Gypsy Bonfire

Sarah Fishburn Part Two – October 2009

Artwork by Sarah Fishburn

This month we welcome back Sarah Fishburn, who created Part Two of her delightful Rose-colored Velvet Loveseat story. Scroll back one month to catch up if you missed part one.
Be sure to visit all of Sarah's links and remember that the Holidays are roaring down upon us and Sarah has new goodness to sweep up easily from her ETSY and Cafe Press and publishing sites.
Thanks for visiting, and enjoy.

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The Rose-colored Velvet Loveseat -Part Two

She was crazy about the city. The clatter and hummed cacophony, the hot smell of buses, cars, the El, and doorway cafés, stolen hours at the Art Institute, stolen meals at the Midnight Jewel.

 

She imagined herself a sort of pioneer, only backwards...Leave the contents of desks and drawers, the potted geraniums on windowsills. Begin your travels from a quieter, slower, western place. A place where the reason for waking up before anyone else - or maybe never even going to bed at all - is because by 6, the sky is already the clearest, thickest blue imaginable. A blue you could fall into. Just lay on your back and look up. Breathe deep, catching gulps of wind, dirt, piñon. In the foothills, in the valley, in your yard; it's all the same. A blue you can get lost in. 

 

They say at higher altitude, out west, the air thins. She knew that was wrong, some sort of miscalculation formulated by someone in a closed in space. Someone scribbling notes and equations as they breathed the permanently recycled air locked in the building with them. She found herself traveling toward the true drawn, thin air, further east, where buildings were constructed of metal and glass instead of - face it - mud. The city's suburbs were different; someone had once tackled prairie, mountains, even desert, as muse and revelation. But the catenary of the the lakeshore craved height for balance, and the architects of the city proper were quick to capitalize. The city's heartbeat had her mesmerized. And she had a story. She was looking for adventure. Looking for herself. Eastward bound. A pioneer.

 

And yet. In an achingly halcyon, long ago summer, romance met reality.

 

The rose-colored velvet love seat was more comfortable than the tattered sleeping bag on the floor in the bedroom. Even with no pillow, even with no throw, it seemed cozy; it held the heat of the day long after the last strains of Good-bye Pork Pie Hat drifted through the open window on a cool lakeshore breeze. She had intended to eat something earlier. Maybe run out for Greek, just up Halsted, but the letter - 7 pages, both sides, typewritten - made her forget. She really should have left it in the box, Return to Sender, or thrown it away unopened. Passersby below (she was on the third floor) looked up, saw only a dark and empty window. She thought she could steel herself. She thought she possessed an iron core. Instead she cried far into the night. 

 

First light, the crack of dawn, night breeze turned morning; "sleeping" on the love seat was a habit that would long follow her. But now she was nearly late. Down the block she ran, past sidewalk marks - Latin Eagles are now (apparently) Eating Bagels - and it's-time-for-supper-the-night-before abandoned and forgotten toys. Around the corner early risers - or had they walked the streets awake all night, too? - called out their "Hey, pretty mama"s and she flashed them each a quick and rueful grin. It wasn't their fault. The doors of the corner bakery were already propped open to let some of the inside heat out. "Hey," she called, " I made it."

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http://www.sarahfishburn.com
http://www.ragtagsf.blogspot.com
http://www.sarahfishburn.etsy.com
http://www.lulu.com/cartwrightandfishburn

 

Sarah Fishburn - September 2009

 
Image above by Sarah Fishburn
It was about 20 years ago ( really?.....no, wait....REALLY??!!!!) that I first saw Sarah at a huge corporate picnic. I saw her from afar and thought:
“...now THAT’S one girl that I’d like to meet.....”
Her beautiful red hair, her joyous way of dressing....she indeed stood out in the crowd - in the best possible way.
It was only a matter of weeks later that I had taken my son to dance lessons and during his class time, wandered into the Dancewear store where Sarah was working. “Hey! It’s YOU!!!”
I casually mentioned that I owned the local Rubber Stamp Store (which at the time was miniscule) and that was IT. We became FAST friends. Her daughter babysat for me and soon our families were interwoven in numerous ways. When I took over the retail store division, I hired Sarah, who turned out to be one of the original Visual Journalers, having created brilliant, poetic and stunning scrapbooks since the 70’s. When I say “Scrapbooks” I don’t mean scrapbooks in the conventional sense. These were TRULY works of art. Combine that with Mad organizational skills, perfect customer service, bottomless talent and you’ve got one of the reasons that the original Uptown was SO successful. 

Be sure to pursue Sarah’s links at the end of her story. She’s busier than ever and things are always interesting in her World!

Thank you Sarah!

The Rose-colored Velvet Love Seat

Play back the circumstances and events of my life; I harbor few regrets, and none daily. Not having stick-straight hair, nor a pinto pony or palomino, and the tragic loss of our rose-colored velvet love seat are the exceptions. Thank God for product and straightening irons, and yes, I MIGHT someday lasso a horse. As for the third, no remedy seems likely. We left it behind years ago; flying back to the desert, we gave it away to a friend. He was getting married and after all, a plane is not a boat. Unquestionably, through either miracles or hard work, heavier losses to other people have been overcome.

Details are what truly matter --- you know, it’s always the little things. Our lives hinge upon, and play out amid exquisitely, often achingly felt, then remembered, touches, sights, smells. Acts of living are accomplished in scenes set upon stages we each craft to our particular muse.

Picture a city --- Chicago comes to my mind, but pick another if it suits you. It’s early summer, a fair number of years ago --- not too many, say 33, more or less. The neighborhood is mostly Puerto Rican, a little Creole. Radios through open windows inform us, sweetly --- and we can dance to it --- that we are the sunshine of Stevie Wonder’s life. Edgier unknowns are heard, too. Their fingers and lips interpret Hancock and Corea and mimic Muddy Waters, from within shadowed (though wide open) doorways. Platform shoes create a back-up rhythm and say “Hey, babe, take a walk on the wild side.”

Think of a girl --- a pale young woman, a girl really, appears on the sidewalk, heading for a cross street further up Halsted from Cornelia. A bit bedraggled, generosity compels us to fashion her Bohemian. Filigreed opal earrings, camisole, sandals, and a long handmade skirt comprise her everyday costume. With a black gypsy scarf covered in enormous vintage roses holding back long, ever unruly hair, she’s like a kid from some Wild West version of Hester Street. Truth be told, the girl stopped here, in this midwestern town, where Marshal Fields meets the lake shore, and took an available third floor walk-up. Coming from the clear blue heat of earlier years spent in New Mexico, she hadn’t the heart to continue further east where (at least the semblance of) prairie gave way to Indiana.

Imagine the hour --- earlier that day, on an especially roundabout way home from work, she notices it, past the window box flowers and street reflection, just inside the junk shop door. Stepping inside, she smiles and happily approaches the owner. It’s a good sign, she thinks, that no one bought it “in the meantime”. Two other pieces catch her eye. A little piano bench and botanical print (“Gurka vit.”) aren’t quite so dear; she schleps them home on the bus that afternoon.

A week or two later, she returns for the rose-colored velvet love seat, pays a second or third installment, pulls it out through the shop door and continues down the several blocks to her old brick apartment building. She stops occasionally to catch her breath, sits down on the love seat right there on the sidewalk. The wood trim of the arms and the feet have a nice, just-polished sheen. It’s in perfect condition. People passing her admire it. That velvet is such a lovely shade of dusty rose --- just like the sky over the west mesa late in the afternoon, when the green chile smells of everyone’s kitchens begin to mingle and entice. And really, it was SUCH a bargain, though of course she had had to scrimp some, and save.

