An Artist's Sketchbook of Simple Living
"You can speak poetry just by arranging colors well."
Vincent van Gogh
Box of Little Things
Everyone needs a Box of Little Things, of that I'm very sure.
When our children were young, the spilling over of "little things" on the floor and desk top that had to be shuffled through before they could reach their beds at night was overwhelming.
You know them. Small one-inch items with no name, sharp edges or knobs, maybe a detached face. In a pinch I might recall which game or toy they were attached to, but mostly I had no idea. Interesting? Sometimes. Useful? Maybe. Worth picking up? Not to me.
That's when I said, "enough!" I found a nice-sized box for each child-- what we came to call their Box of Little Things. "It will be a place to put whatever you find that looks aimless or homeless," I told them. Stray erasers, a plastic ring, an arm, puzzle piece, a miniature tire.
This was going to be fun, I told them. Easy.
And I have to say, I, at least, found it to be that way. Picking up became easier right away. No one (me) had to figure out where to put things now, nor did I have to even know what it was. So when my son came to me looking for that metal piece that hooked onto that plastic pirate's thingy, "you know the one!" I could say, "look in your Box of Little Things."
If it wasn't there? "Then let's just say it's nowhere, and move on " was my answer.
It occurred to me recently that I, too, could use a Box of Little Things! I'm not sure why it took me so long to realize that, and I'm ashamed to admit it. But there it is. So much time wasted in the chaos of miniaturization.
So I picked out a box for myself that looked appropriate and pleasant to use, then seeded it with the first few painfully small things I found laying around the house--a rubber washer, a metal shelf peg, a wooden bead, a small roll of red dot stickers, a cork--and put the box away on a shelf upstairs.
There. I felt in-the-know and light-hearted.
Now the smallest bits and pieces of my life are stored away safe from harm and prying eyes. Occasionally I add to them. I can't say I recover many of my lost items by searching in the box, but that doesn't matter really. It's the fun and wonder of finding what I had long forgotten about. It's the adventure of scavaging through who-knows-what, and finding--well, pretty much nothing of value. Where else can you have that kind of fun?
Go ahead and start your own Box of Little Things. Choose a sturdy box (a tin will do nicely too) in a color and pattern you like; not so big you can't find a place to store it, and not so small you can't add to it.
Go ahead. . . I'll wait here while you go look for a box.
Doc Holliday to Wyatt Earp
We Gather Together
I've tried for several years now to get a family portrait of some kind, so I can show friends and relations how grand we all look together. You know, like when you buy a new frame for your living room and there on the front is the already perfect family, smiling and happy inside that beautiful frame?
I want one of those pictures for our friendly group. Done right, I think we too would qualify for the ad on a new frame.
I envy those families from years ago who were able to collect themselves together and sit patiently for minutes at a time while their picture was taken slooooowly. Their patience is admirable. That's not to say I'd like a formal portrait where they place you in stairstep positions, heads tilted at unnatural angles. No, that won't do for us.
We're better suited for one of those pictures where someone spontaneously says during a family gathering, "hey, everyone sit down (or stand) over there and let me take your picture." SNAP! Done. Perfect.
Collecting us all together is the problem. We're an unruly, slap-happy bunch when we're together, so it's somewhat like trying to heard a gang of chickens. Plus, I know of at least two of us who just won't smile for the camera, which I suppose they think is like soul-stealing.
Tonight is Thanksgiving Eve. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and I'll have another chance. I'll get the camera ready, and maybe even our small tripod. Then when everyone has eaten that wonderful, once-a-year meal of turkey and its various culinary friends, I'll say, "hey, everyone--sit over here so I can . . . "
Wish me luck.
Not that everyone I would like in the picture will be here tomorrow, but I'll start with what I do have and work up to the full-on portrait at another time. Low expectations, you know, make for success.
Then, if all else fails, I'll glue my head onto one of those new frame ads. You take your friends and family where you can get them. If I get lonesome sitting there in the pretty frame among strangers, I'll add one or two other family heads into the picture.
Bonfire Night In Georgia
We carried the burn pit back to the smokehouse today after last month's bonfire to keep it protected from cold and rain, both of which are moving in this evening. We call it a bonfire when as little as one or two logs start to burn (or maybe smoke is a better description) in a large metal tub my husband gave me for Christmas a few years ago. Far from a true bonfire, yes, but it makes us feel more like woodsmen when we can at least throw around terms like "split the wood" and "stoke the fire." Size doesn't seem to matter.
Come chilly weather, everyone wants at least a small bit of woodsmoke in their nose. It's the cotton candy of the forest world, and the trail of it brings all of us outside.
When the night air starts to darken so the fire shows up nice and bright, we slide hotdogs onto long metal roasting sticks and sit on stools around the pit, hoping our hot dogs brown-up before our faces do.
Sometimes they do and sometimes they don't.
