You'll hear no such comments in Brenda's class. Though she doesn't hesitate to offer advice, it's all done in a positive way, aimed at helping class members explore new methods and improve their skills. On the Thursday I visited, Brenda showed 11-year-old MaKenzie (daughter of Heidi and sister of Caden) how to use a variety of watercolor techniques, including resist and sgraffito. The class usually works in watercolors, but Brenda introduces other media when the occasion calls for it. "One day the clouds were beautiful, so we did a cloud study in pastels," she said. As Eileen labored over her lily painting, Maureen reminded her, "Every once in a while, look at it from far away to get a better sense of the values." Maureen, who also sells art supplies, uses the class to try out new materials like the embossed rice paper she was working with. When she had finished painting on it, she added torn paper "halos," symbolizing "all the angels in my life." Then she started a new piece, painting around bright smears she had made by smashing petunia flowers and leaves. Though Brenda doesn't play favorites, she couldn't help bragging on the work of one class member, Deb, whose flower painting was particularly vivid and free-flowing. Deb had painted years ago, before a stroke disabled her right arm—and her painting hand. Recently, she taught herself to draw and paint left-handed in a completely different style.
What new territory have you explored recently? What would you like to try?
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Skies were dreary and drippy, but last Saturday and Sunday were fine days in Fairyland (also known as Camp Newaygo), as droves of visitors wandered through woods and wetlands in search of fairy houses. The occasion was the camp's Enchanted Forest event, two afternoons of fun and fundraising to support improvements to the camp's Foster Arts and Crafts Lodge. Generations of campers have explored painting, pottery, dark room photography, nature crafts, jewelry making, tie dye design, wood burning and other activities in that building. But the crafts lodge, built in 1949, is no longer adequate for the camp's growing number of campers and programs.
Camp staff and volunteers hid the fairy houses, gnome homes, pixie palaces and elf abodes in the woods for visitors of all ages to discover (with the help of trail maps, helpful guides and a display showing photos of all the houses to be found). Ray and I had an edge, having helped hide some of the houses Saturday morning. But even we had to look closely to spot some of them. And once guests began arriving—many sporting fairy wings and other whimsical garb—we had fun watching them search and then react with delight when they spied a tiny house nestled in the leaves or in the hollow of a tree stump.
Some fledgling fairies made wands or gnome hats at the crafts station and enjoyed a tea party of punch and cookies. Other visitors browsed the garden plants and accessories offered for sale by local shops. Over the two days, a total of 627 visitors toured the Enchanted Forest. "We were ecstatic about the positive responses we got about the event on social media, and we were so happy with the turnout," said Christa Smalligan, Director of Events and Operations. "It was wonderful to see families and friends outside exploring and enjoying themselves in nature." Wish you'd been there? Or wish you could visit again? Then come along for a walk through the pictures below or a virtual stroll with WOTV4's Maranda. If a fanciful creation catches your eye, drop by eBay to bid on one or more of the fairy houses. The auction runs until 11 a.m., Monday, May 9, and proceeds go to the Foster Arts and Crafts Lodge renovation project. The houses will also be on display at Camp Newaygo, 5333 Centerline Rd., Newaygo, during the Mother's Day Brunch, Sunday, May 8. Between now and then, the public is welcome to view them during business hours, Monday-Friday 8am-5pm. Ready for that walk in the woods? Let's go! THE END
Continuing our celebration of National Poetry Month, we welcome guest blogger Sandra Bernard. Sandra is a Newaygo singer-songwriter, poet, essayist, producer of musicals and one-of-a-kind free spirit who leads the weekly open mic at River Stop Café. For several years, she also led a weekly writing salon to encourage and mentor local writers. Sandra comes from a long line of creative and gifted musicians, writers and artists. She has collected some of her family's stories, photos, poems and recipes in her book, You Are What You're Fed. Here's Sandra, sharing her thoughts and three of her poems . . . That old adage, you don’t know what you got 'til it’s gone, never applied to my life—never!! My life has been a deluge of interesting characters: inventor/dreamer types, accomplished painters, writers, and musicians who embrace eyebrow-raising, good or bad, and wear it like a badge of courage. From a master water colorist who could twist the English language into wordy, witty tales as easily as he painted sadness into an array of clear blue vases on a paper canvas, to storytellers who ran hooch for Al Capone and outran the law in the Kentucky hills, to those who played fiddle tunes and sang hair-raising hill harmonies in five mystical parts. As far back as I can remember, such gifts were celebrated, applauded