At the foot of the steps inside the front door of her building, the girl is momentarily distracted by the row of mailboxes. She can tell at a glance if there’s mail; she can see it through a slot. There’s something anyway; an eagerly awaited note from home, a plea, a prayer, a promise. She’ll come back downstairs for it later. On the 2nd floor, someone comes out to help her the rest of the way. His door closes on a room crowded with people, guitars, old women, music, glasses clinking, and babies crying. Once the 3rd floor landing is attained, he heads back down and she pushes her treasure into the apartment. A couple of panes in the bay window are open and there’s a light breeze off the lake. The apartment is nearly empty of household goods, except for a borrowed radio, two enameled cereal bowls, a handful of silverware and small paring knife, a Baby Ben that keeps falling out a window onto the alley below, a few postcards (reproductions of Symbolist art) and a vintage photo postcard of a dancer. There’s really nothing of any value.

The radio plays something new. At least, the girl thinks, I haven’t heard it before. Dancing in the Moonlight. Centered in the living room, the rose-colored velvet love seat looks perfect. The pretty botanical print of the fresh from a turn-of-the-century garden, Swedish cucumbers hangs just to its left, and the little piano bench completes the tableau. She keeps walking back into the room to admire it as she runs a bath.....

[email protected]
http://www.sarahfishburn.com
http://www.ragtagsf.blogspot.com
http://www.sarahfishburn.etsy.com
http://www.lulu.com/cartwrightandfishburn
You can find Sarah on FaceBook (you can become a "fan) and twitter, too

Oh, and by the way...

Coming to Designs & Ragtags (etsy shop) in mid-September:
chic and stylish: sterling silver pictorial eardrops, and a brand new batch of elegantly funky pictorial silver rings.

Jean McBride - July 2009

I'm more than thrilled to feature Jean McBride as our July author.
I first met Jean in the 90's when she was a customer at my former store. She and my friend Sarah Fishburn became close friends, and through that connection, Jean and I have stayed in touch. Recently, she casually mentioned that her "story" had won an award from the Northern Colorado Writers Group. Yeah. FIRST PRIZE. I fought the urge to fly off my chair and march her right up to the nearest computer so that she could forward me her work, but instead I kept my voice steady, leveled my gaze over my wine spritzer and calmly asked her if she'd be interested in being our July Bonfire Storyteller. Being a lovely and generous soul, the story is here. I love it. By the way, Jean and her sister make the most delicious, eye-popping mosaics around. I've noted their info at the end of this story. So here, in Jeans own words, is a lead-in to our July Bonfire:
This was the first contest of 2009 from Northern Colorado Writers. Requirements were these: must be exactly 2009 words long excluding title, include a named mountain, a U.S. city or location, a weather-related item, the title of a book and a holiday menu item. This story was awarded the first place designation. It's a combination of elements from my own teen experience in Cheyenne, Wyoming, though by no means autobiographical, my fascination and love really of the Cajun culture, and a lot of serendipity. Who knows for sure where stories are born?  Gifts from the muse.