It takes some practice to get your hotdog to the perfect, deep brown or slightly blackened color before it either turns to ashes or slides into the fire, both of which only add to the excitement. In the dark, no one sees ashes.
Of course the food always tastes good. The smell alone tells you that, and it's well known that you can't mess up anything burned over an outdoor fire. I once ate three hot dogs at a friend's house because, well, I was at a bonfire!
This year's Big Event Out Back went especially well. The air was cool but not too cold, and a full moon was directly overhead. For one brief moment I wondered if someone might not break out into a song so that the rest of us could sing along.
That, of course, didn't happen. For one thing none of us knew any camp songs or cowboy songs, and for another, I'm the only one who sings around here, and I had the good sense to know no one else wanted to hear me.
Just me. They would have let me sing all night without joining in.
I'm a roamin' cowboy, ridin' all day long.
Tumbleweeds around me sing their lonely song.
Nights underneath the prairie moon,
I ride along and sing this tune.
See them tumblin' down,
pledgin' their love to the ground.
Lonely but free I'll be found.
Driftin' along with the tumblin' tumbleweeds.
1930's era cowboy song, written by Bob Nolan, sung by many including Roy Rogers and Gene Autry
Closing Up Shop
It's early November. Seed pods are starting to dry on the plants, and my pantry is lined with soups. Neighborhood scarecrows are starting to be moved back into the attic where they can be stored until another day. Time to close up shop outside and think about things inside where it's dry and warm.
Unwinding the summer clock before winter seems like a heartless task, don't you think? It's never been easy for me to pick up my clippers and gloves and cut down lantana or okra while it still looks healthy. The death of something green, especially if it has blossoms, is a hard pill to swallow. . . or is that a hard row to hoe? It is both.
It rained several days during the end of October, and then turned cold. As I sat at my drawing desk inside our cozy home, I watched the weather drip a little closer toward winter.
Gathering Seed
It's not all a washout though. The weatherman, also known as my husband, tells me this week will be beautiful--all sun with 70-degree temperatures. It's good news, because now I have a window of time when deep blue skies and shirt-sleeve temperatures will make the task easier. Already I have gathered zinnia and cypress vine seeds and brought them inside to finish drying. The basil is cut and hanging on the mantle, and the herbs I gathered in mid summer are dried and put away in jars for winter tea.
The rabbit I was seeing every morning and evening several weeks ago is not around anymore--underground I suppose, secure in his warren. The rocking chair cushions are put away in the closet, while October's shower of orange and red leaves has covered the ground.
It's chilly now when I'm on the porch, so a sweater is a help. It won't be long, however, before I will close up shop there also. I've tried to sit on the porch during cold weather, but the visit doesn't last long, even with a coat. From here on out, the spiders and lizards will have free reign.
With a fire going this evening and the kitchen cleaned and ready for another day, cold weather doesn't seem so bad.
Not yet, anyway.
In a few months spring will appear to reestablish itself into the garden and woods. By next Wednesday, however, I can consider the door closed, the light turned out.
All the action will have moved inside.
One More Thing
The train is called The Christmas Train.
It starts slowly enough, but then picks up steam as it gets close to its destination. That destination is my home and your home, whether we're ready or not. At our house, we keep a close watch on the Christmas Train, and try like crazy to not get run over.
It's a wild ride, and by September it's already near full speed. But try not to panic, try not to run away. Just stick around and have a little fun.
Christmas Train Conductor
There's a Little Red Train, we say around here, that loads its cargo and starts up at an undisclosed, imaginary depot sometime around July each year. It's November now.....November!
A Song for Winter
Box of Little Things ❤ We Gather Together ❤ Bonfire Night In Georgia ❤ Closing Up Shop ❤ One More Thing ❤
Family Portrait
Don't worry. I've thought this out.
Yes, they were smart, bless their clever souls. I, too, should have been wise weeks ago, like a good rabbit, trimming the wildwood and moving the lemon verbena inside.
The regrets of late autumn. . . my favorite ballad to sing in November.
Comments
To leave a message or comment, please see Contact Page.
4/5/23 -- "Like Goldilocks, I find your website to be "just the right size" and full of beautiful art and messages (which have been inspiring me and my warren of rabbits for years. Lucky me!) (Pat)
3/22/23 -- "Simple but yet so inspiring and the art is beautiful. Cannot wait for another entry to read." (Trina)
3/20/23 -- "Hello Cutie Pie, what a great website you've got here." (Steve)
8/20/20 -- "Well, what an interesting website; and hey, I've seen that picture of the cat in a chair somewhere." (Kristy)
10/17/20 -- "I love reading all your entries. They make me laugh and also pause to think about all the good stuff. The quotes are perfect, and I am also glad you are up and running again." (Linda)
7/7/22 -- Miss Sandie did you write that poem? Love it! And I am sad that the tomato man is not there but what a wonderful tribute. Love, love all your posts sweet friend😊 (Trina)