Resurrection — An Essay

A Short Story by Alice Adams and Amanda Jo Runyon

Essa woke in the early morning to fill the stove with wood and light it with a kerosene-soaked newspaper. She placed the eggs in an iron pot and listened for them to rattle as they began to boil. Soon, the little girl was awake and climbing to reach the cherry drop leaf table where Essa had placed six china cups. Essa watched as the girl carefully dropped tablets of dye into each cup. The girl was unaware that the table was older than Essa’s parents, who used it to begin housekeeping so many years ago. She didn’t realize that she was one of many little girls who had climbed to up to this very table to watch the magic of eggs changing color on Easter morning.

Easter was Essa’s favorite holiday. She loved the Easter flowers growing in the front yard and the sounds of the church bells down the road. She loved to watch the families gather for picnics, sons and fathers in brightly colored ties and mothers and daughters in matching lace hats and gloves. Most of all, Essa loved the egg hunt. She was always the one who colored the eggs with the children and ran out to hide them through the yard as they covered their eyes and giggled from the house. No matter how old Essa got, everything felt new and young on Easter morning. Even now, coloring eggs with the little girl, a third cousin, sixty years her junior, Essa felt as excited as a child.

When the eggs were boiled and cooled, Essa filled each cup with hot water. Heads pressed together, she and the girl watched as the dye tablets swirled and filled the china with brilliant blues, reds, and greens. She gave the girl a wire scoop and helped her turn the eggs gently until the colors were even across the shell. One by one they transformed the eggs into colorful canvases. Essa felt the resurrection of her own childhood wonder as the girl’s eyes widened with each work of art.

When the eggs were ready, Essa and the girl placed them in a tattered basket filled with green paper grass. They rushed outside where the girl ducked by the front door, covering her eyes while Essa hid the eggs. Essa chose her hiding spots carefully. She placed the colorful eggs around the swing frame, along the fencerow, behind the cistern, near the rose bush growing over the trellis, and in the tufts of grass surrounding the house. Essa called for the girl and she came running, swinging her basket in the crook of her elbow. Her squeals filled the yard as she uncovered the eggs. When they were all found, she begged Essa to hide them again. Essa hid the eggs over and over, bending her old frame low to the ground to find new nooks and crannies to use as hiding spots. The girl did not tire of hunting them, even after they grew cracked and mushy.

Just as Essa’s youth was restored each Easter, the joy in the girl’s eyes was reborn each time she spotted a flash of blue beneath the grass.

Snow Had Fallen

An Essay by Linda Burgess

As winter gives way to spring, I must share one snow story that about a late winter/early spring snow when I was probably no older than five…if that.

Our farm lay less than a quarter mile from the main highway. The one lane, gravel road that led to our house was lined with huge trees (mostly cedar) that gave the appearance of a tunnel. Though good for shade and a cool walk in summer, they sheltered the road from needed sunshine for melting snow in late winter or early spring. 

The later in the season it seemed the deeper the snow accumulated. At the time I had no idea what adults meant when they said it was a wet snow. To a little girl, snow was snow. When I played out in the snow, I always ended up wet from head to toe so I didn’t understand that “wet snow” comment. Now that I’m an adult (really just an overgrown kid), I understand moisture content, humidity, powder snow and packing, or snowman building, snow. 

It seems we had deeper and more frequent snows when I was a little girl. I’m not going down the global warming path. I was short for my age (which is hard to believe being 5’ 8” now) and I know that the snow probably wasn’t that much deeper than what we have today. It just didn’t take much for it to be deep for my short legs. Playing in the snow was terrific fun! I didn’t mind the required layers of clothes or getting wet as the snow melted on my gloves and outer layers. That’s what snow was all about for me!

Just as I didn’t understand the term “wet snow” I didn’t realize the hard work of shoveling snow or the hazards of driving snow-covered roads. Mom did. She knew Dad had about 70miles, round trip, of slick 2 lane roads to travel to/from the steel mill. I remember watching him drive out that long tunnel-looking road headed to Owensboro for his shift at the mill. On snowy days or nights, depending upon which shift he worked, I would watch till I couldn’t see him or his tail lights and marvel at the cloud of snow that swirled up behind his vehicle. He probably was driving a little faster than normal just to keep the momentum needed to overcome the snow banks. 

One day, the six of us had all been to either Louisville or Lexington (possibly both) to visit our grandparents. As we traveled home, snow began to fall as did night. There were no salt trucks or pre-treating the roads with brine solution in those days. What snow removal equipment available only worked the most traveled roads so neither the highway in/out of Centertown nor certainly not our road were cleared for traffic. So, on this particularly cold night, an unexpected snowstorm settled in over our part of Kentucky. 

State route 69 from Hartford to Centertown, a curvy stretch of 7 miles to our road, also had 6 one lane bridges. The biggest and narrowest spanned “Muddy Creek”, a creek that fed off Rough River. Dad carefully negotiated those treacherous miles and one lane bridges then made the turn of the main highway onto our road (now known as Chandle Loop) and, within 100 feet, into a snowdrift. We were stuck. He tried backing up, pulling forward, backing up and pulling forward with only minimal success. The snow formed a barrier that our Chevy couldn’t penetrate. Dad got out and pushed as Mom steered the car. In the fall, I had walked that stretch of road from the house to the highway to greet my brother and sister when they got off the school bus. I didn’t think it was very long at all, but on that snowy night, it seemed to stretch to the end of the earth. I just knew we would have to walk home in all that snow, in the dark and without our boots. I saw an adventure in my future but I sure didn’t like the idea of not having boots for that adventure. 

Dad finally got back in the car to warm up a bit. He told us to sit tight and he’d be back in just a few minutes. He knew he would have to dig the car out of the snow so he set off for the house while we waited. Of course he went for a shovel and we expected to see him and his flashlight coming back for us. What we didn’t expect was the mode of transportation. He came back riding our trusty mare, Bonnie. I didn’t have to walk the endless pike in the dark with snow up to my ears and without boots. Dad hoisted his 4 children onto the bare back of that gentle soul and sent us to the house, my big brother in command sitting in front, my sister at the back and the other 2 of us sandwiched between them. 

As gentle as that horse was, she balked at every bridge and that posed a problem. To get to the house, you had to cross a bridge over a branch of Walton Creek. Sure enough, we reached that bridge and Bonnie stopped. She had been so good with the 4 of us perched on her back but when she got to that bridge, she had reached the end of her journey. She could have gone down the short bank and crossed the creek as always but she didn’t want to do that either. She deserves credit for not endangering us. She could have slipped or jumped or bucked and lost her passengers but she stood still. 

We sat huddled on the horse while Dad dug and Mom maneuvered. It wasn’t long till the sound of spinning wheels turned to a more normal tone, its lights came into view and Mom and Dad came to our rescue. Dad lifted Mark, Janet and I off the horse and put us back in the car. He sent Ronnie on to the barn with the horse. I guess that’s one time Ronnie was less than happy to be the oldest but he was able to get Bonnie across the creek (not the bridge!) and on to the gate of the horse lot where he released her and sent her kicking snow all the way to the barn. It was a short car ride for us to the house…again about 100 feet. 

Dad’s work was not finished for the night. We had been gone for the bigger part of 2 days. We heated with a Stokermatic stove. The fire burned out with no one home to feed the coal into the hopper so the house was cold but not so cold that the water lines froze. Thank goodness for that! Dad cleaned out the firebox while Ronnie carried in a couple of buckets of coal to get the fire started. While they worked on restoring the heat, Mom started cooking and Janet, Mark and I huddled up on the couch to stay warm. 

Traditionally, when we returned from a weekend visit with grandparents, Mom cooked breakfast. That night was no exception. By the time the Stokermatic started blowing warm air, Mom served bacon, eggs, biscuits (homemade, of course) and gravy. She perked (old school, not brewed) a pot of coffee for her and Dad but had hot chocolate for the 4 of us. Warm and well-fed, we headed to bed. 

Dad didn’t have a lot of weekends off with working swing shift. Usually he had farm work to do on his days off but he did manage to make time for visiting his and Mom’s parents and giving us treasured time with our grandparents. I’m sure that he probably didn’t make it into bed until way past midnight that night and had to get up earlier than normal for his trip to work the next morning due to the road conditions.  Only as an adult can I now fully appreciate the struggles and worries Mom and Dad endured that night. I was a 5 year old adventure seeking little girl who thought it was another of her adventures rather than a trial. 

Breakfast for supper still reminds me of that snowy adventure in late winter…long, long ago. 

A History of Valentines

Valentine’s Day is a decidedly handmade celebration. How can it not be when love is so personal, friendships so treasured, and the traditions of the holiday so old, that a simple love note penned from the hand seems a most apropos gesture of the heart?

