CHRIS STAPLETON, REDUX

I’ve told this story so many times — “dined out on it” as my father-in-law used to say — but I’ve never written it down . . .

September 2016. Sally called. She couldn’t find anyone to share her tickets to see Chris Stapleton at Summerfest in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and would I like to come? I didn’t know who he was but when your daughter invites you to do something you can’t pass that up. I said I would find us an Airbnb and looked in a neighborhood I knew from 40 years earlier, Brady Street, where an old friend had lived. It was still filled with great restaurants and bars and shops and a place to stay within walking distance.

That was the first good decision. The second was to take the train from Saint Paul to Milwaukee. I sat in the observation car, my feet on my bag, watching as the train made its way south along the Mississippi River and then east, crossing the gorgeous green rolling hills of Wisconsin.

Brady Street. The gargoyle still reigns.

The next day we wandered around Brady Street. The building where my friend had lived was still there with the gargoyle lurking at the top. At night, back then, there was always the soft light of a goose lamp in a window. 

The tickets were what Sally could afford on a tight budget — we sat at the very top of a huge stadium on the grass. It was a beautiful summer night, we were happy in each other’s company and there were big screens projecting the band. It was a double bill with the Alabama Shakes up first. At one point, Brittany Howard was so into her song that her glasses flew off.

Sally getting ready to go out on the town.

We sat talking and drinking beer in the lull before Chris Stapleton came on, idly watching as a woman climbed the stairs. She stopped in front of us and said she had two mid-section tickets, she had to leave and would we like to have them? We thanked her and excitedly started to gather our things when a second woman came up the stairs to us and said “I’m just here for the Alabama Shakes, do you want these tickets down in the front?” We were simultaneously confused and in a whirl. Sally gave the first two tickets to two boys leaning against the fence. They went tripping down the stairs.

Chris Stapleton, Summerfest, Milwaukee, 2016.

Every time we showed our tickets to an usher we were directed further down until we were all the way to the very front of the stage. At this point, Sally had tears of joy and I was in a daze. Then Chris Stapleton came on and I don’t think there could have two people more grateful for those seats. Such a big, powerful, bluesy, country voice and guitar and beautiful, hard luck lyrics. We saw him wipe away a tear as the whole stadium sang along to a song he hadn’t expected anyone to know.

At one point, Sally saw herself on a monitor wearing a big, goofy smile which pretty well sums up the whole experience.

How Does a Picture Font Work?

You might wonder how to use a picture font. I’m here to explain it to you! Hopefully in a clear manner. (Questions, ask below or on Facebook) I will use for my example my dog picture font called Woof! which is now on sale at Outside the Line for $9!

Each picture (in this case, each dog) is assigned to a letter on your keyboard. So the letter a is an English Pointer, the letter b is a Saint Bernard, the letter c is an Australian Shepherd, h is a German Shepherd and so on.

The lower case letter is a line drawing of each dog. The upper case or capital letter is filled in, a silhouette, all black.

If you want a small dog all you have to do is make your letter small, as in 14 point. If you want it larger you could make it 90 pt. It’s up to you. You can choose sizes in almost every program you use. The quality does not change. The clarity stays the same.

You can use this dog font for stationery, a card for a friend, a framed image, scrapbooking. The list is endless!

The only thing you can’t do is put the image on a card, t-shirt, mug, etc. etc. and sell it. Well, you can but you need to contact Rae for a contract at Outside the Line. We retain the copyright to the illustrations and the font. http://www.outside-the-line.com/faqs-2

Any questions? Please ask!

*and the font at the top is Rae’s ‘Cordially Yours’.

The Washing Machine

When someone asked me what life was like when I lived in Budapest I would tell them about my washing machine. It was bigger than a breadbox but not by much — a small, square, metal box with some knobs. A hose ran from the sink into this box. I would turn on the hot water and let it fill.

This was done on the weekends with kids running around and me multi-tasking and so, more often than not, the tub runneth over. "Now I can also wash the kitchen floor! How efficient of me!"

The washing powder never, not once, dissolved. I put the clothes in anyway and pressed a button; the 'washing machine' for lack of a better word (like 'breadbox') would rotate one inch to the right and one inch to the left. I let it do that for a while as I mopped the kitchen floor. The process was reversed to 'rinse' the clothes. Again, severely impaired rotation commenced. 

Drain the water. Wring out the clothes and hang them up. Try to iron shirts that have been wrung out like this. Just try. My husband was kind enough to point out that I failed. I said he could take his shirts and — take his shirts to the cleaners, yes, that's what I said. 

The stove wasn't much bigger — it barely held a chicken. My sister came to visit, looked around the kitchen and said, "I thought you said you had an oven." Yes, well. 

The Train to Brownsville

That's me but it also looks like my mother when she was a little girl. I drew it from a memory of a faded photograph of myself at 3 1/2 standing in the Gulf of Mexico.

I don't remember playing in the water but I do recall other parts of the trip I took with my mother by train from Iowa to Brownsville, Texas. 

I remember the porter making up the bed and then coming back in because I dropped my toothbrush between the bed and the wall. I can hear the clack-clack of wheels on rails and see the lights as we pulled into a station, the mail pouch on a hook. 

Everything is brown in my memory including Brownsville station — small, wooden and dimly lit by a single yellow bug light. A man came dashing up to meet us in a brown suit, tie and hat. My mother called him 'Brownie' and he called her 'Toots'. They hugged like old friends. 

"Is he Brownie because of his clothes?" I wanted to know but my mother ignored me and continued to casually ignore me for the rest of the visit. I came to see this as a gift; I saw her as someone besides my mother, on her own and being herself and also letting me be myself which I took to like a duck in water. She hung out with her sister and women friends and I hung out with my grandfather who had a pure, uncomplicated love for me that I could feel and which I held as a touchstone for the rest of my life. I was comfortable by his side as he worked. 

My grandfather gave me something which I accidentally dropped through the slats of what I thought was a raft; I remained unbearably sad about it. Years later, I asked my mother what it was. She remembered my hysterics. "It was just a yellow daisy and you were on the dock." 

We stepped over the border into Mexico and into dirt roads, dust and color. I followed behind my mother and her sister and friends, twirling in a bright green cotton dress with colorful embroidery and ribbons. I picked up the travel bug and never let it go.