The Gospel According to Eddie Ray
Jean McBride

Losing my job was not part of my life plan. “Company’s downsizing,” they said. “We have no choice, Elizabeth.”
Yeah, right. The way I look at it, downsizing was when I accidentally shrunk my favorite wool sweater to Barbie- doll-size. Eliminating a department of fifty-seven people was a blood bath.
That’s why I have nothing better to do in the middle of this February afternoon than watch snow accumulate on the branches of the juniper outside my kitchen window. I’m rounding the corner on forty, and it’s the first time in over twenty years that I haven’t had work to occupy me. I put work before my marriage, which ended two years ago. Work came before kids because I never had time.
I promised myself I’d look for another job once the holidays were over, but I can’t generate the interest to update my resume. I’d rather stare out the window and eat fudge.
I store the round green tin on the counter, out of sight, between the coffee maker and flour canister. But, who am I kidding? Grandma Rose’s Million Dollar Fudge broadcasts a frequency much stronger than any hide-and-seek game I could play with myself. The two remaining pieces taunt me with their siren song of temptation. Most of the time, I resist. It is, after all, nearly Valentine’s Day, and I still have Christmas fudge. Oddly, this is a source of pride, as if my resistance proves that I am not a weak-willed gobbler of fudge, but rather, a disciplined, good person worthy of employment. I know it sounds crazy.
I pour coffee into a turquoise Fiestaware cup, and peel the plastic film from a piece of fudge. With surgical precision, I press a knife blade into the soft square of chocolate and slice off a thin quarter-inch. I re-wrap the smaller square and return it to the tin.
I nibble the edges of the fudge like a squirrel with a dried rose hip, and sip coffee as I look over the day’s mail – the electric bill and two catalogs. I lick chocolate smears from my fingers and page through a clothing catalog that announces everything is on sale. “Guess they didn’t have such a good Christmas either, if they’re trying to sell me their leftovers now,” I mutter as I press fudge crumbles from the table onto my index finger and into my mouth. “Don’t expect me to help.”
In the sweater section of the catalog, I find an envelope wedged between the pages. It’s from Amanda Winston, a classmate from my high school days. I slip the knife along the top crease of the envelope, curious. Amanda and I haven’t exactly stayed in touch since graduation.
The envelope contains a newspaper clipping with a yellow sticky note attached. Thought you’d want to know. It was signed Amanda, with a heart instead of the letter “a” at the end of her name. I shake my head. She’s forty years old and still signs her name like she did in high school.
Under the sticky note is an article from a Louisiana newspaper. The headline: Local Man Dies on Longs Peak. When I see the name Edward Livaudais, my mouth feels like the moisture has been sucked out. “Oh my God, Eddie Ray Livaudais.” I can barely say his name because my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
I am ravenous for information and tick off the details as I read. Eddie was on vacation in Colorado hiking with his son. He slipped on a patch of gravel, fell into a ravine, and hit his head on an outcropping of rock. His wife Grace and their three sons survive him; a memorial service was held in September in Lafayette, Louisiana. Mr. Livaudais had a law practice in Lafayette and will be missed by the legal community.  I stare at the words trying to make sense of them. “Eddie Ray was a lawyer?” I pose the question knowing there isn’t anyone to answer. “I’ll be damned.”
I take a drink of cold coffee, though I can barely get it down. I dump what’s left and pour a fresh, hot cup. My hands are shaking, maybe from the caffeine, but more likely from Eddie Ray. He had that effect.
I met Eddie the summer I turned sixteen. He was the most exotic creature to ever set foot in Cheyenne, Wyoming, more god-like than mortal. His eyes were the color of Hershey’s Kisses flecked with gold, and they lit up like a Fourth of July sparkler when he flirted, which was all the time. His skin was tanned; his black hair glistened like a raven’s wing in the sun. But it wasn’t just his looks that attracted me and every other female. We had our share of good-looking boys in Wyoming. No, it was that he was from Louisiana, a full-blooded Acadian. To an inexperienced Wyoming girl, the Cajun patter that flowed out of Eddie Ray’s mouth like strings of silk was better than any aphrodisiac. One utterance of “bebe” turned me to mush.
I was the first person he met when he arrived in Cheyenne. Everyone wanted to go out with Eddie Ray, but I had the advantage, because he was spending the summer with his grandmother, my next-door neighbor. We had proximity going for us, along with a chemistry that, by all rights, should have set fire to the entire neighborhood.
Being with Eddie Ray was like going on vacation without leaving home. We’d cuddle on a glider on his grandmother’s porch, his head in my lap, and he’d lead me, word by word, into the Louisiana bayous and backcountry.
 “Those gators are fast as lightning, cher. If you don’t wanna end up alligator bait, you gotta run faster.” Then he’d grin, all white teeth and flashing eyes.
He told me about his Uncle Mazoo, who hunted gators and made swamp rat stew. I never did find out what went into that backwoods delicacy, and honestly, I didn’t want to know.
Eddie Ray loved Mardi Gras. He and his friends would hitch rides to New Orleans and sneak into the after-hours parties. I was fascinated and a little shocked.
“What do you mean girls had to lift their shirts to get beads?” I asked, naiveté ringing in my voice.
Eddie Ray laughed softly, his eyes like melted chocolate. “Everybody wants Mardi Gras beads, Lizzie – the more the better. It’s what you do. Boys give them to girls who show their breasts.”
I gulped at his answer; my cheeks burned. ”Oh.” I tried not to sound like the total hick that I felt at the moment. It was the first time I heard a boy say the word breasts.
Eddie Ray traced circles on my collarbone with his fingertips. “It’s just Mardi Gras, cher. Laisez les bon temps rouler; let the good times roll.” That little phrase was Eddie Ray’s mantra.
I can still hear his voice, drawing me ever further into his magical web of stories. I never knew if he was telling the truth or making things up, and I didn’t care. Eddie was my Scheherazade of The Arabian Nights, telling stories to save her life. In a way, Eddie was saving me. I’d never felt so special or beautiful. We passed those Wyoming summer nights talking and laughing, and falling in love.
One morning in August, Eddie Ray said he had a surprise – a party for just the two of us. When I pressed for details, he flashed his fireworks-in-the-eyes grin.
“You’ll have to wait until tonight, cher. Put on your best dress and I’ll pick you up at seven. Now shoo, I have things to do.”
As promised, Eddie was at my door on the dot of seven. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt, sleeves rolled back, his shaggy black hair tied in a ponytail. He radiated energy that pulled me toward him like a magnet collecting iron filings.
Eddie looked at me, taking in every detail: the blonde hair that curled around my face, the spaghetti-strapped sundress, the white sandals on my feet. “You look good in pink, cher.” Then he winked and led me to his grandmother’s backyard.
He’d strung colored lights across the patio cover, transforming the yard into the most romantic place I’d ever seen.
“Tonight mon petit, I’m taking you to a Louisiana fais-do-do.”
“A what?”
Eddie laughed. “It’s a street dance, cher.” He pressed a button on the tape player and the night bloomed with Cajun music. Eddie Ray folded me into his arms and we two-stepped around the yard to the sounds of fiddles and accordions.
Eddie Ray had prepared some of the Cajun foods he’d been telling me about: red beans and dirty rice, crawfish, and shrimp etouffee. He scooped food onto my plate, proud as any chef. “Try it,” he coaxed. “You’ll like it.”
I did like the food. The spices put fire in my mouth that equaled the fire Eddie Ray had lit in my soul.
“This is the way to live, cher,” Eddie instructed as he sucked meat from a crawfish. “It’s like my name. You gotta live every day like it’s the only one you have.” There was that grin again. “Get it? Live-a-day.” He leaned across the table and kissed me, his mouth warm and salty. “Come on, Lizzie, dance with me.”
I nestled into his arms, wishing the night would never end. The heat of the day began to cool, and still we danced. When raindrops splashed on my bare shoulders, I shivered and snuggled closer to Eddie. “It’s raining,” I whispered. “We should go inside.”
Eddie shook his head no and grinned. “Let’s go for a walk.” He rummaged in his grandmother’s garage and produced a large, black umbrella. He tossed a jacket around my shoulders and pulled me under the black arc, as the rain began in earnest. We splashed through the neighborhood, dancing under the umbrella, stopping every few steps for a kiss.
Around one in the morning, Eddie walked me to my house. “I have something to tell you, Lizzie.”
I waited. With those seven words, the spell of the night cracked open and began to fall apart. I held my breath. “Tell me.”
“I’m going home tomorrow. My papa needs me to help in the store.” He stroked my hair and sighed. “I don’t have a choice, cher. C’est la vie.”
I blinked back tears and looked into Eddie’s eyes. “What about us? What will I do when you’re gone?”
Eddie wiped his fingers along my cheeks, brushing away the tears. “Ah, sweet Elizabeth, mon bebe. Take a big bite out of your life, just like tonight. Taste everything that comes your way.” His eyes locked onto mine. “Promise me.”
We exchanged letters for a few months, but the chemistry faded with time and distance. Eddie Ray’s grandmother moved back to Louisiana to be closer to family, and I knew then I’d never see Eddie again.
I went to college, moved to Denver, and started a career in advertising. I completely forgot that summer with Eddie Ray and the promise he’d exacted from me. I allowed my life to grow cramped and empty, doling out pleasure in only the tiniest of bites. The article brought Eddie Ray and that magical summer back in vivid detail.
I inhaled a big breath, opened the tin and took out the remaining full square of fudge. I removed the plastic and bit into the whole piece, allowing the rich chocolate to melt in my mouth and slide down my throat. I closed my eyes and saw Eddie Ray – all swagger and sizzle. And, of course, that grin. I swear I heard a Cajun fiddle as I finished off the second piece of fudge.
“Maybe it’s time I see Mardi Gras,” I murmured.
 I powered up my computer and booked a flight to New Orleans. I washed the fudge tin, my shoulders straighter, my head high. “Here’s to you Eddie Ray. “Let the good times roll!”

Okay, we all know that this is NOT Eddie Ray, but it's MY vision of the guy. This photo was used without permission of any kind. I tried. I called, emailed and FaceBooked. Surely this MUST be a copyright violation of some sort...?
Call me Johnny. I've been very, VERY bad.
Read on for contact info and Juicy Jean Details:
Jean McBride is a writer, artist and family therapist, and has somehow managed to make all of that seem like it goes together. She has published a non-fiction book entitled Encouraging Words for New Stepmothers. Currently she is working on a mystery and loves the whole process of killing off someone you don't like, figuring out clues, writing just enough romance to keep folks interested, and keeping the mystery, well a mystery, until the very last minute. Without cheating the reader of course.
Jeans email=  [email protected]
you can also join her FaceBook site as a Fan (who isn't?)
Jeans and her fab sister's website= http://www.twosistersmosaics.com
Northern Colorado Writers site= http://www.ncwc.biz
Happy July, Cher!

Bev Newton - April 2009

I have the perfect author to welcome our Spring Season Bonfire!
I was lucky enough to score the talented Bev Newton to give up one of her fabulous, non-fiction stories. Bev and Jack welcomed me to Windrift Farm on this sunny April day. I was greeted by their animal family and taken into the magical place called The Cottage. I confess that I wanted to just go home, pack a bag and move in. You could feel the love that's been infused into the place by family and friends over the years. Bev jotted a great little bio for us, so we'll start with that, and then go right into her story, BE SURE TO READ THROUGH TO THE END. You'll feel as though you have ...um...."several" new friends.

I’ve worn so many hats that I have permanent helmet-head.  But now of a certain age, life is settled to where I can put the hats in storage and content myself with bonbons.

