bits and pieces to remind me of its place in my history. And if it I can enjoy and appreciate it for what it's become, just as I appreciate family members and old friends as they are now, my connection to it deepens. My musings on home took another turn later that week, when I realized the place in Stillwater that feels most like home to me is a place I never lived. This dawned on me as we celebrated a young family member's birthday at Brentwood condominium complex, where my sister-in-law lives. The condo Joy lives in is the one my father bought when he downsized and lived in for the rest of his life. It's the place I came "home" to when I visited my dad in his later years, and the place I brought Ray to when he first visited Stillwater with me. After my dad died and my brother and sister-in-law moved into the condo, Brentwood became the center for family weddings, graduation parties, birthday and holiday celebrations. It's the place Ray chose for our wedding nineteen years ago. When we returned from our travels, I thought again about Ray's question—about how it felt to visit Stillwater and how it felt to come back to our home in the woods, to the community where we feel connected and content, where we're making memories and living fulfilling lives. Finally, I had an answer. "Yes, it was good to go home, and now it's good to be home." And now, a question for you: How do you define home, and where do you feel most at home? Two thousand five hundred eighty nine miles. That's the ground we covered on our recent road trip. And what a lot we packed into those miles! We stood among giants; we heard legends of the road and tales of travelers who'd come before us; we revisited old haunts, finding some unchanged and some transformed in creative ways; we rejoiced over a young couple's marriage, celebrated a special teenager's birthday, succumbed to a zippy one-year-old's charms and reconnected with family members we see far too seldom. Through it all, we somehow managed to feel unhurried and to savor every moment (and quite a lot of road food). We experienced far too much to relate in one blog post (so be prepared for a few installments), but I'll hit some of the highlights here. Planning the trip, I realized the location of the wedding we were attending was near several old Route 66 attractions, and I added those to our itinerary. I've been fascinated with Route 66 nearly my whole life—from childhood trips with my parents, to the 1960s TV series with Martin Milner and George Maharis roaming the country in their Corvette, to the resurgence of interest sparked by Michael Wallis's 1990 book, Route 66: The Mother Road. Once we got on the road, we discovered our route paralleled many more stretches of old Route 66, all with their own attractions, so of course we had to hit as many of those as time and interest allowed. An early stop was the Illinois Route 66 Hall of Fame & Museum in Pontiac, Illinois. In addition to admiring artifacts, we learned about the travels of artist and Route 66 enthusiast Bob Waldmire, whose 1972 VW Microbus and school bus "land yacht" are displayed there. The VW bus was the inspiration for the character "Fillmore" from the 2006 animated motion picture Cars. (This was the first of several Cars character inspirations we encountered on the trip). Farther down the road, we toured motorcycle museums and car collections, visited old gas stations—some restored, some abandoned—and took in other longstanding points of interest. It was heartening to see how many landmarks have been preserved or restored in my home state of Oklahoma: Rock Café in Stroud (whose owner, Dawn Welch, was the inspiration for the Cars character Sally Carrera), Lincoln Motel in Chandler, the Arcadia Round Barn, the Blue Whale in Catoosa, and Ed Galloway's Totem Pole Park in Foyil. A fair number of new attractions have sprung up along the old route, too, complete with typical Route 66 oversized objects to lure tourists in. Even though I gave up soft drinks years ago, I couldn't resist a photo stop at Pops Soda Ranch, with its giant pop bottle out front and its offerings of more than 700 varieties of soda, many colorfully displayed on shelves in floor-to-ceiling windows. Speaking of large, I also had to seek out a number of so-called Muffler Men—fiberglass giants created in the 1960s and '70s as attention-getters for businesses such as muffler shops and drive-in restaurants. On this trip, we saw the Lauterbach Giant (who was decapitated by a 2006 tornado but recapitated once his head was found about a block away), a Harley Guy, a pedicured Beach Guy, a Hot Dog Giant, and my favorite, the spooky spaceman Gemini Giant. Lotsa big guys. Impressive as they were, though, it wasn't the giant people I'll remember most