A STORY BY JEN O’CONNOR

— earthangelsstudios.com

At one point or another, we’ve all ventured to fashion a Valentine card.  Bits of construction paper, the frill of a doily, markers, crayons…these are the things of school days’ crafting that have survived memory and time.  They’re still present at the most technologically advanced of today’s grammar schools and likewise, in our habits of dashing off a love note festooned with a doodled “heart” or an “x” and an “o”…or two. 

We learned early on, the gesture of a simple card is perfect, if the sentiment is true.  Valentine’s Day is best celebrated when we're given the excuse to express sweet feelings in a few, well-chosen words, or with the help of a more-clever writer’s imprinted ditty or eloquent dedication.

And while there are a legions of commercially produced Valentines onto which you can add that personal flourish, something given by hand – however simple, charms the recipient. Indeed since Valentine cards predate postal service by centuries, those most traditional among us still hand deliver cards – a gift in themselves -- with envelopes unsealed, simply tucked in as etiquette dictates all hand-delivered correspondence should be.

A Peek at the Sweetest Holiday’s History

While there is little reliable information to confirm one Saint Valentine, the most common of histories describe him as a Roman priest imprisoned and killed for marrying Christian couples.  That said, we have acknowledged February 14 as the feast day of “Saint Valentine” since the 1400s. This feast day has grown in fact and fable, history and tale, and has long been associated with the declaration of courtly love.

The first statements of love in honor of Saint Valentine’s Day, were said to be sung or recited and are referred to as poetical or amorous addresses.  Handwritten notes emerged in the 1400s with the very first written Valentines attributed to the imprisoned Charles, Duke of Orleans, in 1415. During his time of confinement in the Tower of London, the besotted young Duke passed time writing romantic verses for his wife, far off in France. More than 60 of his heartfelt poems have survived and are preserved among the treasures of the British Museum.

So how did Valentine greetings become tradition in a time when reading and writing, paper and pens were not the things for the common man or woman?  Love finds a way.  The tradition of putting forth heartfelt sentiments continued as it could among Western Europeans and by the Eighteenth Century exchanging written Valentines was in vogue among the educated and wealthy, and an emerging tradition among those with less means. 

Symbols and More

If kisses are the language of love, what then of the language of flowers?   Long before the modern tradition of giving that endorphin-raising chocolate as a token of affection, flowers were gifted with style and purpose. A Persian art-form known as the "language of flowers" was brought to Europe by Charles II of Sweden in the 1700s. 

Bouquets were exchanged among lovers bearing detailed messages and romantic secrets. Surviving floral dictionaries of the time show the more popular the flower, the more associated with its presence. The red rose –the favorite flower of Venus -- represented romantic love; hundreds of years later we’re continuing this tradition with dozens of red roses delivered as a message of love on Valentine’s Day.

Many also ask where and when the heart emerged as a symbol of the holiday, it’s bright red double fluted shape bearing no resemblance to an actual heart.  Indeed, in the late 1700s and early 1800s religious piety appeared even in love notes – referencing the divine’s intervention in pulling two souls and hearts together.  It is thought that the "Sacred Heart" of Jesus often depicted on these cards became the "Valentine Heart"; likewise too the angelic seraphim evolved into the more festive and babyish cupid that dons cards today. Folklore even tells of lace-making nuns who turned scissors to paper to make paper lace for the decoration of Valentine cards and thus not only the preponderance of reverent love notions and spiritual dedications of the heart survive, so does the presence of lace at the holiday.

Valentines in America

By the second half of the 19th Century early manufactured Valentines became available and the golden age for artistically layered, lush and sentimental Valentines flourished from 1840-1860.  This is owed to Esther Howland, an industrious female entrepreneur who embraced the opportunity to create the first mass-produced, commercially available cards for the holiday after receiving her first Valentine in 1847, the year she graduated Mount Holyoke College in Massachusetts.  Her father was a stationer and she had access to printed papers, perforated lace papers and trims imported from England (where the first mass produced Christmas cards had originated). With the assistance of artistic friends and a shrewd, early application of assembly line techniques, she created an extremely profitable business in greeting cards.

During this time, many emulated her grandly manufactured and stylish cards and chose to hand-make or embellish printed blanks or create their own Valentines with decorative materials like paper laces and ribbons, Dresden trims, honeycombed tissue, watercolors, colored inks, embossed paper hearts and more. Many of these cards can be seen among these pages and are favorites among holiday and ephemera collectors.

By the Victorian era when daily post was available for one cent --  called the "penny post” – Valentine postcards could be mailed to far off sweethearts.  Though the tradition of hand-delivered, hand-made cards perpetuated, penny postcards were all the rage and went hand in hand with printing advancements in lithography. Further, from about 1890 through WWI the hobby of collecting and displaying postcards, tradecards and paper follies abounded and served as entertainment in parlors across the country. 

By 1920, a Valentine was given or sent by almost everyone.

But, not all of these were sweet, Vinegar Valentines were caustic or sassy in their messages and were a fad, as were “love notes” when manufactured cards were designed for a brief period to resemble currency. These “money” cards were eventually banned – they appeared to infringe on counterfeit laws – but the moniker “love note” remained.  That said, the American tradition of exchanging cards was by this time, firmly rooted.

20th Century Traditions

A merrier, festive, and more playful touch emerged as Valentines were factory printed in the 20th Century.  By the 1920s – fueled by the penny post and modern production techniques-- oodles of cards – many shown here – were available and so affordable, that cards could be hand delivered to school chums, neighbors and more casual friends.  

Of course, more ardent cards were available, but the “packs” of printed cards that are still popular today found a niche and the idea of a secret admirer abounded in the anonymity of pre-printed cards.  These early 20th century traditions have perpetuated and remain today as our American tradition.

So as you gather your sweetest thoughts to share with loved ones and friends this Valentine’s Day remember, that a simple, written expression of love and affection is the centuries’ old tradition that’s created the most heartfelt of holidays.  And if you make it a handmade holiday…it’s always from the heart.

— earthangelsstudios.com

Standard

I have never really understood what a "bold" coffee is.  I have observed many people use the term as a security blanket––"Oh, just give me the boldest one you have;"  and while I may refer to my coffees as familiar, kind, smooth, and every now and then as a mistake (ok, more often than not), I have yet to have been greeted by one boldly.  There is an inescapable ambiguity with the term "bold," like "beautiful" and "standard."  I find the patina on on my great-grandfather's metal oil dripper to be beautiful; but that is not to suggest that you, or anyone else for that matter, will find much interest in the oxidized marble swirl paired with scuff marks and caked dirt.  Like beauty, we all define life's standards differently.  My standard is my morning.  It's standard.  It begins with a not-so-graceful stretch in bed, a throwing of the expired charging cord, and the regrouping of last night's scattered pillows.  I often start the day's genesis only to immediately fall back into bed.  Some mornings the sun greets me; others, I get things started for him first.  Regardless of what my mornings consist of or what position I wake up in, I treat my mornings all the same: as a standard.  The morning is something that no one can take away from me.  The beginning breaths, ticking at an early hour are mine.  The day's start is a full set of lungs, it is the opening of eyes––whether or not one wants to––and it is a refreshening of the senses.  The new day is a new opportunity.  Call it bold, call it beautiful... but my standard yields a new start for every day.  Don't we deserve that?  Don't we all?

A knife and fork at the dinner table should not be anymore standard than the morning's white light or the soft sheets keeping me in bed.  The day's exposition is not to be identified as a luxury but I choose to handle it as such.  The early hours spent during the start of the day are perfect for their simplicity.  The time caught in soft illumination contrasts the busy day to follow.  I value the time I have to speak with my body, to find color, to open my eyes.  Perhaps I am at fault for finding comfort on the left side of the clock; maybe I am no different than the man searching for a bold coffee.  

Standard is not to suggest that my mornings are static; please, do not misinterpret my words.

Bold, beautiful––standard.  Mornings are expositional to the day.

All The White Horses - A Whimsical Christmas

Styling: Jana Roach, Vanessa Pleasants of The Vintage Whites Market,
www.vintagewhitesblog.com
Photography: Alicia Brown, www.aliciabrownphotography.com

Christmas is a magical time, especially in northwestern Montana when the snow is falling. Vanessa and I are both incredibly inspired by the colors and traditions surrounding the season, and we translated that into this bright and whimsical vintage Christmas shoot.

