Folk Art at the Lake

     It’s that time of year, once again. We are up north buttoning up our cottage at summer’s end. Many other lake neighbors have already tarped their boats, rolled in their docks and returned to the Detroit suburbs in preparation for the new school year.

I am a bit melancholy, as my son is here, but tomorrow he will continue alone on a six hour journey to his university dorm for year two of college.

     Sometimes I wish I had thicker blood and enjoyed winter sports such as snowmobiling and Nordic skiing. Being a California Native, if I can’t ski in a t-shirt and tan at the same time, I’m out. Maybe this winter as an empty nester I could come up here and write by our wood burning fireplace. I wouldn’t HAVE to go outside.

     When I’ve had a spell of writer’s block in the past, I’ve come to the realization that when I am up north my head is clear and writing is effortless. Ideas come looking for me. They often poke me in the face when I am not paying attention.

     I took a stroll around the lake to clip a wild flower bouquet. I am forever amazed at how Mother Nature knows how to schedule perfect complimentary colors. Late summer flowers are mostly purple, yellow and white. My bouquet consisted of thistle, chicory, golden rod and Queen Anne’s Lace. I grabbed a big green fern and shoved it in behind the blooms as a backdrop. 

     With bouquet in hand, I walked around the gravel road and decided to peek in on our neighbors and see if they were still up. Like most cottages, theirs looked put to bed for the season. As I turned away from the cottage to walk back to mine, I couldn’t help but notice a tree to the right of their drive. Staring me straight in the face was a gigantic scar on a white pine tree.

     My somber mood did an immediate 180. I laughed out loud. Luckily I had my iphone to snap a quick picture. The tree scar was painted pink. Nailed above it was a pouf of black mesh netting. Our lake neighbors must have a family member or friend who’s a folk artist, because their “welcome to our cottage” tree clearly sported a 3 foot vagina.

     She was begging to let visitors in, but needed a voice. A sign reading “come on in” or “our piece of heaven” could work. “No trespassing” or “private property” would be amusing, but that wouldn’t reflect the sentiments of our lake community.

     Should lightning strike alongside the gravel drive to our cottage, I will be prepared to adorn the tree’s scar. I have always loved red heads, and my sign will read, “come hither. relax,” because at our lake, that’s pretty much how we go down.

Jack & Jesus

     Carved into a steep, rocky hill overlooking the Portage Canal sits a ramshackle mining house that my daughter called home during the school months. It barely looks stable enough to withstand the area’s couple hundred inch yearly snowfall. The windows stay open with the help of scrap two-by-fours propped in the jambs. The red tar paper shingles are missing some gravel. To say it is a little run down is an understatement.

     Inside, the 70’s rust velvet loveseat is a decade shy of the mauve sofa. The combination is nauseating. It is home to four girls and a gathering place to the rest of their sisters scattered about the tiny college town.  I am no snob, but I cannot imagine walking around in a nightgown and bare feet in that place. Knock out a few windows and replace the expensive whiskey with bottom shelf and it could easily be mistaken for a crack house instead of a sorority.

     My daughter got permission from the landlord to bring along her ginger tabby, Finn. She tweeted  a picture of him #trumpyourcat. The only other males allowed are Jack Daniels and Jesus Christ. Believe me when I tell you they are both very present in each and every room. Every horizontal surface is lined with Jack Daniels bottles. Some are bejazzled and some are not. The only thing they share in common is that not one has a single drop of whiskey left, not one. Am I too optimistic to assume that the girls are done drinking?

     Hanging on the living room wall was a glossy plaque of Jesus knocking on a cottagey door. It looked more like it belonged in Nonna & Papa’s house. One sister, not a nun, taped a bubble message on the plaque that has Jesus saying, “Hey girls, can I party with you?” I found it way too funny. Jesus also had two round circles taped on top of his robe. My daughter said it was a Jesus bust, which at first I didn’t understand.

     A Jesus statue sat on a shelf in the billiard room, aka the dining room. My husband suggested she start a new viral craze #trumpyourjesus. After she refused a few times I said, “You will put a bust on him but you won’t Trump him?” She explained that the taped bust was temporary until they found a new Jesus “bust statue."  They had one, but apparently he had too much Jack one night and fell down the stairs and broke his neck. The girls had been scouring the local thrift stores for a new one. I didn’t know people got rid of their Jesus chatchkis. Apparently they do. It’s not like he goes in and out and back in style like a macramé owl on a driftwood pole. I’m not making this up. I recently saw a macramé owl in a magazine that I purchased called “Boho Chic” or something.  Anyhoo, I will be keeping my eye out for Jesus statues to add to their collection. I think Jack and Jesus at least should be equally represented in the sorority house, if not a little heavier on the Jesus.