from this vacation. It was the real people. I loved spending time with my sister-in-law, my nephews and their families and some of the cousins I grew up with. Not only did we share memories, but we also deepened our relationships by learning new things about one another. New acquaintances from the trip made lasting impressions, too. In Arcadia, Oklahoma, we wandered into an interesting-looking old building that now houses GlassBoy studios and Tourist Trap Tees. That's where we met Joel Rayburn, neon artist and Route 66 enthusiast. You'll hear more in a future blog post about Joel and his endeavors, so for now I'll just say I was excited to hear his thoughts about getting younger generations interested in Route 66 by preserving some of the highway's most intriguing stories and legends. On our way back to Michigan, we stopped to take pictures at Devil's Elbow on a stretch of old Route 66 in Missouri. Ray struck up a conversation with two couples from the UK who were touring the old highway by motorcycle on their way to New Mexico, where one couple was to be married. What a memorable trip that will be! As the four rode off across the old steel truss bridge that crosses the Big Piney River, another motorcycling couple came up to talk. It turned out they were from France, and they were fascinated with our pickup truck. Such vehicles are rare in their country, they said. Also rare in France: friendly strangers, the man said. "It is so easy to talk to people in America," he said. "In our country, you have to be introduced. People do not talk if they do not know each other." Eager to support his observation, we chatted for some time about motorcycles, trucks and travel. Then he made one more remark that, for me, summed up our road experience as well. "This country has many beautiful landscapes," he said, "but the best thing is the people."
As a kid, I never heard anyone talk about road trips. The trips my family took were just "trips." It was a given that we'd be traveling by automobile, except for the rare occasions when we used the rail passes my physician dad earned by caring for the families of Santa Fe Railroad employees. But now when I hear "road trip," the term conjures up all the wonder and mystery of those childhood excursions. I'm sure my parents planned routes, destinations and sight-seeing stops along the way, but I just hopped into the backseat—aware only in the vaguest sense of where we were going—and waited to see what would unfold. Now I'm the one doing the planning, but I still like to leave plenty of room—and plenty of time--for mystery and discovery. That's why you won't be hearing from me for a few weeks. Ray and I will be heading off on a road trip, not quite sure yet when we're leaving, when we're returning or exactly what we'll do, other than visit some relatives and attend a family wedding. When we decided to allow a little extra time for this expedition, my mind began roaming to past trips and some of the unusual sights we've seen, some by design, some by accident. On our first trip as a couple—a swing through Northern California in the early '90s—we spent a good bit of time searching San Francisco for a wave-activated acoustic sculpture called the Wave Organ, a quest that turned out to be far more interesting than the organ itself. I'd read about the environmental instrument—the creation of two Exploratorium artists in residence—and imagined spooky, whale-like sounds echoing over the shore. A can't-miss destination for sure. But this was in the days before easy internet look-ups, and though my Bay Area friends had all heard of the Wave Organ, no one knew quite where it was. One finally ventured that it might be somewhere in the Marina District, so we headed in that direction, stopped strangers on the street (none of whom knew where it was either, even when we were getting warm) and listened for those eerie sounds. After much searching, we found a tiny sign: WAVE ORGAN, with an arrow pointing toward a jetty that extended into San Francisco Bay. (The words on the sign had been graffitied into a suggestive remark involving "Simon Says," and the arrow into a crude illustration, in case readers didn't get the joke.) We had a laugh, snapped a picture of the sign and hurried on, still wondering why we weren't hearing anything. It was because there was nothing to hear. Not unless you crouched or lay on the ground and put your ear right next to one of the sound-transmitting tubes. Then you heard a surfy sound something like you'd hear if you put a seashell up to your ear. Whoop-dee-do. But you know what? We created such hilarity taking pictures of each other squatting or sprawled out on our sides, cupping our ears, it didn't matter that what we heard was less than marvelous.