Carousel horses, painted white and glittered, adorned the table. Antique clocks ticked away in the tree, and sweet teddy bears kept us company as we ate. Candles flickered, and the smell of fresh juniper branches and spruce filled the air, rising from under our thick rope table runner. Our linens were wrapped with velvet bows to add warmth to the room. Vintage mismatched china in blue and gold create a warm Christmas tone for dinner. Blue is one of our favorite colors, especially for winter. We love a white winter wonderland, and blues add color without being too harsh or overpowering to a clean white palette. Nearly every Chirstmas, Vanessa decorates with some sort of blue in a house full of whites. This year, her Christmas is inspired by the vintage dishes she found, patterned with a very unique blue wheat print. While searching for vintage finds in a thrift store, Vanessa came across a carrousel horse and had a vision of one under a tree. That vision sparked the theme for the tablescape, and she later realized that the vision stemmed from the classic movie White Christmas, when the lead character opens a gift and inside is a beautiful white horse.

We used thick rope to create a runner that added great texture to the table. Simply trim a piece of cardboard to the length and width you want your runner to be, and hot glue rope strands to the cardboard until it is completely covered. You can vary your thickness if you want, but we love the look of thick rope in contrast with the soft, navy velvet bows.An old, painted dresser made a perfect buffet in the dining room. Since it is smaller than a buffet or hutch, it is the perfect match for a snug room. Store linens and silver in the drawers, and hang a wreath or garland on the mirror. Presents wrapped in craft paper, ruffled crepe paper, and velvet make for a beautiful landscape under the tree. Ribbon strung through an old watch adds a unique touch to the wrapping. Leaving bigger vintage toys unwrapped under the tree reminds us of the childlike joy and happiness of the season.

I’ve spent a majority of my winters in the northwest, which means plenty of cold weather and big winter coats. I remember the first year my family moved to Montana, we couldn’t see out of the windows because they were covered in snow. We had nine feet that year, and could sled off of our roof on to the thick piles of snow below. I can’t remember a Christmas where my parents didn’t do something special for us. They never start Christmas morning without a pot of coffee, thick pieces of bacon, or fluffy pancakes. For my brothers and I, this was torture because we had to wait until they were done eating before we could open presents. Everything was always wrapped in gorgeous coordinating colors, which inspired ideas for wrapping presents for this shoot. We always had a note from Santa hidden in the tree, and often one more surprise after all the gifts were unwrapped. I’m so thankful for the things my parents did to make Christmas special for my brother and I, and I am so excited to pass those things along to my kids one day.

Bringing the past to life with vintage touches made this shoot one of our favorites, and we were honored to use decorations that someone cherished years ago. Whether you’ve inherited or collected vintage over the years, recreate a Christmas from days gone by for a special holiday season! Wishing you and yours a merry Christmas from Vintage Whites!

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If We Only Knew -Veterans Day

By: Martha Passman | 2012

On a dusty shelf, in a tiny thrift store in North Georgia, sat an old gold plated glass liquor decanter.

As I traveled along my usual route through the shop, I spotted a decorative bottle resting among vintage glasses and candlesticks, $2.95!  Of course I put it in my stash of finds without a second glance.  I was already thinking about the next treasure to be found.

After a long day of picking, boxes and bags of newspaper wrapped items are usually deposited where ever space is found in my garage, until I can prepare them to be put in my shop.

Months later, while un-wrapping a couple of boxes of merchandise, I came across the decanter.  I studied its shape and speckled remains of gold and I thought how pretty it would look on a book shelf or in a collection of vintage bar finds and bottles.   As I sat there studying the bottle, I noticed a label for the first time, Kentucky Tavern – Personally Selected for Kenneth Gissonne; Rio Rita; 403 Bomb SQ 43 GRP.

I can’t describe the feeling that came over me!  Was this a gift for a person who was part of a bomb squadron?   What or who was Rio Rita?  I immediately dropped everything I was doing and headed straight for my lap top!

The first thing I researched was 403 Bomb Squadron.  Yes!  There it was, the 403rd Bomb Squadron was an active unit of the United States Air Force from 1940 to 1946.  Then later reactivated and then closed during 1961. 

It was activated in 1940, during WWII, as a long range reconnaissance squadron that operated over the mid Atlantic states and later the Newfoundland Straits and the North Atlantic shipping lanes.   In 1942, it was reassigned to Australia and flew from Australia and New Guinea and participated in the Battle of Bismarck Sea.  The squadron also flew over China and Japan performing multitudes of bombing runs.

Now I was on to something!  Next was Rio Rita!  Initially, all I could find was information on a 1927 romantic comedy musical named Rio Rita, written by Florenz Ziegfield and a 1929 movie based on the same story. The story does involve spies and secret service so I assumedsince the movie was the most popular of its day, it must have been well known.  

I finally came across copies of old newsletters that began in 1981.  Known as the 43rd Bomb Group Assn. Inc. – these men remained connected via mailed newsletters and annual meetings!  The 43rd Bomb Group, calledKEN’S MEN, consisted of four different squadrons of bombers, the 403rd being one of them!

I read through several newsletters, announcing member’s deaths, changes of addresses, comments and memories by different members, until, there it was, a small paragraph in the 32nd edition from August, 1989.

“Bryan A. Flatt, 403rd, a new member, says to tell Kenneth Gissonne, 403rd Navigator, he was on the Wewak Mission, 27, August, 1943, and had returned (to base) when Rio Rita came in for landing, shot up, no landing gear, etc.  He will be at the reunion, so see him there to talk it over.”

Ah Ha!  So the Rio Rita was a plane and Kenneth Gissonne was its Navigator!  It sounded as if they had been through an air battle!  I was excited to finally find something!  

Then in an earlier newsletter, 31st edition, dated, May 1989 I read, “On 8/23/43, mission which turned out to be a little rough. Plane was Rio Rita, Crew: Pilot, George Putnam; Co-Pilot, John Taylor; Navigator, Kenneth Gissonne; Bombardier, Phil Wolf.”  The newsletter goes on to list several crew members.  It then states:  “Damage, One KIA, three wounded, two engines shot out, nose wheel retracted, over 200 bullet holes.”

Thank goodness they were able to make it back to base!  I could not imagine the horror of being shot at, losing engines, possibly being on fire and injured and dying crew members! I found three different mentions of the air battle and subsequent crash landing in the air field, but cannot confirm the actual date.  

More research and several hours later I finally found a photo, there she was, the Rio Rita, a B24 Liberator Bomber!

After reading hours of newsletters, absorbing these veteran’s lives, I was overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude.  Over 750 men were killed serving in the 43rdGroup. These men who were teenagers and 20 year olds, left their homes, traveled to Australia and then New Guinea of all places, experienced terrible Japanese bombing runs on the island, saw native families and villages destroyed, death and suffering not only of the locals but their brother airmen as well.  They came home filled with memories they would never forget.  They came home sharing a bond of experience, hardship, pride and patriotism!  

Each newsletter included a section called Gone But Not Forgotten, listing the men who passed away since the previous newsletter, and there it was, Kenneth Gissonne passed away on March 20, 2005, as reported by his daughter.   I found a mention of his birth on an archival website, October 16, 1920.  He was 22 years old when he left for Australia and died at the age of 84.  Kenneth Gissonne flew 35 missions with one pilot, Al Putnam, and then went on to also fly missions out of the 63rd Group as well.

I thought about my own grandfather, who fought during World War One in France and my father who fought during the Korean War in Korea, and wondered what hardships they encountered, what experiences and memories traveled home with them.  

And yet, even now, during modern times, all the lives lost since 911, the sacrifices and struggles made by today’s military families, the men and women of our United States Armed Forces continue to protect our nation, our freedomsand our rights!   They make the same sacrifices today as those made decades ago and as they travel around the globe, they carry the same unwavering sense of duty andpatriotism!

The gold Kentucky Tavern Bourbon bottle will stay with me.  I have not been able to confirm when Mr. Gissonne received the gift.  Pure conjecture on my part, but I would think it was a special gift presented to him as a 50thAnniversary of his veteran service from WWII, which would mean he received it sometime in the early 1990’s.  

Over the years, I have purchased many things that included clippings or notes or dried flowers that instantly took me to another time.  These vintage and antique items that we all love to collect have a story!  They represent someone’s life, someone’s home, their taste in clothes or furniture or even liquor!  Or they may go one step further, and teach a lesson about history, brotherhood and duty!

Next time you see a memento from the past, pay homage to it, you never know what you might learn!  Past and present, I am forever humbled and grateful for the men and women of the United States Armed Forces!  Thank You!

SUBMIT YOUR STORIES AND ESSAYS TO EDITOR@FOLKLIFESTYLE.COM

One Nation Under God -Veterans Day

By: Linda Burgess | 2012

Patriotism, as defined by Webster, means great love of one’s own country and loyalty to it. I learned that in my home, my school and in my church. I grew up in a home and family with a World War II veteran, my dad, and a Pearl Harbor survivor, my great uncle.  My father-in-law also served in World War II. My father-in-law also served in World War II. Several years after Dad’s death, I gained a Korean era veteran for a step-father. Yes, patriotism flourished in my home. 