     After visiting Lynchburg, Tennessee I had an idea for their sorority fundraiser: a Jack Daniels cookbook! I started collecting recipes that called for whiskey. I would name the Perfect Manhattan on the Rocks with a Twist “The Auntie Evelyn” for obvious reasons in our family. I even found a recipe for chocolate cupcakes with Jack Daniels frosting. I thought the sorority girls could make those and sell them at a bake sale (with a disclaimer & ID check of course). I don’t know if I will ever get around to the project or not, but I figured it would serve as a valid explanation as to why I have a bottle of booze in my baking cupboard.

Do What You Love

I recently heard the game show host, Steve Harvey, address his audience off camera. He said, “Your gift will make room for you.” He talked about being the best at whatever it is you do. I have been trying to embrace that idea and make room for my gift. I know it will happen. I dive into my dreams head first. I never know where they are going. My ADD/OCD brain takes me places that I do not always plan.

My recent passion is essential oils. I shouldn’t say “recent.” I have been using essential oils for over 20 years. I was recently introduced to Young Living Oils. I believe the company is the best on the market. Dr. Gary Young has years of experience and research to back his company. This is a potential business opportunity for me. I am not a “salesy” business woman, but I share information in hopes that friends will also be interested, and they seem to be.

People care about the environment. They care about their health. They are interested in holistic healing. They are disillusioned with the pharmaceutical industry. I am too.

Today, my gifts blended. It is Saturday and I am working. I didn’t even realize it, because it doesn’t feel like work. My hobbies of writing, photography and essential oils came together. My gifts are making room for me.

In my blog, I share ideas that I care about. In an attempt to expand my essential oil business through Young Living Oils, I decided to create a voluntary mailing list to my social contacts to share recipes and information. I wanted my mailings to be pretty, so friends would look forward to my monthly postcards. I planned to include recipes for environmentally friendly recipes for household cleaning products or body care items. I am practicing what I preach, as I am quickly replacing every commercial product in my house with a homemade one.

My first post card has a “spring cleaning” theme. I took a picture of the products I made and use. The label for the Soft Scrub reads “cause cleaning shouldn’t hurt.” The Disinfecting Wipes label says, “kill germs, not the environment.” I hope Clorox, Johnson & Johnson and Monsanto will hate me, OR hire me to revamp their toxic companies.  The picture of my cleaning products includes my cute rubber gloves and a stack of colorful bandana rags. Don’t be fooled, they do not make cleaning fun. I hate cleaning. I’m sure you do too. I just want to rinse less chemicals down the drain.

I found it challenging to include all of the information I wanted onto a little postcard, so this is why I am sharing all of this on my blog as well. I have not yet mailed my first postcard. Below I have included recipes and a picture of my (rarely used) cleaning products. If you would like to be added to my mailing list, message me.

I am doing what I love. I love our environment, I love writing. I love photography. I don’t know if I am gifted at any of it, but if you would like me to share with you, send me your address and I will send you a postcard.  My gifts will make room for you too.

Soft Scrub:

¾ c baking soda

¼ c castile soap

1 tablespoon water

10 drops essential oil (I use tea tree or thieves)

Mix into a paste. Store in a glass jar. Use as you would soft scrub to clean sinks, tubs and showers.

Disinfecting Wipes:

2 c water

2T castile soap

8 drops tea tree oil

4 drops lemon oil

Mix and store in a glass jar. Dip a cloth rag in the jar and wring out. Use as you would a commercial disposable disinfecting wipe on hard surfaces. 

Island Time

I had the opportunity to tag along with my husband on a business trip to the Miami Boat Show. I love Art Deco and Spanish Architecture. We opted to stay in SOBE's Art Deco District. I would have gone about anywhere to get out of Michigan's single digit temperatures in the month of February. 

The perfectly manicured sugar sand, Miami skyline and colorfully painted lifeguard stands are truly a sight! Ocean Boulevard's restaurants, umbrellas and Latin music are  a destination for American snowbirds, Canadians, and Europeans alike. 