Since moving to Fort Collins from Denver in 1964, I’ve been a legal assistant, classical music volunteer for KCSU- FM when it was an NPR station, then became the local Morning Edition host for 6 years, played with a little home decorating business, a long-time eucharistic minister at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church.  Helped establish a residential facility for at-risk kids, now known as Turning Point.  Acted with Children’s Theatre in the old 50 cent-a-ticket days, pretend to write, foreperson extraordinaire of Windrift Farm, a wooded piece of rural solitude two blocks from the madding crowd, on which were raised Texas longhorns, sheep, horses, chickens, pygmy goats, dogs, cats, and two kids.  In keeping with this rural lifestyle, I became for a time, co-leader of a horse 4-H club.
After widowhood, I’m savoring love the second time around with a longtime friend who happens to be a veterinarian – how smart was that!  I currently sit on state and district commissions, which evaluate judicial performance.

  This is the story of a grammy, a ficticious camp leader and mysterious girl in a pink hat becoming chaotically morphed into one body.  It made for some pretty hilarious schizophrenic shenanigans, and it is to my two beautiful grandgirls that I dedicate this previously unwritten memoir of summers at the farm; they brought me to Brenda and yet another hat.

Some called her a wild child, others likened her to Pippi Longstocking, but I called her Brenda.  Brenda simply materialized on a summer  day wearing floppy hot pink hat as she sauntered along an old railroad bed behind Windrift Farm.  She so wanted to meet the two little girls who visited Windrift every summer Tuesday. 
The small farm was host to Camp Windrift, a most exclusive day camp for extraordinary girls with silky blonde hair and eyes the shade of a robin’s egg.  Admission was granted only after completing a lengthy and quite stringent registration form.  A somewhat officious woman, wearing a red ribbon from which dangled a tin whistle, conducted the camp under the name of YGL (Your Glorious Leader…what else?).  Matching t-shirts were handed out the first day of each summer session; one year they wore tie-dyed shirts of their own making, another season saw a hand painted CW logo, many years, many shirts.  And every week the camp was in session, arriving campers would find a daily itinerary posted to the farmhouse door, often accompanied by a shrill whistle blast, just to get things going. 
Camp Windrift was also home to several wildly patterned Texas longhorns, including Soapy the steer who adored humans.  Mama sheep grazing the pastures with their babies, pygmy goats and a varying number of horses managed to squeeze onto the 10-acre plot as well.  Three dogs ran among the assorted livestock and worried the hens pecking for grubs.  All such critters need feed daily and camp rules decreed that little girls learn responsibility by tossing out hay and grain and gathering brown, white and green eggs – to go with their breakfast of ham, of course.   These weren’t unpleasant tasks that accompanied craft projects, science experiments and field trips; quiet time in a hammock rounded out most days.  Despite YGL’s bossy whistle blowing, the little girls greatly looked forward to Tuesdays at Camp Windrift. 
Unbeknownst to any of them, there was someone who looked on from the bushes and trees.  Brenda loved little kids and these girls would surely love the excellent adventures she could plan for them.  Only YGL stood in her way, so a wonderful plan took shape; she would whisk them away when YGL wasn’t looking!  And so, on a certain Tuesday in the month of July, Brenda and hat popped out of the bushes while the girls were finger-painting, introduced herself and told them that she had plans way more exciting than anything YGL could dream up.  Come away with her, leave the whistling behind, and go on an excellent adventure….please.
The girls were delighted with this somewhat odd girl who laughed a lot and, though she was older, she wasn’t nearly as old as YGL.   Leaving finger paints behind, hand in hand the trio ran through the wooded yard, across the pasture, through a gate leading to the street and a bus stop.  Brenda urgently kept yelling, “hurry, hurry, we can’t let YGL catch us!”  With the bus approaching, the girls were giddy with excitement, scarcely wondering what YGL would do if she caught them.  Jumping onto the bus and flopping down on a side seat, all three cheered their remarkable escape.  While the bus wound through city streets, Brenda wouldn’t tell them what the adventure was going to be, but she did share red licorice ropes stashed in her pocket.  Finally, they made their way to a movie theatre where a kids’ show was playing.  Yea!  What a treat! This mysterious girl was way more fun than YGL!
Giggling, full of popcorn and soda, the girls returned to camp just a tiny bit worried about YGL’s reaction to their prolonged absence.  As expected, YGL went into an arm-waving, red-in-the-face tirade over their escapade with Brenda, ending with a warning that they were never, ever to “see that wretched waif again”.  Nobody knows who she is or where she comes from, the angry YGL intoned, stay away from her!
Some days, Brenda didn’t show up, though the girls furtively watched for the pink hat to appear behind a tree or around the corner of the barn.  Other times, she’d pop up when it happened to be the camp “Bring a Friend Day”, rejoicing that she had even more kids with whom to play miniature golf or race go-carts. 
One week she commandeered YGL’s car and took the girls and visiting cousins off to Greeley to prowl through an old-time pioneer village.  Playing school in the cute little schoolhouse, pretending to live in one of the fine old homes of yesteryear, and picnicking near log cabins made it a wonderful outing.  But the fun wasn’t over quite yet.   Returning to camp late in the day, Brenda ditched the car for Farmer Arn’s old battered truck. Mayhem ensued as the groaning Chevy bumped over and through irrigation ditches while the old farmer yelled and shook his fists. Round and round they drove, bouncing among startled longhorns, yapping dogs, frightened lambs, fleeing horses and Soapy steer bucking like a rodeo bronc giving chase.  The giggling never stopped until Brenda contritely drove the wheezing truck to the barn, hopped out and vanished to wherever it was she came from.  This time, even the Utah cousins, nearly speechless with astonishment over the day’s events, were subjected to the same tongue-lashing from YGL and her farmer – stay away from that wild child, they warned.  It did little to subdue the excitement of the day even when YGL told their parents about their unconscionable behavior with that Brenda character.  The grownups were dutifully shocked.
Occasionally, Brenda would pick up the little one at pre-school, happily introducing herself to friends’ parents.  Looks of bewilderment never fazed her as she breathlessly chattered on about her wonderful little friend, and asking if their child would like to join them someday? 
One day, YGL took the campers and another set of visiting cousins – all wearing that year’s requisite t-shirt – to a ranch in the foothills for horseback riding.  After a morning of riding through the pines among herds of elk and deer, YGL left for a moment to pay the wrangler.   But lo and behold, they saw Brenda breathlessly running down the hill, not in her pink hat, but waving a red white and blue one for the nearing 4th of July holiday.   She frantically yelled for the girls to get in the car!  They were off on yet another of her excellent adventures.  YGL?   Well, she was locked in the Mercury’s trunk.
Pretending they were in a roaring jet, they flew to a popular reservoir where on high rock outcroppings, they shared Brenda’s pb and j sandwiches and red Kool-aid and watched boaters and skiers skimming the deep waters below.  This already exciting day ended with swimming at a community pool and it was here that YGL, freed from the trunk by a concerned passerby, confronted Brenda and the giggling girls.  Undaunted, Brenda waved that silly hat and skipped off to…well, no one knew where.
Summer after summer, Brenda watched her girls grow and mature….soon it was just the youngest left to play and adventure with, but she too, much to Brenda’s dismay outgrew Camp Windrift and the magical moments came to an end.  It was a time of great sadness for Brenda.  But the little girls never forgot the zany girl who loved little kids, delighted in defying every convention, who declared that grownups had no imagination, no sense of adventure, and were sometimes just too full of themselves.  She made it clear, however, that only with her could they thumb their noses at silly rules.  She fiercely protected them from harm; never had two girls been so unconditionally loved.   She shared her world of fantasy that would be remembered by all the kids who waited anxiously for an irreverent, laughing, mystery girl to pop up from the bushes and set their hearts pounding.
The little girls are grown now, the critters are gone and in the farmhouse, Camp Windrift t-shirts are neatly folded on a closet shelf….a floppy pink hat rests nearby.