Each school day began with prayer and THE Pledge of Allegiance. Pictures of patriots hung in our classrooms…George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. An American flag proudly hung from the center of the frame around the blackboard. One of the greatest honors was holding the flag while the entire class recited The Pledge. Chills still run up and down my spine as I recall those mornings in a small, rural school in western Kentucky. 

Vacation Bible school held similar places of honor as each day three people made the cut and proudly marched into the church carrying the Bible, the Christian flag or the American flag. On special occasions such as Veterans’ Day or Flag Day or Memorial Day we sang songs such as “God Bless America”, “America, the Beautiful”, or “America” after the church recited The Pledge of Allegiance. 

I often scratch my head as I wonder what happened to all of this. Why do we not see those patriots’ pictures in our classrooms? Why do school children not pledge their allegiance to our flag? Why do we not hear the stories our veterans have to share? Why do many churches not display our American and our Christian flags? The answers neither come TO me nor FROM me but the questions present themselves as fodder for thought. 

Dad never talked to me that much about his military experience. I know that he was an unbelievable marksman who declined the job of sniper. He could hit his target when shooting from the hip with a pistol. He never admitted to that being more than an accidental hit. I hunted with him on many outings where every shot brought home a bird, squirrel or rabbit. He didn’t believe in wasting ammunition. My granddad taught him that during the lean years of the Great Depression. He once ran across a plowed field, dropped to one knee and with one shot, took down a deer on the run. It was a clean shot right through the heart. I knew he never saw action once he arrived in Europe. He helped with clean up and police action. The peace agreement had been reached and signed while he was en route to France. Dad often talked of the beauty of the areas he saw, in spite of the destruction of war. He always wanted to visit Europe again but he never got that opportunity. Among other mementos of Dad, I proudly own one of his dog tags. Part of my tradition for Veterans’ Day is wearing his dog tag in honor of his service. I’m thankful he didn’t have to fight but equally thankful for his patriotic spirit that was willing to fight for our freedom and all the things that make our country great.

My great uncle rarely spoke of Pearl Harbor until after he retired. To some he was known as Doc. Others knew him as Pappy. To me he was Gussie Boy. Although Dad was the marksman, Gussie Boy taught me how to shoot. I had a brand new BB Daisy BB gun and couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. I competed with my brothers (one older and one younger) that Christmas but spent more energy fussing because I couldn’t hit the target. Gussie Boy came to my rescue. He showed me how to use the sights properly and I became a regular Annie Oakley, a name my 21 year old nephew also used on me recently. Gus also gave me my first real gun but that’s another story for another time. During those years of my childhood I didn’t grasp the magnitude of Gus’ service. On Dec. 7, 1941, he would have just been 2 months beyond his 31st birthday. That explains the nickname Pappy. He served aboard the USS Tracey, docked in the harbor that fateful Sun morning. He told of how he stood ironing his dress whites as the attack ensued. He traded his iron for his weapon and, as the saying goes, the rest is history. Along with Dad’s dog tag, I have one of Gus’ that I also wear on Veterans’ Day. That is my way of remembering my two favorite veterans on a special day as well as honoring both the U.S. Army and the U.S. Navy. 

Though I didn’t have much time to really get to know my father-in-law, one of my favorite family photos hanging over my desk is one of him in his uniform. Three WW II veterans greatly influenced my life personally and my life in general. When I began teaching sixth grade, I found it very easy to incorporate a special unit wrapped in World War II information. People such as Bill Burgess, Gus Burgess and Jamie Reid preserved our freedom and set the wheels in motion for America to become the greatest nation on Earth. Although those three men were no longer available to visit with my classes, I found others who did. Perhaps my motives were, in part, selfish, but I felt the burning desire for stories to be shared with today’s young people. My generation seems to have dropped the ball with teaching patriotism, respect for our country and to the men and women who keep us free. 

One of my favorite visitors was a woman who served as a nurse during World War II. She came to my class each year for 12 years. She brought her nurse’s uniform and joked about it not fitting. She never failed to tell about going through basic training just the same as any other soldier. My students found it interesting that a nurse carried a rifle, crawled under barbed wire and tossed grenades. “Mert” never left U.S. soil. She served at the Greenbriar Hotel which was converted to a military hospital for a time. Her duties and specific training found her working the spinal cord injury ward. She always shared the story of a big, athletic young man determined to overcome his injuries and walk. With tears and quivering voice we learned that the day came to prove he could walk but the injury to his spinal cord was too great and he could not walk. Mert said she often wonders what happened to him after he left the hospital. These stories need to be preserved and retold. They are the stories of true American heroes.

My mother remarried many years after Dad’s untimely death -another great guy and a veteran. Clark served during the Korean Conflict. Again I was blessed to have a patriot in the family. I didn’t talk to Clark about his military time but he often spoke about friends he made when he and Ben’s grandmother lived on different Army posts and of how they “took in” young soldiers and their families as they tried to make life a little more like home. That’s just the kind of spirit that makes our nation strong. 

Seeing pictures of my fathers and my great uncle send chills up and down my spine. I get emotional when I hear “The Star Spangled Banner” (when sung properly and not so stylized you don’t recognize it) or when I see a squad of veterans bear the colors in the local Christmas parade. I love listening to John Philip Sousa marches and watching fireworks on the 4th of July. I step aside when uniformed service men/women walk in my direction. I feel the need to pull over and stop along the roadside when meeting a convoy of military vehicles. I still stop and watch as military helicopters pass over my head. I secretly hope they can see that I pause to honor them in my own way. I wish I could hear Dad talk about the beauty of Germany or ask Gus more questions about Pearl Harbor. I wish I could thank Jamie and Clark for their service. Since I can’t do that, I can, hopefully pass along my love for America and my sense of respect to those who serve in the armed forces. We ARE the greatest nation and I, for one, wouldn’t live anywhere else.

SUBMIT YOUR STORIES AND ESSAYS TO EDITOR@FOLKLIFESTYLE.COM

How do you get down from a goose

By: Greta Whitehead || Spring 2013

“Aren’t those geese beautiful?”

The geese belonged to my grandparents, Herman and Lola Render of the Walton Creek area near Centertown, Ky. Summer arrived and with it came more time at our grandparents’ home. It also meant molting season for the geese. Since geese typically molt (lose some of their feathers) during the summer, Mammie took advantage of Mother Nature’s help in harvesting feathers for new pillows. Their feathers sure made neat pillows.

My sister, Jo Carolyn Patton, and I, Greta Whitehead, lived in that neighborhood and were always at our grandparents’ home as much as possible. We had grown up around the geese but we were afraid of them. We knew that geese were sometimes used for security animals because they are so easily excited and alert you to impending danger by flapping their wings wildly and honking loudly to scare off suspected intruders. Still, we loved to find their big eggs. It was always special on Easter to have a big colored goose egg in our basket.

We were daring kids…especially me. I would make one of the geese mad just so it would chase us. The only time we were pinched by one was when we helped our grandmother hold the big geese while she plucked the feathers for her pillows.

She would turn one at a time upside down and hold it with her legs and start to work. Jo and I, as little girls, would try and hold their heads so they wouldn’t pinch her legs. We would get tired and let go a few times. Mammie would end up with black and blue legs but good, soft, fluffy pillows.

Herman Render and Lola Bennett Render, beloved Christian grandparents of our 13 brothers and sisters were near 80 when our family moved on in to Centertown. I have many good memories of Walton Creek people and the good life we had there. Though saddened by our move to town, many new adventures and memories awaited us there.

My dad, the local barber, felt it necessary to move to town so he could be close to his barber shop. Sometime in the 40’s, Dad bought an old Greyhound bus. He converted the old bus into a nice café that sat on Main St. It was quite beautiful, inside and out, with a fireplace, juke box, booth and stools at the counter. The “Blue Bus Café” became the hangout for teens, a safe place that was supervised by good honest folks who believed in their community and its future. Our parents, Raymond “Dick” Render and his loving wife, Lou, ran the café until they moved to Jeffersonville to work in the shipyards.

Times were hard and work was scarce so many families of our hometown had to move where they could find steady work. The Blue Bus closed but the stories of good times there live to this day. Other small cafés have come and gone in Centertown.

Each one had its regular customers who would enjoy a good cup of coffee and the stories shared around the table. More often than not, someone would bring up the Blue Bus Café and fond memories began to flow.

Although we missed our days at our grandparents’ farm, the Blue Bus Café occupied our time and life moved forward.

