Maybe it’s because of the cell phone. With a click of a button we can find out all the when and wheres. Photos. Google Maps. I guess my grandparents had a similar device, they called it the kitchen table. Prompted not by clicks, but conversation, they could pull out the dates of every snowstorm, every wedding, death, birth, and pass it around the table faster than any screen. Do we have conversations like this any more?
I’m all for progress. I use my phone daily. My computer to communicate with you. But I hope as you read this, you can slide your chair a little closer to the table. Lean into the conversation. Not just calculate the facts, but feel the words. Trace the palms on tables. The half empty coffee cups. Cookie crumbs. Lean on elbows (because there’s no formality here). Bury your head on shoulders. Catch the laughter. Wipe the tears. Dare the repeats and the “remember when”s.
One of the greatest gifts I receive is when you tell me the story you remember while reading mine. And a new story begins. The conversation continues. Along with the love. Never a need to worry, this table is strong.
There is an empty space where the painting hung. It sold yesterday, Lake Agnes. My first thought, of course, was of joy, but my second thought was of Herberger’s. More specifically, the Herberger’s store that used to be in Alexandria, Minnesota.
My mom, served as the unofficial ambassador. She knew every clerk. Every shopper. For her, and a majority of the town, Herberger’s was not just retail, but social.
Carol worked in the shipping department, right next to the office. My mom would see her when she went to pay her bill. They became friends. It was only after a few conversations that my mom was retrieving empty cardboard boxes to bring to me to use for shipping artwork. I was shipping daily to stores and galleries, so my box bill would have been a fortune. They had a need to recycle — it worked out well for everyone. My mom would fill the back of her hatchbacked Ford Focus and drive them to me in Minneapolis. We then took the time for coffee, wine and shopping. By Sunday evening her car was filled with bags from Anthropologie or Sundance or Macy’s, and the joyful cycle continued.
Of course nothing was the exact size. I became an expert at creating boxes. I could score and trim and shrink wrap and tape with the best of them. It might sound odd to say, but I was proud of it. Still am.
Yesterday I went to the garage and found two scraps (I use the term with affection) of cardboard, and a large amount of bubble wrap. The cardboard was from some garden tool that Dominique ordered, and the bubble wrap from a guitar that was given as a gift to the kids. They weren’t dirty, but still I vacuumed and wiped each piece sparkling clean. I wrapped it with precision. The box is square and strong. The painting is, and will be safe.
I smile as it sits beside me. Knowingly part of my story. Even as I live a country away, and Herberger’s is long closed, I know what, who, helped get me here.
The world is changing. Artificial intelligence is nipping at our heels. People are contemplating if it will take over the arts. I don’t think so. I certainly hope not. Sure, I suppose it’s possible to create the painting. But what you can’t manufacture is the story. The lives involved in one piece of art. Carol folding boxes. The Herberger’s store manager helping my mom load the car. My mom. Her love and support. Telling all who would listen. It fills me still.
This painting that I sell today is of Lake Agnes. One of the first lakes I knew in my hometown. It will ship from France and travel to Arkansas, carrying the stories of those who first lifted me.
My grandmother walked comfortably in her skin. Skin that was stretched a little more horizontally than vertically. Skin she donned in aproned dresses and comfortable shoes. She was tall to me when I was a child. Sturdy. Sure. I clung to her side, bashful and uneasy. We walked into Jerry’s Jack and Jill, the small grocery store near the end of Broadway. She picked a cart and began down the first aisle. I gripped the cart beside her hand. She stopped almost immediately. “Ooooo….” I knew this sound – it meant she liked something she saw. She grabbed the plastic bag filled with toasted marshmallows. One of her favorites. “Grab those,” she said. I put a bag in the bottom of the cart. “No, up here.” She placed them in the top part of the cart where a child would sit. She opened the bag. “Grandma!” I screamed. “What?” she asked. “You can’t do that.” I claimed. “Oh, it’s fine…” “But it’s stealing.” “I’m going to pay for them. It’s fine.” “But -“ “Oh, they know me.” We walked around the store. Filled the cart. Past workers and shoppers in aisle. “Oh, hi, Elsie!” I heard again and again, but no one said a word about the marshmallows that were disappearing from the cart. We got to the check-out and the first thing she placed on the counter was the empty bag. The clerk gave her a wink and rang up the bag. They did know her. Everything was fine. It seemed so easy, so normal. And I Ioved the way her chubby frame glided like Ginger Rogers, backwards through this small town. She made no selfies, no tweets, but she lived out loud. And people knew her. Yes, this was a small town. But aren’t they all, really. If you back up and look at us, on this planet, as humans, we are specks, delightful specks, but all living in our small communities – be it Minneapolis, or Paris. How do we not know each other? We must know each other. Know ourselves. If we can do this, we can do better. Much better. I surpassed my grandmother’s height years ago, but she is still so very tall to me. Take a look around. It’s an amazing world, with amazing people. “OOOOOOOh!” “Yes!” If we can see it, see each other, everything’s going to be fine.