Three nights of clubs and restaurants were plenty for we middle aged dorks. That, and the sirens, early morning garbage trucks and hotel neighbors coming in at 5 am made for some sleepless nights. Yes, bars are open until 5 am! Our last night we got a 3 am wake up call to a pounding on our door due to the front desk getting a disturbance call to a room number transposed. As we headed to our rental car at 6 am in the parking garage we passed characters who were either closing a club or finishing a work shift. Whether working or partying, most were clothed in fishnets and exposed butt cheeks: a look I could neither pull off nor be comfortable in. 

We were on our way to the relaxing part of our journey. My husband was able to tack on a week of vacation, so he booked a condo for us in the Bahamas. We needed it! The plane from Ft. Lauderdale to Freeport was a 32 seater that sounded like an old fighter plane from WWII. Although only 20 minutes, the ride was an anxietous adventure. 

We landed at 10 am Island Time. A band playing Bahamian music welcomed us near the immigration check-in. Sea life murals were painted on the walls. It was a beautiful welcome center and a wonderful first impression. 

On the curb, a taxi driver offered us a ride. We followed him to his van. It was sun faded and duct taped. Carpet scraps covered the tattered upholstered seats. We rode through desolate neighborhoods that had not yet been repaired from the hurricane of 2004.  I was scared. My husband apologized. He had used our vacation club points to book a vacation after his work in Miami and basically threw a dart. 

24 hours previous I confirmed our reservation and was assured we could check in upon arrival. Turnetta, the Queen Bee of the resort lobby, said unapologetically, " Your room not ready. Go to the beach. I find you." A few hours later she said, " Come back in 30 minutes." She repeated to us and several other guests about 5 times, " Maybe your room ready in 30 minutes. Go to the beach. I find you."

The website indicated that check in was 4 pm. As long as no one cared if the room had towels or a made bed, that was pretty accurate. Funny thing, though, no one was bitching. All the guests were chatting and laughing as much as the resort staff. We made it. We were on Island Time and our toes were in the sand. Turnetta finally hooked us up. Our condo had two balconies, terra cotta floors, a fully equipped kitchen, and views of the Carribean Sea, courtyard pools and rock wall fountains. Paradise found!

A guy named Adriene had the job of raking the beach in the morning and putting out the chaise lounge chairs for the guests to sit down. He promised that "for a little gas money" he would show us around town and take us to a liquor store. Resort cocktails are pricey! Grand Bahama is 180 degrees from Miami Beach, and I do not mean in temperature! I wasn't yet sure where I was more scared. We made a joke with other guests that if the couple in condo 3014 doesn't return, tell the front desk that we were last seen with the beach attendant. 

Adreine's car had an empty dashboard and a muffler hanging on a shoestring. After driving out of the resort he must have tooted his horn every 100 yards, waving out of his open window and yelling, "Hey, Mon" or "Where you Goin?" He knew everyone. He gave us a tour and a history lesson of the Island of the Grand Bahama. The largest resort and International Bazaar Market  closed years ago after the large cruise ships discontinued Freeport as a stop due to a political issue.  Locals do not buy local art. Jobs in the resort industry dwindled. We passed by building after closed building. Three foot weeds grew in parking lots. A group of old men were playing dominoes at a picnic table at a desolate park. Adriene said they were there every day just to pass the time. He added, "Iz ok mon, we gettin by."

We finally arrived at the liquor store. Iron bars surrounded all 4 sides. When the owner saw Adriene, she buzzed us in. While we shopped, other locals were buzzed in, chatted, and bought one beer to go. As I tried to hand the owner my visa card, she put her hand up and said, "Wait juz a minute, I still ringing." She was right. I had not yet adjusted to Island Time. I was a little embarrassed that I appeared in a bit of a fucking hurry. 

On the way back to the resort, Adriene cracked a beer. He said, "Iz ok, Mon, you can drink and drive here." I guess it was ok, he was on his lunch hour. 

It took us a good 24 hours to understand Island Time, but we did it. We learned we shouldn't wait 'til we are starving to go to dinner, not to expect the wifi to work, and basically not to expect anything on time. There IS no time on Island Time. 

We tipped Adreine much more than "a little gas money." He said,"I have a son. I will buy him alot of Burger King. He like that."

I want to bring the Island hospitality back home with me. I will ask, "How you doin?" and really want to know. I will be happy when the sun is shining. I will be happy to be gettin' by. I will be happy to make someone else happy, just like Adriene, even if it is just to give someone a ride to a store or set up a chair for someone to sit down.