(You can reach Bev, Brenda and YGL at:  [email protected])

Michelle Ward - March 2009

Here at the Bonfire, we nurture connection and creativity. The stories that we carry in our hearts emerge and inspire others to remember, relate and rejoice.
This months Gypsy Bonfire does all of those things and more.
I first "met" Michelle Ward when our mutual friend, Lynne Perrella put out a call to her people around the country, asking us to join her in what was to be one of the most inspiring works in the World of Altered Books, Mixed Media, Visual Journaling and even the alternative Universe of Scrapbooking: TRUE COLORS. The truth is, after months of work and communication, many of us became close friends or CLOSER friends. Michelle, (our highly organized Organizer & Tracker, Lynne's right arm) and I became closer and closer, chatting daily and weaving what was to be a deep and meaningful friendship. Michelle has breath-taking amounts of energy. Breath-taking amounts of Creative Vision. Breath-taking amounts of talent. ALL of her stories are wonderful. Let's kick back for a sec and enjoy THIS One. Maybe we can talk her into another one sometime......

Making Connections

Synchronicity, serendipity, the seemingly unrelated things that make a connection - I LOVE when that happens, even if it’s only something that makes sense to me.  If I were sitting around a bonfire with you we would probably share stories of cool things we’ve observed or witnessed that brought us the sweet little thrill of recognizing ‘connection’.  Here’s one of mine….

 

A favorite read is “84, Charing Cross Road”, purchased at a second-hand shop.  I fell in love with Helene Hanff and her sassy correspondence with Frank, a book dealer in London.  (There is a film about the book – haven’t seen it yet).   I appreciated her enthusiasm for finding books, and for Frank, on his end, searching for and tracking down her requests.  The letters of inquiry had to cross the Atlantic.  Patience.  No instant gratification – sometimes it would take two years before Helene scored a coveted book.  She sent money and he sent back books, on the slow boat.  I became aware that Charing Cross Road was THE street to go to for previously loved books.  It was written in 1970 but I didn’t come across it until the 90s so I was bummed to have missed out on a visit there when I was in England in the 80s.  When I get back to London it will be one of the first places I go, even though #84 is no longer a bookstore.

 

Also in 1970, “The Humument” was published by Tom Phillips.  Again, I didn’t find out about this one until the 90s and it was too late to find one on Amazon.   On the rare occasion it would surface on Ebay the final minutes of an auction would raise the fee beyond my reach.  If you are not familiar with the Humument it is what I consider to be the first published “altered book”, in very simple form Phillips transformed the pages of an existing book by culling the text and creating his own narrative.  With paint and ink he illustrates and designs visual interest over the remaining words.  (You can see pages of it HERE, and the fourth edition is available on Amazon for less than $20!)

 

 

 

One lucky day, after nearly a year of pining for my own copy, I scored The Humument for less than $30, and it was a signed 2nd edition!  The seller was in Manchester, England, and had never sent a parcel overseas so I walked him through the process and patiently waited to hear back from him, hoping he wouldn’t chicken out sending it to me.  In the few days following the close of the auction, and the actual mailing of the book, James wrote to tell me he thought he had seen a miniature version, called “The Heart of the Humument” and offered to locate one for me.  My own “Frank” was looking out for my interests.  I gave a thought to Helene, who might be appalled at the thought of altering a book, but would wink at my book-talk with James.  She would be blown away that I could correspond with him electronically, and that I could send money instantly too.  The first book arrived, and weeks later, the miniature - Helene would be envious of the swiftness.

 

I was thrilled with my purchases and spent days savoring the pages, and showing them to my friends and family who were quite puzzled by my recent interest in creating an altered book.  When I got to the end I saw it.  There was a note tucked in the back flap.  It was on letterhead from the bookstore, and had a message scribbled from James.  Under it was a receipt, dated many months earlier, and another letterhead – from the dealer he had gotten the book from: 70 Charing Cross Road.  A connection!  Serendipity, or synchronicity, or whatever you like to call it, my Humument came from the very street I had missed visiting in 1984.  I like to think it was meant to happen that way, and at that time, because it took until the 90s for me to appreciate both publications.   Yesterday I was in a used bookstore and walked out with several gems.  Can’t wait to learn the stories, beyond the pages, these books will tell me.   I scored a Finnish/English dictionary - I'm hoping the "connection" is that I'm destined to visit Finland soon :)

Mark Hanson - February 2009

Goth Crayon Box ®worth

Mark Hanson is a man who Walks the Talk. That phrase is overused, but in this case, I can only say that it applies. After working for years as a successful attorney, he turned on his heel and dove head first into teaching Language Arts and Civics at Centennial High School in Fort Collins, Colorado. Here, I’ll let Mark tell you in his own words:
“I tried to use writing as a way for alternate kids to learn to value and tell their own stories.   The tough kids, with the unpleasant histories, have great stories to tell.  Most rich educated kids have no experiences from which to draw:  my Volvo ran out of gas once--I lost my Frisbee--that kind of stuff.    Alternate kids have great stories, but need some help with skills and confidence to tell their great stories.  That's why I did it.  I attended various summer seminars:  Iowa Summer Writers' Workshops, Colorado Writing Project, National Writing Project as a way to acquire skills in teaching kids how to tell their own stories with authenticity and voice.    Nothing that happens to you is necessarily good or bad--though it may seem so.  It takes time and imagination to turn a negative experience into fuel for writing--and transforms the experience into something positive, in a strange kind of alchemy.”

Thanks Mark. You’re my Hero. Enjoy this month’s Bonfire:

Circle Up

by

Mark Hanson

There is a popular classroom ritual used in my high school, a small alternate high school for non-traditional students who have “failed to thrive” at the larger comprehensive high schools.

It is a simple exercise by which everyone in the room “checks in.” They state their name, how their day is going on a scale of 1 - 10, and respond briefly to some sort of “prompt.”

It is especially helpful for the Creative Writing course. I teach.  The purpose is to put people on notice that someone is having a particularly difficult or remarkable day, and the speaker is invited to share some about the specifics. If the person needs help with something or wants to avoid people for a while, that comes out. It helps set the tone for the class, and helps the teacher take the temperature of the group for the activity for the day. Oftentimes, the prompt will relate to the day’s lesson plan, jump starting thinking about the writing for the day.

One such prompt is to pay a compliment to someone in the circle. The ritual is that it be done in the second person, and made directly to the person receiving the compliment-- ”I’d like to compliment you, Stephen,”  Its object is to call to mind something positive about somebody, often unnoticed and under appreciated until it is pointed out in this dramatic, public forum.  And it feels good to get a compliment.  The soft skill that is being taught and modeled deals with recognizing and honoring qualities in another, and in accepting compliments gracefully.

This is the story of a particularly memorable “Circle Up” exercise in Creative Writing class.  Most of the students are finishing up the last semester before graduation.

David is there--this gangly looking kid who resembles the sasquatch of folklore. He stands six foot five with long black hair and a funny loping walk. Ever the smart aleck, quick with a quip or a putdown, he's a little too hip and clever for his own good.  His mind is nimble and his skills are impressive.   David knows his way around controlled substances and thinks he’s smarter than everybody else.  He is not known for his warm fuzzy people skills, that’s for sure.  He is the first to pay a compliment this morning.