And my excitement compounded that evening when we checked into our motel and there, in the parking lot, was the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile. What's more, we passed a French's mustard factory in Springfield, Missouri the very next day. Sadly, there was no enormous mustard bottle out front. However, we took a different route on our way back to Michigan and passed a farm silo decorated like an oversized Coca Cola can in Kansas, so my happy meal was complete. Then there was the time we were driving through Nevada on our way to meet friends in Lake Tahoe. In one otherwise forgettable stretch of I-80, we caught a glimpse of an assemblage of concrete and junk that begged to be explored. At least it begged me to explore it, and Ray knew me well enough by then to find the nearest turnaround and head back. The conglomeration turned out to be Thunder Mountain, the work of one Frank Van Zant. Car windshields, old TV screens, typewriters, colorful bottles and a wild assortment of other items were set into the concrete walls of a rambling, three-story structure, and foreboding concrete sculptures guarded the grounds. Now, that was spooky (especially since we were the only visitors at the deserted site). It always seems to be mid-day and at least 90 degrees when we come across one of these wonders. Ray, bless him, never complains as I dawdle, photographing every detail from every angle. That's why, along with pictures of more typical attractions like Mt. Rushmore, Old Faithful and the Golden Gate Bridge, our photo albums bulge with images of places like Ed Galloway Totem Pole Park in Foyil, Oklahoma, and S.P. Dinsmoor's Garden of Eden in Lucas, Kansas, which has such a hold on me, I'm giving it a major role the novel I recently started writing. Stay tuned for more about the novel, but since I'm working reaaaaaaaallly slowly on it, stay tuned in the shorter term to find out what we'll discover on our ROAD TRIP! In the meantime, you're invited to share some of your travel memories. How do you like to travel, and what kinds of sights do you keep an eye out for?
No matter how I feel when I wake up on a Monday morning, I'm always uplifted and ready to take on the world (or at least my small part of it) after that session of physical, spiritual and social activity. Now, I've found the perfect end-of-week bookend for my start-the-week routine: a Friday afternoon women's hiking club. It's a club in the loosest sense of the word—no dues, matching outfits, or other requirements—and that suits me fine. It's just a group of women who get together once a week to explore Newaygo County's trails and appreciate its natural assets. Avid outdoorswomen and longtime friends Peg Mercer and Mary Papes started the club several months ago, inspired by hiking and biking clubs in Arizona. "Mary and I were in awe of the opportunities they had created and felt like we could do the same in Newaygo County," says Peg, who traces her interest in outdoor activities to childhood, "living in the farm fields of Alpine Township, where we biked all over the neighborhood—to my grandma's house three miles away, to the local party store for penny candy—and walked long distances to friends' houses." Peg and Mary, who have also backpacked with a group of local women, invited friends and neighbors to join them on their Friday outings, and they encouraged those women to invite others. "It has been a heartfelt pleasure to meet so many active women right in our own area," says Peg. "I look forward to the friends who have yet to come in our pathways." From the outset, the idea was to make it easy for people to participate (or not), as schedules allow. On Thursdays, Peg and Mary send out texts and emails announcing where the hike will be, and anyone who's free can just show up ready to hike a route that one of the leaders has scouted in advance. Many of the hikes follow segments of the North Country Trail, a 4,600-mile path that extends from New York to North Dakota, with a swath that cuts through Michigan from the Ohio border in the south, upward through the Lower Peninsula, into the Upper Peninsula and across to the northern Wisconsin border. A long stretch of the trail crosses Newaygo County and is easily accessible at several points (including one that's minutes from my house!).