and enjoyed to their fullest in my family. I've always been grateful to, and respectful of, those who taught me how to succumb to that kind of pleasure and cleared the way for creative thinking and inspired daring. But star-gazing, humor-dipping and word-weaving, while wildly inviting, all have their downside. Clearly, creativity mixed with daring is not conducive to long-term relationships. Oh yeah, in the short-term maybe they're exciting, but only until the reality of the dark side of the moon reaches its rope's end, on both ends. You’re not likely to find breadwinners more than one time out of ten thousand. There will be a lot of mood swings and job changes. Creative thinkers require an inordinate amount of alone time, which tends to stick in the craw of most spouses. Three weeks of intense silence will produce two pages of writing, which may or may not be worthy of print. Balancing checkbooks and paying bills will more likely feel like a punishment than a necessity. While they're often labeled as lazy, unorganized and incapable of managing time or prioritizing "normally," these are only symptoms of an underlying obsession of thoughts and fixation. Day and night the mind runs at warp speed and the least little thing said or done can inspire a whole chapter, song, or painting in a three-hour period. (For writers, that constitutes three months of rewrite time and years of collective dissecting in the mental lab.) Eating is not a priority. Sleeping can be sporadic, with sudden spurts of genius at three am. Yes, spouses of the creative don’t know what's gone till they’ve got it. It's a kind of sadomasochistic life, dotted with power surges and self-loathing for being incapable of staying in the lane. But as the years have passed, it seems I've somehow grown into that skin with a little grace, I hope. I’ve learned how to rein it in a little on the outside, while still harvesting the fruits of my inward madness. Aging allows others to accept and almost expect eccentricity, and that’s good for me. It's working out, for the most part. Romance has gone by the wayside, but that's probably for the best. As a parent, watching my children struggle through creative mine-fields is about the only time any regret seeps in. But then they paint a painting, or sing a song, or write a lyric that reveals the depth of their spirit, and regret swiftly springs into pride and admiration. Learning to dance like no one's watching is embedded very early in life, maybe even through the gene pool and from the womb, but when encouraged and licensed in life it can create moments that sparkle as bright as the sun and light the entire vicinity on which they fall. Oh yes, I did know what I had when I had it, and I'm thankful for that. If I Should Fall Asleep The body turns, it cannot rest When you’re too tired to go forward You just start looking back Good mother West . . . one more setting sun So many things I shouldn't have And more I should have done Just lie down here by me now You don't need to speak I just don't want to be alone If I should fall asleep But if I've gone before you wake Don't let your heart be shattered For I'll be traveling beyond the stars Far past those things that mattered The Photos at Wright's Gallery A photo of a child's weather-beaten toy At the edge of an overgrown pond And one with a child's half eaten cereal in a bowl Left on the steps all alone They were dark and filled with a sad lonely view The kind no one can defend Photographs of an unclaimed boy Showed at Wright's Gallery at ten There was one with an empty baby pram Off to the side in the weeds But the icy cold bridge Where someone's clothes lay I almost couldn't breathe They were dark and filled with a sad lonely view The kind no one can defend Photographs of an unclaimed boy Showed at Wright's Gallery at ten Awards and accolades were dispensed And curious people called it art But I knew they were only photographs Of a small boy's broken heart They were dark and filled with a sad lonely view The kind no one can defend Photographs of an unclaimed boy Showed at Wright's Gallery at ten Mantra There are no lines Only circles I believe that We pretend that things begin and end But they never do Thus good is part of bad Bad part of good And there is no dark without light And vice versa Watch the water go to ice Ice to liquid—liquid to gas Back to water again Like love . . . hate . . . and forgiveness Perhaps one state more desirable than the other From this eye But the eye is a circle The heart is a circle Dreams are circles What we wanted and needed then and now From different views We only pretend that things begin and end . . . But there are no lines Only circles . . . . . . I believe that With this week's post, I'm introducing a new feature called Last Wednesday Wisdom. On the last Wednesday of every month, I'll serve up a potpourri of advice, inspiration and other tidbits I've come across in recent weeks. This installment comes with a bonus: If you read all the way to the end, you'll get a sneak peek at a few more fairy houses created for the Camp Newaygo Enchanted Forest event, plus another surprise photo. So read on (and no fair jumping to the end to see the pictures first!). Creativity is merely a plus name for regular activity. Any activity becomes creative when the