And Stephen is there--Stephen the little Jesus freak. He wears black polyester slacks and some sort of built up black orthopedic shoes, with cardigan sweaters and button down shirts. Stephen is an odd kid to be in an alternate school, straight as an arrow, carries around his Bible and likely hasn’t ever had anything to drink stronger than ginger ale. Stephen is quite a contrast to every other alternate kid.  Kids don’t really seek him out, but they tease him a lot, about being square and unhip and a little too out front with the whole Jesus thing.

The exercise begins, and David, ever the clown, looks around the room feigning intense concentration, looking at everyone, milking the moment for whatever drama he can. Everyone expects him to say something sarcastic and snide, and the teacher frequently has to redirect him back to the circle and the prompt.

And when he starts, “I’d like to compliment you, Stephen,” everybody winces a little because Stephen is no match for David’s wit.  People assume that David will do something hurtful to Stephen.  It has happened before.

“I’d like to compliment you, Stephen, for having the courage to defend your religious faith.” Everybody stops, thinking that David would take this to an unhappy, sarcastic place. He continues. “You talk about your faith here at this school, this godless school. You talk about it unashamed and unafraid. People tease you about it, behind your back and not behind your back, and you are unfazed. It must take a great deal of courage on your part, and I admire you for it.”

He goes on:  “People around here have looked and looked for something in life to hold onto and to give meaning to their lives. We look to drugs and alcohol and rap music and pot and sex and everything. And we come up empty. And yet you have found meaning in your life without any of these things. And WE tease YOU? You have found it. I wish I had something in my life that was half as meaningful to me as your faith is to you. I admire your faith. I envy you your faith.”

The room falls silent. Not only is this the first time David has ever played it totally straight, there has been a great uneasiness surrounding the whole Stephen-Jesus connection.

Stephen sits there, stunned. The silence stays in the room. Part of the protocol of the exercise is to “sit in your sunshine,” to savor the moment, to accept the compliment graciously.  But this silence is a little longer.

Then something happens which has never happened before.  Somebody starts to clap. Just a couple of slow, rhythmic claps to start, and then everybody joins in, applauding Stephen and his faith and his courage and the recognition that he finally gets, after all the pain he has endured in public education, going back to his first week in kindergarten. .  Here is a kid who has to wait until the last semester of his senior year finally to get an acknowledgment for the courage of his conviction.

It was a great day in pubic education and a day I’ll never forget. 

Erin Perry of Altered by the Sea

A few years ago a number of the True Colorists joined forces to teach at The Art Bar in Santa Ana California. I was still recovering from the worst of the ravages of the west nile virus, so I opted to pass on several all day classes and conduct a Pre-Workshop session. Over the years, I noticed that before people take classes (especially with high profile teachers) they become psyched to the point of being just a tad wacky. They stop breathing. They don't eat properly and don't drink. More importantly, they come to class with misconceptions and egos, often inflated or non-existent & self be-rating, and miss SO much of the experience. I've developed some tools and skills, having taught classes and run 2 art school venues, that assist everyone in retaining their authentic selves BEFORE walking into class. After that event, after time had passed and I started my Blog, I heard back from a woman who had been in that audience. She was a talented artist herself and just quietly observing and taking it all in. She dropped me a note of appreciation. We started to "chat" back and forth. I consider her a friend and invite you to look into her website.
Erin Perry lives in beautiful Morro Bay on the coast of California. There, she and partner Margot (talented shoe designer..I KNOW!) thrive in that lovely town "by the sea". Her website is called Altered by the Sea. I am honored to receive occasional photos of her morning walks. She KNOWS how much I miss the ocean here in Colorado. Erins story is a perfect start to the New Year. We get to accompany Erin and Margot to Paris. It's a story of travel and love. Travel and Love....sound good?.....I think so too.
Erin...it's all yours:

 Paris. In the spring.  And on our honeymoon no less.  The Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame, and, best of all, the shopping!   We found a delicious little stall at the Place Monge Market with gorgeous silk and chiffon scarves for a few Euro each.  After the first purchase, Margot said to me “Let’s each buy a scarf everyday we’re here!”  So we did; from outdoor markets in le quartier Latin, in the fabric district of Montmartre, at a chic little store under the Louvre, at the closet-sized shop of the Turkish trader on the Rue Mouffetard.  We came home with an entire wardrobe of scarves, to wear, to share, to decorate our new house by the sea in Morro Bay, California.

 

    

                       Ah, yes!  The upcoming decoration of our new house is what led us to our most amusing adventure in the City of Lights.  Well, I think it’s amusing.  My darling wife claims she still has sore feet from the experience. It started the day after we arrived – jetlag you say?  No, I never pay attention to jetlag.  Of course, I get it, but I just keep going.  I’m in Paris and I’m going to waste time sleeping? 

     So, first we had breakfast, mmm… café au lait and warm croissants.  Then, on our way to the Metro, we passed the market and that scarf stall, for what turned out to be our first of many purchases there.  We took the Metro to the other side of the Seine way out to the 12th arrondissement  to the Transportation Headquarters.  For some unknown Parisian reason the museum passes that we had purchased on-line back home needed to be picked up there.  After a lengthy wait – also for some unknown Parisian reason- we had the passes in hand. 

     A quick jambon et fromage crepe later we were back on the Metro and on our way to the Guimet Museum – full of glorious Asian art and wondrous Buddhas.  Then a bateau trip down the Seine to the Musee d'Orsay to drool over the Impressionists, including my favourite - Manet’s Le Déjeuner sur l'Herbe
     Well, after that Margot wanted to take a taxi to our next destination, the Bazaar Hotel de Ville (a fantastic department store that a friend had told us about, full of wonderful home decor) – but I said, “Are you kidding?  We’re in Paris, we’ll cross back over the river on the Pont de la Concorde and walk down the Rue di Rivoli, it can’t be that far.”  So, wanting to make me happy, tired as she was, she agreed and we started off.  We stopped at Angelina’s for their famous hot chocolate – so thick and rich it’s like drinking a melted chocolate bar. Each cup is served with a bowl full of whipped crème – to help cut the richness!  Thus revived, we began our trek. 
     Wonderful shop windows to look in; jewelry stores, paper stores, bookstores, shoe stores.  As each block went by I’d say, “I’m sure it’s just ahead.”  But no.  Further we walked and no sight of the Bazaar Hotel de Ville.  And further…  finally there it was!  Voila!  All 5 glorious floors.  Margot headed to the fabric section and found some lovely burgundy embossed material to make kitchen curtains.  I found wonderful ceramic door handles and bought set after set in lime green, hot pink, blue and every other color to go with the Mexicolors we’d painted our new house.  We indulged in several drawer pulls and cabinet handles as well -  metal sculpted twigs and cunning mother of pearl shell shapes.  It was amazing how shopping made us forget that we were exhausted!

 

On to the tile department.  I collect several tiles wherever I go (which I have since collaged onto a 2x4 foot board that graces our back deck).  Lots of lovelies here and added them to our stash.  By now, dusk was falling and we were more than ready to wend our way back to our little hotel on the Rue Mouffetard.

 The Metro was just across the street; with one transfer we could be a couple of blocks from the hotel.  Down the steps, caught the first train and sank gratefully into our seats-it doesn’t take long for ceramic door handles, drawer pulls and tile to be very heavy to carry around.  “Whew, I’m glad we’ll only have those two blocks to walk back to the hotel”, I said to Margot.  “Me too, remember? I was tired three hours ago,” she chuckled.

     We pulled into the transfer station and found out it was one with a long, long walk to the other train we needed  - so long they had a moving sidewalk – that was out of order!  But that’s not the punch line.  When we got to the stair leading down to our train – it was blocked off.  That line stopped running at 9:00  and it was now 9:15!  So, we had to retrace our steps all that way back to the main part of the station and figure out a new route that eventually had us taking 2 trains and having a four block walk back to the hotel, carrying bags of heavy home decorating items!  But that’s not the punch line either.