Some hikes include optional kayaking afterward, and women from the group have gotten together for bicycling on other days. I had read about hiking clubs and walking clubs in other parts of the country and always wanted to be part of one. So when my neighbor Sally told me about this club, I was excited to join. So far, I've been on six hikes, with groups ranging in size from four to thirteen. On every hike I've known at least one other person (several of the Monday yoga women are also Friday hiking women now), but I've also met a dozen strong, interesting women I hadn't known before. And because the group values the getting-to-know-you aspect at least as much as the getting-fit aspect, chatting is not only permitted, it's encouraged. (One particularly apt name suggested for the club is the "Walkie Talkies.") Every time we pause to stretch or take a breather, the pack reshuffles and conversation partners change. While walking through groves of pines and glades of ferns, I've been enlightened on everything from cake decorating to the origins of pickle ball to what to do if you meet a bear. Now, at the beginning of every week, I find myself wondering not only what challenging poses Ellie will lead us through and what we'll discuss at Hit the Road Joe, but also where the Friday hike will go, who I'll get to know better as we walk and talk and what I'll learn in the process. What ways have you found of combining favorite activities with friendship? I'm taking a break from writing this week. Well, that's not entirely true. I did spend some time playing around with a new writing project, which I'll tell you more about once it gets further along. But I'm taking a break from blog writing this week because it's just so beautiful outside, and I've got to get out there and look at stuff. I hate to leave you behind, though--we've been having such a good time together. So come outside with me, and I'll show you some of the stuff I've been looking at. That's the end of today's walkabout. What catches your attention in your surroundings?
The drawing you see here was done by a boy in his early teens, in the mid-1950s. Not so unusual in itself—countless boys have made similar drawings of rock bands. But what earned this drawing a place in a museum was the particular young artist who created it: James Marshall Hendrix, born Johnny Allen Hendrix, known to most of us as Jimi Hendrix. I learned of Jimi's early artistic leanings on a recent trip to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, where the drawing is displayed. According to the accompanying text, Hendrix once dreamed of being a commercial artist. His father recalled that Jimi never had art lessons, but "he had a good hand and his ideas and imagination." No kidding. Jimi's good hand, ideas and imagination, applied to music, were nothing short of mind-blowing. Kinda makes you glad that commercial art thing never panned out. People like Jimi Hendrix, whose creativity crosses boundaries—from visual to verbal to musical to culinary--fascinate me, and like anything, once you start looking, examples are everywhere. I found another at Rock Hall, in an exhibit on Graham Nash and his passion for making music and art—from his early days as a founding member of the Hollies to his years with Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, to his later work as solo artist and photographer. Like Hendrix, Nash traces his interest in visual arts to childhood, when photography captured his imagination. Later, he not only made his own photos and experimented with digital imaging, he also collected photographs and other artifacts from the intersecting worlds of art, rock music and politics. I had never thought of collecting as a creative outlet, but a quote from Nash in the exhibit made it clear that he does. Unfortunately I didn't write down the quote (blame sensory overload and the approaching lunch hour), but it was something to the effect that he tries to engage in some creative activity every day; if he's not writing a song, he's making photographs or painting or collecting. Not a bad way to live, whether or not you consider collecting a form of creative expression. (And I admit, after reading Nash's quote, I'm trying to look differently at Ray's habit of coming home from every trip to Harbor Freight with yet another free tape measure. That stash of nearly forty tape measures in his workshop is not a sign of hoarding, it's creative genius at work.) Turns out, it's not just my husband and rock stars who practice crossover creativity. Many poets and authors regularly mix media. For example:
Reading about all these multiply-creative people absolves my guilt (if I ever had any) for leaving my writing desk and walking into the woods with my camera or hauling out my collage-making materials. These excursions into other art forms aren't procrastination or dilettantism, they're simply alternate ways of expressing myself. And while I'm exploring those alternatives, maybe I'll swing by Harbor Freight and pick up a few tape measures to add to Ray's collection. It's a creative thing. What's your creative thing, and how can you step beyond its boundaries?
For inspiration, entertainment and even a bit of exercise, nothing beats a day at the flea market—especially if it's Burley Park flea market in Howard City, Michigan, with its 600 dealer spaces spread over a partially pine-shaded park. The flea market happens five times a year: Memorial Day, July 4, the first Sunday in August, Labor Day and the first Sunday in October. All winter long, Ray and I look forward to the Memorial Day market, which is usually the biggest. Apparently, a lot of other people look forward to it all winter, too. Just look at the crowd that was lined up when we arrived soon after the gates opened at 8 a.m.