Lessons and values learned on that farm and in the Blue Bus Café never left us. Whenever I see geese I recall the fun we had helping Mammie make pillows. In reflection I can see that we were learning work and care for the family, but we just thought we were having fun. As I drive down Main St. in Centertown, my mind’s eye still sees that old Greyhound Bus that transformed to a wonderful hangout known affectionately as The Blue Bus Café…a safe place for youngsters to spend supervised time together knowing that Daddy and Momma kept a keen eye on each and every one of us.

SUBMIT YOUR STORIES AND ESSAYS TO EDITOR@FOLKLIFESTYLE.COM

A Southern Treasure | An Essay

    By: Shan Ashby    

My husband and I were traveling in July, through what I call, “my south”  when we stoppedto eat at a popular fast food spot.  We picked a table and sat next to a window looking across a steamyparking lot.  Both of us are people watchers.  I guess that's the school teacher that comes out in us.  It's a skill one develops after a lifetime in the classroom, that allows one to hear conversations and read body language of an entire room full of souls while appearing to be doing something entirely different.

There was an older man, probably in his late 80's or early 90's sitting across from us eating ata table with a much younger but look alike fellow, I surmised he was probably the gentleman's grandson.  He wore faded denim, bib overalls with galluses over an ironed blue and gray plaid shit.  He was clean, shiny clean and hiswhite hair with a speck of grey looked soft as it fell away from his hairline part.  The young man across the table was eating hurriedly, it was after all mid-day and they probably had errands to run. 

A family soon filled the table behind us - parents with three grade school aged children. They were modestly dressed – no name brand clothes, no cell phones, no walking and texting.  They were quiet as they pulled the chairs away from the table across the tile floor and seated themselves.  The father carried food on one tray and the mother carried the drinks on another. The oldest child had napkins and straws which she passed around.  

Our three families continued to dine in the midst of the noise from the soda machines and orders numbers being called – lunchtime patrons, coming and going.  I watched the elderly gentleman finish his sandwich and drink as he glanced often toward the familybehind me. And for that monumental moment I could read his thoughts. I've done it so many times with my own Grandfathers and Dad after they shared stories about their lives during the depression, as well as,  the stories they dared share about the horrors of war. 

I knew as he looked at the family, the gentleman could see himself as a young father, The children, reminded him of his own and he thought about his wife, now gone, and how she had cared for their little ones in the prime of her young life.  

He remembered the struggles of his childhood and his responsibility as a Daddy to feed a hungry family. He had insight. He had a pleasant expression as he watched them enjoy their meal.  The young man who sat across the table from himfinished his meal and motioned for them to leave.  With   little conversation, the young man rose from the table and walked toward the trash and placed his tray in the appropriate place and then waited by the door.

The elder also stood, but much slower.  He scooted his chair under the table, picked up his tray and turned toward the young family.  Without hesitation he approached their table. He stood as tall as his frame would allow and he spoke directly to the father, 

“ Would your family care for my fries?” There was a momentary silence between the two men as my husband and I listened and watched this noble act of southern kindness.

“I haven't touched them and I'mfull, I can't eat them, I don't want them to go to waste.” he spoke softly. 

In those brief seconds I felt my heart begin to pound and a lump tighten in my throat. I couldn't continue to eat.  I held my breath and hoped the tears in my eyes would not draw any attention in this moment – I leaned over my foodto avoid eye contact with my husband.  

We were in the presence of a private moment, a historical moment that only a people of our age in the south canunderstand and appreciate.  This was a hospitable southern offering from this elders generation but might likely bring giggles, smirks and laughter from some of the “ insensitive, self serving” youth of a more modern generation.  

Sadly, the time is quickly coming when this southern offering like so many other unselfish treasures of giving will no longer bemade by a generation of people.  I may never witness an act of this genuine kindness again in my lifetime.

This was a gentile, southern man.  I'm sure his eyes had seen too much that he'd like to forget, his body marked by age but his generosity beyond reproach.  He was old enough to remember the “great depression”, to remember as a child, days with no food, to remember cold winter nights with nowarmth andshoes soles reinforced with cardboard, but he endured.  He was old enough to have served his country in World War II and perhaps seen starving children and adults through barbed concertina wire in the concentration camps in Germany or witnessed his comrades in arms die on the blood soaked battle fields of France or England, but he endured.    

He is a pattern of many many southern men whose ghosts grace sacred places of our world     in honor of freedom at Valley Forge, Vicksburg, Gettysburg, Normandy, Pearl Harbor, Germany, theSouth Pacific, Iwo Jima and Korea.  He is an American son, still a father for his countrymen who still remembers the pains of poverty, the sick and down trodden. And as long as he has an ounce of strength, he will volunteer on their behalf to insure their welfare.

The young father, replied with respect as to allow the older gentlemanhis dignity and sincerity.

“Thank you, Sir.  I think we are fine and have plenty.” 

“I wanted to make sure your family hadenough food. You are welcome to my potatoes, I didn't touch them, really, I didn't touch them at all.”

The young father answered humbly, 

“I appreciate your offer, thank you Sir, we are fine.”  The elder walked away feeling better for his inquiry and concern butlifted the flap of the front pouch of his bibs and carefully tucked the paper sack of fries into the pocket. 

Life has shown me, that the older generation, the “generation who saved the world” is often ignored.  Our aging fathers and mothers have much wisdom to share.  They do not have face book accounts, send many text messages or surf the web.  Their knowledge came from the feet of their parents and grandparents instead of CNN.  Their life lessons and common sense have served our country well.

You may be reluctant to speak to someone with white hair, stooped shoulders orbib overalls assuming they are not aware or they do not notice you, but don't fool yourself.  Their bodies maybe old and worn, but their spirits are still young enough to see more about you than you know about yourself. 

For they have seen our country beforein troubled times and made sacrifices so that we could have what many of ustake for granted. I can remember my mother often cautioning me, 

“be sav'in now, you never know when hard times are com'in.”  and I fear she is right.

They are our wisdom keepers, our historians and they should be cherished and revered.  For they endured and seldom questioned – but they endured.

So if your walking down the street sometime and someone looks at you with hollow ancient eyes and you fail to speak or respond, you have lost more than you may know.   As John Prine, the Kentucky born songwriter/singer sang, “Please don't just pass 'em by and stare, as if you don't care, say, hello in there ”  and smile with some down home southern respect – and a treasure will be opened to you, especially if you are somewhere in my south.

Be Kind // Stella Marina

Be Kind. 

Kindness in its essence is a trait sometimes undervalued and often forgotten.  
Yet a few words carefully selected, or simply left unspoken can mean the difference between a smile and a tear.  We speak of intention, of gratitude and karma, but a simple act of selfless kindness is all it can take to brighten or soften the days of at least two people. 
 

It is present in babies when they are born, no child comes into this world with a preconceived idea of malice or hatred, we arrive with the capacity to love unconditionally, yet slowly that capability becomes ground down and chipped away over the years. In some minds, the potential for love, charity or altruism becomes crystallised, growing in new forms, in others a sort of calcification takes place, a smooth, hardened shell presents itself to the world.
 I might like to add here, that I do not write this from some rose-tinted cloud of kindness and empathy. I write this from my kitchen table, where I am slumped. I dragged myself here across the carpet because today I had a panic attack and I had to leave work.  I have felt the rumblings of one for the past week or so, but some loose-lipped words this morning sent me over the edge, and as I lay on my bed in that hazy aftermath where you feel completely empty and a little bit numb. I decided that the best thing to do was something constructive with this feeling (I also had to stop the day from feeling wasted).  
 

To draw us back to my favourite analogy, life on a boat actually offers up a wonderful platform for kindness. 

To be at sea grants us a condensed version of the outside world, yes it is archaic and often patriarchal, but it relies on wanting to keep one another alive. We depend on one another, knowing that the task ahead would be so much harder if not impossible alone. That self-reliant entity that is your ship, allows you to shed the skin of daily life, removing all other roles and responsibilities aside from sailing, eating, sleeping and how you will progress from A to B. Each change of direction is predetermined by a greater force, you cannot fight the wind, you can only harness it in order to move forward. Maybe this applies to our emotions, to anger or frustration? Bottling them up inside will rarely relinquish them, you may only harness that energy in order to move forward. Then there are the consequences of careless harsh words in an environment fuelled by broken sleeping patterns and constant movement. Not only are those words magnified but there is no easy exit, you are with those people for better or for worse, so please let's be kind. These words are easy to write, the thoughts are easy to form. The hard part is in the heat of the moment when you are distracted or angry. I do not claim that it is possible to constantly check yourself for thoughts of anger. The freedom to express our thoughts, ideas and emotions in any way that we like is a human luxury, we must try only not to exploit it. If you are granted words, please use them kindly. If you are granted authority, please use it wisely.