     Back home, after four months, three locksmiths, and two handymen later, we were forced to give up on our dream of ceramic French door handles –apparently they take a completely different internal hardware system not available except in France and Sweden and couldn’t be re-tooled.  C’est la vie!

  I know someday they are going to appear in a wonderful piece of assemblage art and until then they make a great story around the bonfire.  Au revoir.

Erin Perry
www.alteredbythesea.com
[email protected]

Seth Apter author of The Altered Page- December 2008

The return of our Gypsy Bonfire is celebrated by the "appearance" of one Seth Apter from The Altered Page. If you are a Blogger or Blog reader, you've been on his interesting site and probably have it bookmarked. If not?...you're in for a treat. Seth's Blog is a wonderful meeting place for anyone interested in the arts or just interesting stuff in general. Seth steps right out on the diving board and allows the World to see his art, finished and in progress. He treats his readers to delicious photos, grabbing our shirt sleeves and running along beside us as we accompany him on his travels. If you happen to be anywhere near New York City, you're set. He'll hook you UP. If, like me, you only WISH that you were, he'll allow you to feel like he's slipped you into his pocket and taken you to "The Cool Places". Seth's Bonfire story is a slight departure from the usual travelogue. It left me feeling hopeful and infused with the kind of magic that springs from Reality...I'll stop now. You go and get a cup of tea or something, then sit, relax and enjoy....here's Seth:

I believe in synchronicity. Moments of coincidence that almost seem too unbelievable to be happening. Moments which suggest that something greater is playing a role in our lives. In my mind, coincidences are not just random events. So much more than accidental occurrences. I continue to experience this over and over, with one of the most memorable times taking place, perhaps not surprisingly, in Sedona. It is said that “spiritual vortices” are concentrated in several areas throughout Sedona and anybody who has been there knows about the “new age” community that exists. I am convinced that the way the following events unfolded in Sedona was a true instance of synchronicity and just meant to be.

This story goes back to the late 1990s. A group of friends and I took a week-long trip to Sedona. Red rocks, jeep tours, hot air ballooning, glass-bottom helicopter flights, and hiking. And, of course, photography. That plays a big part in all my trips but, as you will see, especially during this one.
We had a hot air balloon ride scheduled early in the trip. Just after sunrise we drove to the launch site. It was quite exciting seeing the balloons swaying in the air in the distance as we approached. When we arrived we were informed that we needed to wait to take off due to wind gusts. So we waited. And waited. And waited. Until they finally were forced to cancel the trip out of safety concerns.
Having a free day, with no other activities planned we decided to spend the day outside of Sedona and drive to the rim of the Grand Canyon. I remember that day so clearly. The wind blew the clouds out of the sky, which was a brilliant blue. The air was crisp and the sun was bright. And, of course, there were red rocks everywhere. The hue comes from a thick layer of red and orange-colored sandstone, found only in and near Sedona.

We drove off with no specific plan in mind. Our only goal was to peer into the vastness of the canyon. Along the way we passed this unusual building that looked like it might be a church. Like no other church that I had ever seen before. It was tiny, almost triangular structure that was all roof. A fortress of shingles. There was one large cross soaring above the apex of the peaked roof. We all looked at each other and, without a word, pulled over about 30 yards after the structure.
 
I was in the front passenger seat and when I stepped out of the car, I saw a black film canister on the ground. Something possessed me to pick it up and open it. Inside was a roll of film. A roll of undeveloped film. In that instant I decided that I was going to have the film developed when we returned to Sedona. Then I thought how frustrated I would feel if I lost a roll of film, especially one I shot on vacation. And I had the fleeting thought that I wished there was a way to return it to the photographer.
Upon entering the church, I soon forgot all about the film. It was as if out of a dream. We could barely fit into this little space. Hanging from every single wall, every beam, and every nook and cranny were papers. With writing. Notes that had been left by hundreds of people asking for help and guidance. Most related to illness. At the back of the church was a window which looked out into the snow-capped mountains in the distance. It was an incredibly moving experience. We all added our own notes and quietly drove on the Grand Canyon.
 
As anybody who has been there knows, the canyon is truly an awe inspiring place. I found it hard to grasp the immensity of it all. It almost did not look real. Interestingly, my trusty Nikon SLR completely imploded on the rim of the canyon. As if it too could not take it all in. But that is a story unto itself!


Fast forward to early the next day. I dropped the found film off to be developed and later in the afternoon I picked it up. I excitedly looked through each picture. What I saw were shots of two different events. First, what looked like a birthday party and second, a group of women, probably in their 50s and 60s, quilting. I figured that one of the women in the pictures must have been the one to lose the film. The canister must have fallen out of her purse or the car when she pulled over to see the little church. In that moment, I knew that the reason I found the film was so that I could return it to her.
There was no identifying information in any of the photos, which were all taken inside somebody’s home. So I had no idea how to find her. I did not know if she even lived in Sedona or had traveled here from somewhere else. My sense was that she was a local because the photos weren’t typical tourist shots. It occurred to me to see if there were any quilting or fabric stores in town. Maybe they would recognize somebody from the photos. The next day, I went into a shop that I thought would be a good candidate. I explained to the owner what had happened, how I found the film and was now looking for the photographer. She was more than happy to join me on this quest. As she sorted through the pictures, she kept shaking her head. Nobody was familiar. Unbelievably, when she reached the last photo, she let out a little gasp. She knew one of the women. She was a customer. The owner of the shop did not know her name or where she lived but we both sense that the roll of film belonged to her. I left the stack of pictures along with my name and address. The shop owner said she would hold on to the photos and return them when and if the owner came in.
Fast forward to the end of the vacation. We stopped in to the shop but the photos had not been claimed. Fast forward again, back to real life. One week. Two weeks. One month. Two months. Time was passing and there was no word. I had pretty much given up on reuniting film with photographer when one day a letter arrived in my mailbox. A letter from Sedona. Inside was a card and a note, thanking me for finding the film and taking the time to try to return it. The letter was from the photographer. The woman in the picture. She had returned to the shop and had been greeted by the owner and her lost roll of film. She was effusive in her praise. But for me, I had not done anything special. It was just one more confirmation of the power of synchronicity. This was just meant to be.

Story and photos by Seth Apter.

Lisa Myers Bulmash- May 2008

photos and art by Lisa Myers Bulmash
For those of us who keep Blogs, there are extreme pluses along with the occasional:
"One more thing to tend to?..." freak-outs. Meeting Lisa M.B. was one of those High-Perk moments. Her comments were always so well written, funny (big plus) and juicy. As with all friendships, we started out "chatting" by email. This led to a "quick" phone conversation of about 2 hours where I found myself telling her things that I've only told my closest friends. I knew that I had found the perfect Story Teller for the Bonfire. So, please enjoy this great moment around the fire with us. It's getting warmer, but still cool at night so remember to wrap up a bit....
Lisa?...I hand the floor over to YOU:

When I graduated from college back in the last century, my mother was still in the throes of competitive, post-divorce gift-giving. My dad had recently helped me buy my first car (okay, we found a used one and he bought it). So Mom pitched this idea to me in the spring of my senior year:

Mom: Do you still want to go to Europe?
Me: [not getting my hopes up] Ye-e-a-h....
Mom: Well... would you like to go as a post-graduation gift? -- I'd be coming too.
Me: Okay... [thinking, "bring the Muppets. Bring Jesse Jackson. As long as I get to go, I don't care."]
Mom: Okay, let's do it, then!