I met shoppers Brie and Chelsea as they were lugging an old wooden wheel and a weathered nail keg toward the exit. The barrel will hold strawberry plants, Chelsea said, and the wheel is "just a decorative piece," Brie added. I didn't think to ask about the baseball bat. But then, sometimes a bat is just a bat. Marilyn was carting off a handsome baskety-looking thing that was nearly as big as she was. "It's a tobacco basket," she told me, and she pointed in the direction of a vendor selling a large selection of them. She figured it would make a striking wall decoration for her primitive-themed home. Sure would! I've seen pictures of similar ones hung over fireplaces or chests, sometimes with additions of dried flowers, old photographs or mirrors, but just as attractive unadorned. The wagon-load of stuff Connie was toting caught my eye. She plans to use the old tricycle as a garden decoration. The other odds and ends will find homes as accent pieces on shelves. Andy and Christy had a wagon-load of intriguing stuff, too. I could imagine plenty of uses for the rusty metal wheels. But what was that other thing that looked like a rickety iron headboard? "A hay grapple," Andy explained, once used for snagging hay bales and lifting them into a barn loft. Okaaaaay . . . but what on earth could you do with such a thing if you weren't hauling hay? Andy whipped out his phone and showed me a picture of a very cool-looking wall shelf he made with a similar one. (If he emails me the photo as he said he would, I'll share it with you here.) Some vendors spur shoppers' imaginations by suggesting new uses for the cast-offs they're peddling: croquet mallets as garden stakes, for example. Barb and Denny even provided examples of what to do with the rusty bed springs they were selling. The springs came from an old bed in Denny's grandfather's house in Pennsylvania. The couple disposed of the straw mattress and kept the iron bedstead and old springs. For a while, Denny pulled the set of springs behind a tractor to prepare garden soil. Then Barb saw some clever uses of old bed springs on Pinterest and that was the end of their life as garden harrow. She cut out the individual coils,, made a display of springy crafts and offered the rest for sale. Jodi went a step further, offering recycled crafts themselves for sale. I guess that made sense, given that her starting material was empty half-gallon rum bottles. Not a great demand for those, even at a flea market. With some stones, twine, buttons and Popsicle sticks, she transformed the bottles into decorative birdhouses. "Kept me busy all winter," she said. If they didn't sell, no big deal – she'll give them as Christmas gifts. We wandered up and down aisles for more than five hours (that's where the exercise comes in), feeling alternately inspired and overloaded by the sheer quantity of stuff to look at. There truly was something for every taste: whimsical . . . goofy . . . jolly . . . and macabre! Another source of amusement is listening to (okay, eavesdropping on) conversations about things people are considering buying. Most run along the lines of "What are you going to do with that?" and you can tell by the inflection who's talking to whom. If you hear, "What are you going to do with that?" it's likely a conversation between two strangers who are buying similar items. On the other hand, "What are you going to do with that? is usually uttered by a spouse and often followed by "and where are you going to put it?" Shopping, imagining and eavesdropping get wearying after awhile, and to get through the whole market, a refreshment break is a must. We usually opt for the ice cream offered by Amish vendors who make it in old-fashioned churns powered by a steam engine. The clunky chug of the engine, audible from several aisles away, adds to the anticipation. Now that we're refreshed, it's your turn to shop. Stroll on and share your creative ideas for the things you discover.