Alex and the Boy with Flowers

Photographer Alex McDonald has shared dozens of photo essays with us over the years. This one was a few years ago and remains one of our favorites. 

Why Must We Protect Our Public Lands?

 

WHY MUST WE PROTECT OUR PUBLIC LANDS

ESSAY BY AMY HAYDEN || PHOTOGRAPHY BY PAIGE DENKIN

The question was asked...why must we protect our public lands and parks... Amy Hayden responded with a beautiful essay

Here is a simple history lesson for you. You do realize that's how these places became national parks. Someone wandered onto the land and saw the beauty and decided it needed to be known that it was a beautiful, majestic wonder the earth created, and it needed to be known that there were many people that came before us and they put their mark on it and called it home. And when decades later it was discovered people went to great lengths to protect it, and to teach others about it, to help preserve such a wonder, a rare beauty. Beauties that every state in our country once had tons of and now everyday we are losing more of them from natural disasters and political disasters. If no one stepped foot into these areas there would be no beauty to admire. No one would know or care about such places. We'd be suffocating with cities filled to the brim with people.

These places are our history, my history, Native American runs through my blood and I would love to know what my ancestors experienced before I die, so I too can find a way to leave my mark on this earth for future generations to see and experience when I'm long gone. To remember who came before them as we are now remembering who came before us. That's what national parks/monuments are all about. To teach us to be grateful, to show us that we were not just handed all this. It's to teach us that one day this world will no longer exist in the beauty we see it today. Stepping foot into such a place is not killing it, it's making it a beautiful memory. But drilling and mining miles down underneath it, Say goodbye resources this beautiful land survives on. Say hello to a wasteland caused by greedy, power hungry humans. Open your eyes and see the answers are in these places.

— @REBELLIOUSWALLFLOWER

Five Alternative Uses for Fruitcake

Truman Capote’s 1956 short story “A Christmas Memory” opens on a chilly, late November morning to a young boy’s surrogate mother looking out the kitchen window. Her breath fogs the pane and “Oh my,” she exclaims to him, “it’s fruitcake weather!"

BY: D. GILSON

I’ve been thinking about this boy and this woman a lot recently, as my own breath fogs the frosty mornings and the local food co-op in our New England town puts out its annual order forms for fruitcake, displayed carefully between menorah candles and commemorative winter solstice prayer cards.

My mother doesn’t bake. But lo-and-behold, every holiday season a fruitcake adorned the giant red sideboard next to our kitchen table. My mother and I would drive to the local Sam’s Club, grab Diet Cokes from the hot dog stand, peruse the aisles of colossal cheese and salami trays, gallon jugs of Jack Daniels, permafrost boxes of Hot Pockets and Pizza Rolls capable of feeding a small legion of junior high boys for the better part of a month. We’d end at the bakery, plop a shrink-wrapped, over-sized fruitcake into our cart, and make for home. Freshness isn’t an issue with fruitcake, the food that, along with Twinkies, may very well feed us in a post-nuclear apocalypse. 

Our fruitcake held court upon the vintage milk glass cake stand for a month or so, a month when we’d peck at it until New Year’s, when my mother would throw what remained in the backyard, where stray cats and birds would finish what we couldn’t.

Yes, it’s popular to hate on fruitcake. And though I don’t particularly like it — even the artisanal ones this site will inevitably link to, made by hipster bakers with pretty blogs and thick framed glasses smudged with organic, locally-sourced, hand-ground flour — I want to offer you five uses for fruitcake that don’t require eating them.

XO,

D.

Rise to social media stardom. Jesus is not the reason for the season, and Santa is drunk on a beach in Cancun. This leaves room for a new holiday star: you. Bake a fruitcake (or buy one, it doesn’t matter). Snap a picture of it next to your bare ass. Tag with #FruitCAKE. Drop to Insta, Tumblr, Facebook, Reddit (even trolling, closeted Republicans need holiday eye candy). Watch your likes grow and your star rise, bringing many a wise man to lay in your manger.

Win the passive-aggressive winter Olympics. That racist cousin whose name you always draw for the family gift exchange? That co-worker who sends you “Long Live Lady Gaga” playlists on Spotify? That guy who gave you chlamydia junior year but is now married to a rich patron with a Lower East Side loft and cabin in Asheville? Yeah, fuck ‘em with kindness. Bake the driest fruitcake you can, wrap it in butcher paper, tie it with twine, add a sprig of spruce, and send it alongside the happiest holiday card you can muster. Up goes your karma count, no one can say you didn’t try, and hey, maybe your untouched fruitcake will draw rats to their well-appointed kitchen.

Plan a date. Tell your crush to bring dried fruit and the door will be open. Splay yourself upon the counter, covered with flour, eggs, butter…whatever else goes in a fruitcake. See what happens.

Throw a costume party. Invite every gay man and every woman you know to a Fruitcake Party. Dress: ho ho ho. Décor: low lighting. Drink: liquid fruitcake (orange zest, a cinnamon stick, but mostly gin). Distraction: Love Actually on loop. Don’t forget: carb and gluten free fruitcake bites and plenty of mistletoe.

Reconnect with your mother. You don’t call enough. You haven’t given her grandchildren. You live so far away in that city now. And yet, you are naturally her favorite. Spend an afternoon baking with your mother, margaritas in your cups and Dolly Parton on the stereo. Tell her about the boy who broke your heart last month. Let her tell you he wasn’t good enough anyway.

D. Gilson is the author of I Will Say This Exactly One Time: Essays (Sibling Rivalry, 2015) and Crush with Will Stockton (Punctum Books, 2014). He is an Assistant Professor of English at Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts, and his work has appeared in Threepenny Review, PANK, The Indiana Review, The Rumpus, and as a notable essay in Best American Essays. Find D. at dgilson.com or on Instagram @dgilson.

Common Thread

 

COMMON THREADS

AN ESSAY BY MELISSA MCARDLE 

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Her hands work effortlessly as she turns a skein of yarn into an afghan her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren will warm themselves with on countless occasions…a piece of crafted art, a piece of her, a blanket filled with love and memories of the selfless woman who gave her everything for her family. Whenever a loving couple commits to happily ever after, a birth is announced, or a home is new to cherish, she creates an afghan for that occasion, a keepsake that becomes an instant heirloom in our hearts and homes. It is the one gift we all look forward to receiving, and when she requests the colors of our desire, we choose with thoughtful consideration. A colorful spectrum of soft woolen fiber fills the homes of her descendents, linking us together by one common thread, her loving handiwork, her patterns...a compilation of comfort in every loop, knot and row.

The winter months are when I dust off my needles and sort through the bag of yarns, easing my fingers back into the practice of knitting. It’s a hobby which remains dormant in the sun-filled months, yet tends to warm my heart during the long dark chilled evenings of the crisper seasons. My grandmother taught me how to knit and crochet, both skills I hold dear; a family-tree connection that I am beginning to pass down to my little girl. Recalling the early days, when I was eager to learn and dreamed of being creative like my grandmother; patiently, she watched as my unskilled fingers tried over and over to grasp the yarn and produce an outcome beyond a tangled mess of string. Rhythmic movements of her hands in complete synchronicity, forming a pattern, creating a comforting gift, she could have done it all with her eyes closed. Now that I’m older, I believe I understand why she enjoys this method of crafting: One’s thoughts tend to wander in a peaceful state as the rhythm unfolds and the final outcome of the creative consistency is a practical gift filled with joy and love. Whether I’m practicing my own handwork or wrapped up in one of her gifted afghans, I am reminded of her – warm, loving and safe, an endearing way to carry her with me forever and always.

Estival Survey + Alaska

About two seconds.

That’s what you have between being asked and your response; before you let on.

It’s important first, to acknowledge we’ve reached the era of total geographical and technological accessibility. Our generation has become comfortable, in such a way that we can begin to treat a trip to say— Vik with as much insouciance as some may have once— and do, their honeymoon to The Bahamas. So with this accessibility, it’s become less uncommon to cross paths with those whom venture frequently. I believe it’s the sheer magnitude of some variables that revolve around certain destinations; kilometers driven, meters climbed, batteries exhausted, that continue to garner an audience eager to follow along, and possibly take part in the journey through your response. Your response, however, is what you control. Following the great distances and scenes catalogued, you have a brief opportunity to contort history to serve the limelight into which you’re asked to share it.

About two seconds: to say the trip was perfect, or to tell the truth.