So we chose a 15-day bus tour of western Europe, so if we never returned, we'd have "seen a little of everything."

We started in London, then made a North Sea crossing on a large ferry boat to the Netherlands. Our bus then made its way down through Germany, Austria, Liechtenstein, Switzerland and Italy before coming back up through Monaco and France, and finally London again.

London to Americans must be like New York is to Europeans: expensive, fun, and full of stuff you'll just have to see another time. Mom and I arrived a day before the other passengers, so we took the Tube (the Underground subway) to Westminster Abbey and wandered around.

Look! Big Ben! And the Thames! And real-live bobbies! It's not just in books!

Then we decided to have bangers and mash (sausage and mashed potatoes) at a real, honest-to-God English pub. So we went in, sat down, and waited to be served.
We looked at the bartender across the room. He looked at us and kept cleaning the bar. We waited. He waited. So we got frustrated and left. Outside, Mom muttered, "They didn't want to serve black people." I couldn't see another reason, so I guessed she was right. It wasn't until YEARS later that I found this out: There's no such thing as sit-down service in a pub! You go to the bar, order, then pick up your food when it's ready. See, if I'd spent my senior year dating the English guy who eventually told me about this, I would've known this valuable information when we needed it. Just wasn't thinking ahead.

The North Sea crossing was a bit rough, but the waves lulled us to sleep. Then our bus headed out for the nearest tourist town in the Netherlands, Volendam.

See the clock at the bus ceiling that says "14:36" (2:36pm)? That's about a minute before our tour guide told us, "There's been a coup in Russia. Boris Yeltsin has just taken over the Kremlin. It might make our border crossings a little trickier. But don't worry -- it'll probably make the dollar a little stronger too."

Oh. Okay. As long as we can get home. Someday.

On tours like this, tourist traps take precedence over interesting things.

We saw Amsterdam's famous flower market -- from our bus. We saw the Rijksmuseum, where all the Rembrandts are kept -- from the bus. But the Busfrau, as one of our fellow passengers dubbed her, did allow us some fun. We saw a little of the red light district, and we took a canal boat ride and saw some lovely old buildings. Best part: seeing a heroin junkie shooting up on one of the mini-docks. When he realized he was being watched, he mooned us. (I still wish I had a picture of that.)

Most of Germany we saw from the bus (surprise), but it was neat to see what remained of the famous Black Forest, where witches live and small children get eaten by wolves in fairy tales. We stopped at a castle, then took a Rhine River cruise down most of west Germany. That's when European vacationers really seemed to notice my hair, which I'd had braided with extensions to cut down on morning primp time. Bear in mind that this was 1991: the pop singer Brandy was wearing her hair in braids at this time, so it wasn't like I was making a Black Power statement. But people actually pointed at me, babbling in various languages and staring openly. Teenage boys in Innsbruck, Austria, pushed each other into my path, staring at my hair. But the further south we traveled, the less people seemed to notice.

By the time we got to Venice, I was just making a fashion statement again, and no one blinked an eye in Lyons, France.

It was great to have my mom all to myself for an extended period of time. This vacation also turned out to be the last my mother took while healthy.

In Lucerne, Switzerland, I noticed Mom didn't seem to be able to walk in a straight line -- and she was perfectly sober. We later found out she had developed a degenerative neurological disease called non-Friedrich's ataxia. Her mind was intact, but the condition attacked her nervous system, balance and motor control; it eventually interfered with her breathing. She died before her 59th birthday.

But this trip gave me chances to do things with my mother I probably wouldn't have done otherwise. We went to a disco together (and left right away because there was hardly anyone there). We bought ten-dollar beers in Switzerland because that was the cheap booze. We laughed at the waiters: the Roman guy who kissed my mom because she chose a red rose instead of a pink one as they were passed around, and the French guy who ogled my insignificant cleavage while refilling our water glasses at a cabaret show. (No, he didn't spill a single drop.) I think our main regret was that we waited until we got to Italy to shop for shoes... we passed up a lot of really cute stuff. But I still have one of her Lladro figurines -- a little black shepherdess and her jug leaning on a wall -- standing on my fireplace mantle.

Mom bought that in the Netherlands. You know, the place we were wondering if we'd ever get out of after Boris Yeltsin took over Russia.

Tharpa Lowry - April 2008

 

I first met Tharpa through my son, at Naropa University in Boulder. What strikes you first is the fact that he seems very young for a Professor. Within several minutes, you experience him as laser-sharp, incredibly wise and his brilliance shines.  A few minutes more and you really have no CLUE as to how old he could possibly be and it no longer matters.  It's easy to relax around Tharpa. It's easy to laugh around him too. His voice is kind and calm and you have the feeling that he's going to answer your most pressing questions (anything...history, politics, spiritual matters, movie trivia) OR suggest going for coffee. That's how I like MY friends. Diverse, smart and delightfully unpredictable in the sane-est way imaginable. He's endlessly patient. He and I share a passion for Designer Vinyl Toys. I'd take him as a son, brother, father any day. His story is fascinating. Our Bonfire this month offers a tiny snapshot of this highly respected and deeply loved educator and friend. I plan to beg him for MORE at a later date. His story is truly one of Beauty, Reality and Dimension.  Here's a little taste..oh and Tharpa?....see you for coffee this weekend.

CLARITY & DANCING
One of my most striking transitions came while I was ordained a monk in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition. I had been a novice of three years, following 36 rules (including celibacy, abstaining from alcohol, regulating my food consumption, maintaining a full meditation practice etc.) and wearing monastic robes, for much of the time living outside of a monastery in Boulder, Colorado. During this time I began teaching at Naropa and at a few local Buddhist groups.

Generally speaking, this was a good time. I would have described myself as happy throughout the process, and although some of the rules were challenging, I didn’t experience them as overly restricting on a day to day level.

As my three years as a novice drew to a close, I was encouraged to begin contemplating taking full ordination, which would have entailed a far more rigorous set of vows and a lifetime commitment. I never really had a lot of doubt that I would do it, but undertook a 10-day solitary retreat to reflect on the question. I worked out an elaborate approach of journaling, mixed with meditation and reflection. I did my shopping, planned my meals, worked out a schedule, consulting with several teachers. I selected books that would support me in making the decision.

Upon arriving at the retreat, I spent a day cleaning and setting up the cabin, getting the kitchen ready to use, etc. The next day I did my morning meditation practice, had breakfast, and set out the notebook that I was going to use for my journaling.

I picked up my pen and looked at the page. Instantly, I realized that I didn’t want to continue being a monk. It required absolutely no further reflection. It was a realization as complete as any other I had ever had in my life. I’ve never regretted it or had cause to question it since. I just knew.

I walked out of the cabin and looked out at the valley below and felt a feeling of complete freedom. I realized all the ways in which being a monk made me too tight, all the ways in which it inhibited me in making contact with people and had gradually narrowed my sense of who I was into a role that I performed.

Two days later I broke my retreat, and on the way home the Boulder went dancing in Denver, happy to be wearing dressed the way I wanted and to be able to relax in the company of others.

I don’t regret my time as a monk. It is certainly true that my contemplative practice, my relationship to my mind and my kindness to others deepened as a result of my time as a monk. And I think it is a wonderful path for people with different dispositions than mine. And, indeed, I’m not sure it would have been possible for me to appreciate my real life, and who I am in it, as deeply as I now do without the experience of leaving that life and working with another identity for a while.