doer cares about doing it right, or better. -- John Updike When words become unclear, I shall focus with photographs. When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence. -- Ansel Adams Even work you consider to be your worst is good for something. Every effort teaches you about your desires and tendencies, or guides you toward some new possibility, or shuts the door on an avenue you mistakenly thought was the right one. -- Novelist Téa Obreht, quoted in The Writer magazine The women whom I love and admire for their strength and grace did not get that way because sh*t worked out. They got that way because sh*t went wrong, and they handled it. They handled it in a thousand different ways on a thousand different days, but they handled it. Those women are my superheroes. -- Elizabeth Gilbert Faith is taking the first step, even when you don’t see the whole staircase. -- Martin Luther King You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming. -- Pablo Neruda Are you ready for your treat now? Me, too! But before the fairy house preview, here's a new creative challenge. Ray made up a fairy tale to go with his fairy house. Can you come up with one for your own or someone else's fairy house? (If you missed the earlier preview, find more inspiration here.) Now take a look at these creations by "Sylvan Sally" Kane, "Elfin Eileen" Kent, "Diaphanous Diane" Sack, "Linda of Lilliput" Cudworth, "Spritely Sue" Schneider and her granddaughter "Artsy Ayla": SYLVAN SALLY ELFIN EILEEN DIAPHANOUS DIANE LINDA OF LILLIPUT SPRITELY SUE AND AIRY AYLA And finally, in response to last week's post on serendipity, Cindi McDonald of San Antonio sent this: I have no story, but I do have a pic. Thanks, Cindi, fairy house builders, contributors of wisdom. . . and readers! Have you come up with any fairy stories or do you have discoveries from the past month to share? "The demand for twigs, stones, clay and moss is through the (tiny) roof," said Gnarly Gnome, manager of building materials. "Creativity is at an all-time high." Indeed, our inquisitive, roving sprites have spotted activity throughout Newaygo County and beyond. Here are some of their surveillance photos and reports: Over on the banks of the Little Muskegon River, fairy godmothers Brenda Huckins Bonter and Maureen Roslanic have been working some powerful magic with clay and imagination. Croton resident Valerie Deur, who's rumored to be part pixie, has transformed a tree stump into a palace for tiny folk of all sorts. Meanwhile, Diane "Diaphanous Di" Sack plans to take stump transformation to new heights with a multistory creation in this stump. One evening, our sprites flew all the way down to Ada, where a fairy house-making party was in progress at Heather Lane Pottery. The intrepid imps returned with photos of these enchanting dwellings created by the group, which includes Lisa Boerema, Mary Beth Cooper, Dorrie Crago, Cortney Horan, Linda Kilmer, Janet Krueger, Terri Oostendorp, and Sue Monterusso. Even my own home was invaded by those snoopy sylphs, who just couldn't stand the suspense of waiting to see what Ray has been up to in his workshop. They captured these pictures of the process and end result. Feeling inspired? It's not too late to craft your own fairy house. You have until April 1 to finish your creation and deliver it to Camp Newaygo. So summon your muse, fire up the glue gun and get busy!
In high school, it was the parking lot of Griff's Burger Bar. In college, the Starlight Terrace, a terrazzo-floored, sky-lit space filled with café tables on the student union's fourth floor. In my mid- to late-twenties, it was a homey Northern California bar called Jambalaya that hosted poetry readings and plays, as well as the house band's rollicking music on weekends. I remember these places not so much for their physical features (though I can still picture Jambalaya's homemade tablecloths and the compass design in the center of the Starlight Terrace floor) as for their feelings they evoked. Each place, in its time, was the place to go and find a sense of belonging. You could always count on running into at least one person you knew, but more often, a whole crowd of friendly faces. And because these were all public gathering spots, there was also the chance of meeting someone new and exciting. When I moved with my parents to American Samoa for a year in my mid-teens, I wondered if any such place existed for kids my age to connect. The driving age was eighteen, and even if we younger teens had been allowed to drive, there were no burger joints with parking lots where kids could hang out. But, as I discovered within a week of my arrival, there was the tennis court. By day, it was nothing but a rectangle of pitted concrete surrounded by rusty chain-link fencing, but every evening, it was the place to make the scene and socialize. Here's how I describe that social scene in my unpublished memoir, Mango Rash: Survival Lessons in the Land of Frangipani and Fanta: Girls in Bermuda shorts and summer tops clustered together, alternately whispering and shrieking, glancing over their shoulders at the older boys, who hung back in the shadows, cigarettes dangling from their lips. A couple of younger kids, not yet in their teens, rode Sting-Ray bikes in figure-eights, slicing through the crowd like