We’d gone in, a band of misfit storytellers, documentarians, broken hearts and transcontinental navigators. We’d agreed to drive our friends’ [@floatballoontours] hot air balloon from Phoenix, some four thousand long miles, to Anchorage. Upon our arrival, the Cloth & Flame (@clothandflame) and Royal & Design (@royalanddesign) teams would rendezvous and fly the balloon over the great Alaskan frontier. We’d camp, cook and share in campfire tomfoolery along the way. We’d collect our cast as the journey unfolded, and exchange it as the screenplay called. We’d gather the endorsement of our favorite like-minded brands, and set course into the true unknown, unruly and untamed wilderness of the far, far north. We’d no idea what we were getting into, but as the self-proclaimed crew of the first Survey; Estival Survey, we had done the best we damn could to prepare.

Our initial trajectory took us across Joshua Tree National Park, Los Angeles, the mighty Redwood Forest, San Francisco, the dunes of Oregon, and up to Seattle, Washington, over the course of roughly seven days. It was seldom a matter of beauty, where our attention strayed, as it was a matter of cognitive survival. This was meant to be the mild stretch— the familiar territory where we’d have ample time and resource to recuperate and charge our souls before moving onward.

The reality, and the response we wish to share is that behind the glamor, there lies a greater truth. Fevers, flies, poisonous vines, damp earth and sleeplessness all laid the groundwork to a remarkably taxing expedition. The nauseatingly vast stretch across Canada had begin to set in several hours after crossing the border. The decision had been made to trek through until our final destination. We made several day camps— of course given the extensive amount of daylight the further north we ventured, allowed for some flexibility with this. Kathleen Lake, Yukon was arguably one of the most beautiful places we could have ever hoped to lay our heads, hammocks, and sip a beer in freshwater at. We knew, however, our time was limited, as we wished to make schedule to Alaska. We drove, and drove, and drove into some great towering blackness; bear dotted gravel ways and tree lines set to stun. We drove, and drove.

Our time in Alaska felt short. It felt longer than the days we occupied it, and somehow still brief. I think it’s the madness of going that causes this. The brands we had partnered with allowed for several remarkable campsites and experiences; unparalleled landscapes of blue, and soft etchings of green. Not to say we weren’t in some ways sick, smoke tainted and tattered. Several of us had developed sever reactions and wounds. It was rough. Tempers were fickle. We pressed on, to admire and notice the Earth we escaped to find, and connect with one another in ways we left home to conquer...

When the brazen adventure seemed to be nearing its end, I received an unexpected opportunity to plunge myself one more time into the throws of the unknown. On my last day in Alaska, one of our hot air balloon pilots, Jeff, a slow-talking, wispy outdoorsman with a salt and pepper mustache and a sweat-stained baseball cap, offered to fly one member of the Estival Survey crew over the Knik Glacier in his plane to snap photos since weather would not permit us to charter a helicopter and fulfill our ultimate dream of flying the hot air balloon over the glacier. Knowing it was my last day, my beloved crew of cohorts voted unanimously that I should be the one with the privilege of taking this flight. We went to the local airport and walked up to a 1958 super-cub single-prop plane. At first I was a little nervous about getting in that rickety old thing, but true to the spirit of our journey, I went for it.

Photo by S. Cole Kiburz (@coleplay)

We flew over Anchorage and roughly another fifty miles over gorgeous Alaskan frontier to the edge of Inner Lake Gorge which connects to the mouth of Knik Glacier. That’s when old Jeff announced to me over the intercom headsets that we were going to be landing there. We hiked to the edge of the lake to take in the view of the massive icebergs floating in the water. After a little while, old Jeff, inadvertently stumbled upon an old, overturned canoe that was hiding in the brush. We flipped it over to reveal two sun-bleached life preservers and two oars. The canoe frame was bent crooked in several places and there was a large crack in the green frame which is almost certainly why it had been left behind. There are no roads to take you to this lake so the canoe must've been flown in  by helicopter at some point. Jeff duct-taped the crack in the canoe and we tested it's ability to float in the shallow water. Once we were confident that the boat wasn't going to sink, we decided to get in and take it through the maze of icebergs; the majesty and grandness of which I will never be able to fully describe. The crackling, squeaking, breathing noise of the ancient ice and how each jagged tower was as beautiful as any sculpture. The blues were comically over-saturated and the whites were blinding. We grabbed a couple chunks of ice that had broken off and fallen into the lake. I don't know fully how to describe it, but this ice was somehow colder than normal ice. We wrapped a couple chunks in a jacket and flew it back to Anchorage with us.

Later that night, when my time on the adventure came to an end, the remaining crew ofEstival Survey poured a glass of whiskey over top of the ice and cheers’d to what had genuinely been, the trip of a lifetime.

Photo by S. Cole Kiburz (@coleplay)

This isn’t about running away from your problems or grandstanding or crusade. It’s about connecting with the natural world that is so easy to overlook in the times we live in. It’s about rectifying the blisters on your feet with the sunset from the mountaintop. It’s cleaning your hands and face in the cool waters of the river. I believe that the answers we seek reside within us, always. We are born of truth, but the unbridled beauty of this planet can help bring that truth out of us. Sometimes it’s simple; like how rain on the canvas tent can enhance the reading of a book. Sometimes it’s profound; like the twilight nights around the fire when the sun never fully set; when you question god and yourself. It’s when you realize once and for all that you ain’t no wilting twig damned to a cracked pot. You are a wildflower, born of the sun and the dirt. It’s when you agree to give it hell and see where you end up. It’s when you get up and get going. It’s when you let the compass point you forward and the stars compel you onward. It’s my sincerest hope that we may all meet with vigor the challenges of our destinies.

I aligned with an idea that life could be compared to attempting to lift the stool you're sitting on. I'm now more inclined to think it best described as adrift in a hot air balloon. Silence until noise. Still until caught. It all seems simple, and then you look around beyond the comfort of your woven chariot. You are at the mercy of variables beyond control, with your only powers to react or not. You notice places slip by below, and wonder whether they too had stories; whether they too have chosen a response, or one day will. Regardless, they pass. Regardless, the horizon will never repeat itself, for by the time you circle the sphere, the landscape has changed again.

We’d gone in, a band of misfit storytellers, photographers and makeshift transcontinental navigators. We’d agreed to drive our friends’ [Float Balloon Tours] hot air balloon from Phoenix, some four thousand miles, to Anchorage. Upon our arrival, the Cloth & Flame and Royal & Design teams would rendezvous and fly the balloon over the great Alaskan frontier. We’d camp, cook and share in campfire tomfoolery along the way. We’d collect our cast as the journey unfolded, and exchange it as the screenplay called fitting. We’d gather the endorsement from our favorite like-minded brands, and set course into the true unknown, unruly and untamed wilderness of the far north. We’d no idea what we were getting into, but as the self-proclaimed crew of the first Survey; Estival Survey, we had done the best we damn could to prepare. Created by Ryan Neal Cordwell & Royal & Design, 2016 Feat. Song For a Girl, "Orem Dugas," Jared & The Mill, 2016

Estival Survey, 2016 (#EstivalSurvey)

Words by Ryan Neal Cordwell (@ryannealcordwell) & S. Cole Kiburz (@coleplay)

Film by Ryan Neal Cordwell (@ryannealcordwell, @royalanddesign)

Photos by Constance Higley (@constancehigley)

Team:

Ryan Neal Cordwell (@ryannealcordwell)

S. Cole Kiburz (@coleplay)

Dylan Brabec (@dylanbrabec)

Constance Higley (@constancehigley)

Michelle Johnson (@meeshalrj)

Brendan McCaskey (@jarofbuttons)

Cheyanne Paredes (cheyp)

Royal & Design (@royalanddesign)

Cloth & Flame (@clothandflame)

True Country

ESSAY BY: BLAKE PACK

When people dream of living in the country, I imagine they don't give much thought to the flies, pollen, grain chaff, and heat; the smell, wind, or dust. Growing up, the five-hundred head of livestock we owned consumed several tons of grain, hay, and corn each day; Let's just say not all of our dust was made of dirt. I don't know how the West was won, but I can imagine it probably conquered a few indomitable wills along the way.

I worked with these cattle in these conditions and I couldn't fathom thatthis land, this plain, was someone's romanticized dream of country life. I hated the work most. You couldn't escape the filthy combination of dust and grime, of animal and earth. When Grandpa said to be at the barn by seven, he didn't mean 0700, you were expected be there at 6:45 A.M. The cows wouldn't milk themselves at four in the morning, nor would the grain irrigate itself. The calves had to be fed, and the horses caught, all before nine if we were going to get to horse breaking.