If you see a whole thing—it seems that it's always beautiful. Planets, lives . . . But up close a world's all dirt and rocks. And day to day, life's a hard job, you get tired, you lose the pattern. —Ursula K. Le Guin I could not have agreed more with that sentiment a couple of weeks ago. Life was feeling messy and overloaded with too many appointments, meetings and projects pulling me in different directions. I had definitely lost the pattern. I went for a walk to clear my mind, and as I walked, a voice in my head kept saying, Time out! I thought I was taking a time-out, but apparently a half-hour hike through the woods wasn't enough. I needed a getaway. Ray, too. He'd been feeling burdened with his own set of stressors. Yes, I realize we live in the kind of place people come to for a getaway. But no matter where you live, everyday life has a way of making your haven feel like a workplace, and the only way to hit reset—to find the pattern again—is to go away for a spell. Fortunately, Ray and I already had been planning (in the loosest sense of the word) a getaway for later that week. The idea was to pick a not-too-distant destination, head in that direction and follow our whims along the way. Our chosen destination: Bay City, Michigan. I know what you're thinking. Bay City? Why drive two hours east to a sleepy little town on a river when we've got Lake Michigan's splendid shoreline and charming beach towns just a Petoskey stone's throw away? But we've been to all those beaches and towns, some of them many times, and while we never tire of them, we know exactly what we'll find there. We'd never been to Bay City and had no idea what it had to offer except, according to a flyer I'd saved from somewhere, Michigan's largest antique mall. So we packed a bag and set off—a straight shot across mid-Michigan that ended at Bay City's Water Street. The street runs along the east side of the Saginaw River and boasts not only the acclaimed antique mall, but other shops, an arts center, and Bay City Motor Company, where you can buy a beautifully restored Corvette, Thunderbird or other classic ride if you happen to have a whole lot more cash than we were willing to part with. We whiled away the afternoon browsing in shops and late-lunching at Tavern 101. Then, as evening spangled the waterfront, we strolled along the river toward Wenonah Park, where we soon would get a glimpse of what may be Bay City's greatest asset. And I'm not talking about the park itself, though it's lovely. As we walked, we noticed a few bicyclists headed in the same direction. Then a few more . . .and more . . . and more. By the time we reached the park, it was full of cyclists—not the hardcore variety in tight jerseys and funny-looking shoes, but regular riders of all ages, all seemingly waiting for something to begin. That something, it turned out, was a group ride—the first of the season's weekly rides. As we watched a hundred or more riders take off en masse at the designated time, I was heartened by sight of so many people enjoying a fine evening together (and—let's be real here—most likely stopping for beer along the ride route). What a treasure, I thought, more valuable than anything for sale in that colossal antique shop! We found more evidence of Bay City's community spirit the next day, when we explored the Riverwalk on the west side of the river. Riverwalk got its start thirty years ago, when the Bay Area Community Foundation raised $1.5 million for its initial phase: a pier built over concrete abutments left from a 1911 railroad bridge, and the first part of the walkway that now stretches north to Bay City State Recreation Area. The walking/bike path—well-traveled on the day of our visit—passes through a twelve-acre arboretum that bears the name of the late Leopold Kantzler, a businessman and philanthropist who established a foundation in his will to enhance the community and support charitable programs for the people of Bay City. Small gardens dot the arboretum's rolling landscape. Businesses, community groups and individuals adopt plots, choosing their sites and designing, planting and tending their gardens year round. In one garden, we spotted a plaque inscribed with this quote from Margaret Mead (a girlhood idol since my days in Samoa, by the way): Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed it's the only thing that ever has. I can't vouch for the whole world, but thoughtful, committed citizens surely have made a difference in Bay City's riverfront. The arboretum and gardens occupy the spot where a world-class shipyard once stood. Workers built and repaired wooden vessels at the dry dock until the early 1930s, when steel ships made their wooden counterparts obsolete. The dry dock slip and the rudder of the steamship Sacramento are preserved in the park as reminders of Bay City's shipbuilding heritage. Those aren't the only links to the past. Along the Riverwalk are historic buildings with signs telling their stories--more evidence of a community working together to honor the past while giving new life to a once forsaken area. As we walked, I felt connection and gratitude toward the people of Bay City who created the place that was bringing me so much peace. On the drive back to Newaygo, I felt renewed, lighter. Home, when we arrived, felt like a haven again. Even as I plunged back into projects, I didn't see drudgery and mess any more. I saw possibilities. And yes, a trace of the pattern I'd lost. When do you feel like you're losing the pattern? What do you do to get it back?
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Written from the heart,
from the heart of the woods Read the introduction to HeartWood here.
Available now!Author
Nan Sanders Pokerwinski, a former journalist, writes memoir and personal essays, makes collages and likes to play outside. She lives in West Michigan with her husband, Ray. Archives
April 2022
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