swift fish through a reef. A Samoan boy shinnied up a palm tree and threw down coconuts; someone cleaved off the tops and passed around the unhusked nuts for drinking. Not exactly lime Dr. Pepper, but I'd give it a try. The night had the feel of a midsummer evening in the small-town America of my childhood, where all the neighborhood kids drifted out of their houses after supper for a game of Kick the Can. Without cars or other signs of status, we weren't adolescents posing as adults; we were just a bunch of big kids who'd come out to play under street lights and stars. That tennis court was where I met the motorcycle-riding, cigarette-smoking bad boy who would be my romantic interest (and my father's bane) for most of my stay on the island. Now, many decades later, I'm not looking for romance when I head to a gathering place; I'm just looking for conversation and connection. Some days, not even that. Some days, it's enough to sit quietly, tapping on a laptop or writing in a notebook, in a cozy, familiar place where others come together. Often, the place my friends, neighbors and I choose is Hit the Road Joe Coffee Café, a comfy eatery five minutes from my house. Local artists' ceramics, jewelry and metal sculptures (all for sale) decorate the walls, and more than seventy species of birds have been spotted at the feeders outside the windows. On Monday mornings, after class at nearby Woodland Yoga, a group of ten, fifteen, or more women (including me) crowds around the big, corner table and shares tidbits about local goings-on, recently-read books, herbal remedies, Netflix movies, and the proper undergarments to wear beneath clingy knits. On Tuesday mornings, the men's yoga class—a smaller and less rambunctious group—holds court after their hour of down-dogging, Warrior II-ing and Savasana. Once a month, the café owner's eldest daughter Tracy Murrell, an award-winning chef, stokes her creative fires to produce a six-course dinner. At other times, the café hosts readings, talks and films on topics ranging from beekeeping to human trafficking. In winter, there are weekly domino games and twice-a-month euchre parties. Hit the Road Joe is the hub of our little community, but that didn't just happen by chance. Owner Linda Cudworth and her sister Kendra McKimmy, a mixed-media artist whose wares are displayed there, filled me in on the story during a recent post-breakfast chat. The sisters' commitment to community-building began nearly 20 years ago, when both women were part of a collective that operated an art gallery in downtown Newaygo. Until then, "there were all these kind of freaky people living out in the middle of the woods, but we didn't know each other," says Kendra. The gallery and an adjacent coffee shop owned by graphic designer Pat Brissette drew creative types, and connections grew. Eventually, Linda, who worked at Pat's coffee shop, began to dream of owning her own café closer to home. "She wanted to be able to walk to work," Kendra explains. Linda envisioned an old, funky space, where customers would feel at home. When she couldn't find anything that quite fit the vision, Linda, her husband Chris, Kendra and a contractor built Hit the Road Joe next door to the farmhouse where Linda and Chris lived at the time, and they proceeded to funk-ify it with a tin ceiling, counter, tables, chairs and anything else they could glean from a Grand Rapids bar that was being demolished. With an emphasis on fresh, local food, Hit the Road Joe soon attracted customers, but it was Linda's outgoing nature that kept them coming back. I remember the first time Ray and I visited the café, soon after we bought our house down the road. We knew hardly anyone in the area and didn't know how locals felt about outsiders, so we were timid about venturing into what looked like a hangout for local folk. Would we be welcomed or met with hostile glares? We needn't have worried. Not only was our waitress friendly, but before we'd finished our coffee, Linda emerged from the tiny kitchen, wearing something tie-dyed I'm sure, and made her way to our table to get acquainted. From then on, she always remembered not only our names, but other details about us and our lives, as well as our drink orders and food preferences. Linda never has had qualms about using the restaurant as a forum for discussions of controversial issues, such as proposed developments and the pumping of water for bottling from a local spring. "She has a commitment to these kinds of things," says Kendra. "Maybe it's not always the best business decision, but she has stuck by it." Ultimately, some people on opposing sides of the issues have become loyal customers, not necessarily won over to a different viewpoint, but won over by Linda. Nowadays, you may not always see Linda when you visit Hit the Road Joe. Her youngest daughter Keeva Filipek has taken over managing the restaurant, and Tracy and middle daughter Vanessa Farrel work there every other weekend. Still, the café that many customers refer to as "Linda's" has the welcoming feel she fostered over the years.
Where do you feel welcome? I'd love to hear about your favorite hangouts, recent or remembered, and what makes them special to you. |
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
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