I will admit the chore of breaking mostly fell to my Grandpa and father, but my brother and I had the privilege of holding the ropes as the colts kicked up the aforementioned dust. After several days of this repetition, the time came for my brother and me to run the horses like we were being chased by hellfire. It will never fail to amaze me how a colt in full sprint can reach back and bite his rider's shin without ever breaking stride.

I won't say it didn't have its rewards. We had our fair share of trips to the Palisades and Grand Tetons. Even if the trips required a wake-up call at five in the morning to catch horses, pack saddles, and load trailers. Six butts crammed into an extended cab '88 Chevy Dually for a two-hour drive, it wasn't ideal but it was all about the destination.

After several hours of riding, in these watercolor landscapes usually right about the time the pain from the saddle fell numb we'd return to the truck and, in reverse order, undo all the work of saddling the horses, repack, cram our butts back into the truck, and return home. Only this time, we'd stop by the first gas station we met where Dad would buy us whatever treat we wanted. At the end of our drive we'd drop the cousins and uncles off at their homes, leaving the work of unpacking to my brother, father, and me. Only when we had unpacked the horse trailer could we waddle home with our saddle-sore thighs and crawl into bed; Just to repeat it all the next day.

When people dream of living in the country, I don't imagine them giving much thought to the work and sweat that goes with a true country life, but that's just what I'll never forget.

On The Bright Side | Brandon Lopez

ON THE BRIGHT SIDE

MEET BRANDON LOPEZ 

His aesthetic is bright, crisp, and super clean. His photos brighten your day with their incredibly pleasing and refreshing simplicity. I had to learn more about how Denver based photographer Brandon Lopez developed his skills and his style.

Website - BrandonLopez.co | Instagram - @brandon.brightside |VSCO - vsco.co/brandonslopez

When did you start photography: My interest in photography was piqued three years ago when I lived in South Florida and was surrounded by so many great photographers, fashion designers, and street artists.

What caused you to get into photography: The pulse of creativity in South Florida inspired me to start thinking through each shot more technically - composition, light, texture, etc.

What was your first camera: The first camera I shot on was a Canon 5D Mark III that I borrowed from a friend in Colorado Springs. I barely knew - and maybe true still - what I was doing. 

What is your current camera: Currently shooting with a Canon AL 1. I’m trying to learn film, mostly by trial and error. It’s frustrating and exciting to shoot and develop a roll and see what turns out - it’s a patience thing.

What is your dream camera: Haven’t quite thought this through very much honestly, at least as far as an everyday camera. I’m still trying to find what feels most comfortable in my hand while shooting. If I had to name one, probably a Leica M3, but like most of us, I’ll keep dreaming.

Who inspires you: Fashion photographers like Samantha from @sammykeller in Denver and Jana from @ojandcigs in Miami are killin it right now. I love they’re style, the colors, the poses, the compositions, really their whole aesthetic is perfect. Street photographers like Joe from @ioestreet capture the human story in ways I only wish I could. Lastly, Toby from @tobyseeingthings is doing some pretty awesome work in minimalism - his series called ‘minimal body’ is one of my biggest sources of inspiration currently.

What inspires you: People inspire me. The people in my life, the people that pass me by every day. Everyone has a story to tell, whether that be through creative expression, vocation, or just conversation with strangers. 

What is your favorite subject to shoot, least favorite: Favorite would be people either candidly (street photo style) or somewhat staged. Currently I have this idea running through my head about social anxiety and feeling alone in a place that was once home. Looking in on people in what would feel like familiar settings we’ve all been in or known but in awkward or slightly uncomfortable poses - which sometimes (at least recently) is representative of how I feel in social situations. Lol. 

What do you feel is your greatest strength and what is your greatest weakness: I’ve been told my greatest strength is capturing people - so I’m running with that. Greatest weakness is probably the technical side of things, like operating a camera. Honestly this is a new form of expression for me. 

You have a very bright style, why? I like to keep my photos bright, colorful, and lively mostly to remind myself that this is what life is like. Honestly, I’ve been depressed for most of my life, growing up in a relatively religious home and keeping to myself about sexuality, along with a slew of other shit, has lead to some pretty dark days. And I’m not looking here looking for pity or ‘oh poor Brandon’ comments, but to show people who experience depression that there is a whole other side to their story that will come if they’re willing to fight for it - the bright side. 😉

What's a bit of life advice you'd give: Ha! You’re asking the wrong person for life advice. When I figure it out I’ll be sure to share. But to echo my answer for the last question, which actually sounds p corny when I read it back, but honestly life is a battle and if you’re willing to fight for what you love you will find that there is a whole community of people, with stories just as intricate and messy as yours, that will love and build you up. 

A Mountain Girl

A MOUNTAIN GIRL

PHOTOGRAPHY + ESSAY BY: LUKE GOTTLIEB

I grew up in a small town in the mountains of Colorado called Carbondale. It sits about 30 miles downriver from the iconic ski town of Aspen. You can imagine the sort of beauty and culture that area harnesses. Carbondale holds everything that is dear to me; rivers, mountains, wildlife, ranches and about everything you can imagine a small mountain town would. Most of my time growing up was spent running around in the woods and on ranches, which a few of my friends lived on. As any mountain child could recall, these sort of upbringings can certainly shape you. Certainly, they have shaped me and as I continue the journey of photography, which often brings me to cities such as Los Angeles, San Diego and beyond, it’s the mountains that ground me to the core. 

Over the last few months however, I was experiencing shoots that didn’t quite inspire me. So much of my work and projects take place in Los Angeles, where the pool of talented models, hair and makeup artists is endless. The industry is there in a big way, so over the last couple of years I have made it a point to be there often. As great as that is, it’s easy to get creatively exhausted and that is one of the biggest challenges for me in having an art form as my job. When you complete a project that truly speaks to you, that your truly proud of, you can feel that in a true and intense way. But getting to that point can be a hard and challenging road. Lately, I’ve been feeling the numbness of that weary road, and knew I needed to take a step back from the grind to focus on on finding new inspiration.

Recently, I had the pleasure of meeting a lovely gal by the name of Sarah Courtney. She’s a mountain girl through and through and her parents own this beautiful ranch in Buena Vista, CO. “Buena Vista”, which is Spanish for “Beautiful View,” is very much just that. The ranch sits at the foot of towering 14,000 foot peaks, and on this particular day, the infamous and unpredictable summer weather of Colorado was in full swing. Sweeping storm clouds had socked in the town for the day, but the ranch, nestled in the eye of these summer storms was some of the most stunning and dramatic light I have seen in a while. I hadn’t had a shoot that felt so close to home in such a long time. 

Sarah’s ranch is as amazing as any ranch could be; chickens, horses, random relics of the old days and a beautiful stately old barn that seems to watch over the ranch. Sarah herself is a proficient horseback rider and her connection with the horses is something that would inspire anyone. I wanted to capture this environment many people only know from films and show Sarah existing, naturally, authentically.

A sort of rejuvenation took place for me. The light was amazing, the styling was perfect, and for Sarah, it was her most authentic self being on the ranch around her horses. We walked around, shooting in multiple outfits and capturing anything that inspired us. Most of the time, I’m a portrait photographer in fairly controlled scenarios, being able to photograph this wild environment while capturing such a profound moment of connection between a woman and this beast was one of the most genuine, beautiful and grounding things for me. I had instant flashbacks to my childhood and my love for Colorado. 

I think things happen in life intentionally. For me, this shoot felt right. It felt like home and helped to refuel my soul in a way that continuing to grind out work could not. Certainly, from a photographer’s perspective… that of my own, i’m more inspired and driven after this experience. Often, we go around trying to figure things out as human beings instead of just allowing life to unfold. As I sit here eating some fresh eggs from Sarah’s ranch and listening to Bob Dylan, I look at this shoot as a testament to the notion that ‘home’ isn’t as far away as you think and who you truly are is always there. You just have to allow it to show up. 

Wales on Film

 

WALES ON FILM

A PHOTO ESSAY BY CHRIS BUXTON

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Wales is the mountainous western cousin of England, a Celtic link to the past with over 1,180 km or 730 mi for us using the imperial system of coastline, and 50 islands decorating it. Boasting three national parks and the Heritage Coast, Wales is an untapped land of adventure. Chris Buxton, a lifestyle photographer based in Wales in the United Kingdom, uses 35mm film for most of his practice. He relies on film to achieve a feeling that digital cameras can't capture naturally.

Living in Wales, he'd never really travelled around the Welsh landscape and finally decided to explore it with his second set of eyes, his camera. "I was very shocked by how beautiful this country truly is," says Chris, "it has shown me that everyone needs to explore their own homes to see where they're truly from." Chris tries to capture the natural and inner beauty of the landscape of his homeland and put it on the maps of like-minded soul-searchers and explorers hoping to find a new destination and a new adventure.