Twenty-one Pairs of Red Shoes

Twenty-one pairs of Dorothy red shoes grace my old house. They are carefully placed all over the house…in nooks and crannies…on shelves and even a couple are dangling in the window. These red shoes give children great opportunities for exploration, counting, and sneaking around in all the rooms. Last night, at our faculty picnic, was no exception. As the adults picnicked outside the children of Brandy DePriest calculated shoes. Some they tried on, others they admired, but after all was said and done, they only found ten pairs of shoes. Ah, they asked me, where are the shoes. “Hmmm…. somewhere over the rainbow?”

The collecting of shoes began 17 years ago when I moved into this old house. I don’t know how it started, perhaps by my friend and neighbor, Marilyn Doer? The hunt for this house was a long process as I looked at many houses in my search. What did I want? A picket fence…a claw foot bathtub…a lovely neighborhood? It got to the point when I finally realized what I wanted was a house to shout to me when I opened the front door, “Welcome home.” And this house did just that on an early Sunday morning when Randy and Shannon whisked their little ones out of bed so I could see the house. One foot inside the door, and it this house didn’t just shout, it seemed to call to me quietly in whispers too.

Seventeen years ago my friends, Bob and Nancy from Indy, brought their children up to Pokagon for the weekend and ended up at my house for pizza and conversation. It was then the youngest (who is now all grown up) said to me, “I knew you wanted a house so I drew a picture and told Santa all about you. That is how you got the house.” Bob and Nancy both nodded. Indeed, Mary asked for my house that year and nothing for herself. She went on to say, “This is the house I drew and now you have it.” I was amazed and thanked her for the Santa wish. She then said, “You know, technically, this is my house. I should have it when you die.” Lots of laughter followed as we all looked at little, sweet Mary wishing for my house.

Talking with Abe this week, the subject of “home” actually came up in the conversation. I told him I was one of the lucky ones who found home. I know who I am and have chosen this home carefully…not by luck. I could while away the hours in this purple house, but there is family to visit, research to conduct, stories to tell…

In the book, Geography of Home, Akiko Busch says, “And I would argue that in our increasingly pluralistic, and often chaotic world, finding this sense of fit is ever more important. It may be as simple as the graceful coexistence of technology and nostalgia.” Yes, I agree.

Years ago I wrote this poem about who I am. I recently added the last line. And may I ask, who are you?

I am from coalmines,

Deep dark under the ground

With blood shot eyes peering out at the end of each day.

“I am from the still in the back yard where great-

Grandpa shot the sheriff, back in those

Woods owned by the Hatfield’s and McCoy’s.

The stories we aren’t allowed to tell.

I am from stewed tomatoes and white bread eaten over

scuffed up linoleum floors and black and white photos crookedly hung over walls.

I am from Amazing Grace and altar calls…sometimes going up to the preacher just to get the service over so we could all go home to pot roast.

I am from lavender sachets and fur collars as we sat together on the bus heading downtown to tea or to window shop for pearls and white gloves.

I am from the stern look of keeping my knees together while my voice could belt out the show tunes of Rogers and Hammerstein.

Under my bed was a dress box from Wolf and Dessaur’s spilling theatre and Dance tickets.

School pictures.

Dried prom corsages.

College entrance exam scores that took me on a whole new road.

The road that took me away forever except for the moments when I return to kneel before the casket to say goodbye.

I am from the purple house with a white picket fence and twenty-one pairs of red shoes announcing,

 “There is no place like home.”

*First published in KPC August 2019.

Don't Miss August!!

 

August Night Skies This Week from Skymania.com

 

 

It is late. It is dark. The sky is covered with the light of the full Sturgeon Moon, also known as the Green Corn Moon. I love the full moon, but tonight I am looking for the Pleiades. Every year I look forward to the Pleiades in hopes that I see a shooting star…one or a dozen, but this year, with the rain showers in Northeast Indiana and the full moon, they are hard to see.

I pull the blanket a bit closer as I am determined to wait it out to see at least one. These are the nights of reflecting. These nights, with no one else out in the backyard, the early signs of Autumn creep into the night air.

There is something pungent about the air in August. Go into your backyard and take a whiff, and tell me, yes, the air is August. Even though August gives way to Autumn, my personal favorite time of year, it is a sad scent as well.

We shift in August. In June, as written in “Dandelion Wine” by Ray Bradbury we have “…a whole summer ahead to cross off the calendar day by day…” Now the days are crossed off and summer comes to a screeching halt as the kids go back to school.

I cannot speak for you, or for those who have children in day care all summer, but for me, summer meant another year of growth for my children. Going back to school was another year closer to their leaving me. Aaron used to say, “Don’t tell me it is time for school until the night before we have to go.” When they were little I did just that. Tucking them in bed in that late August heat (no air-conditioning on our farm), I would gently tell them school would begin the next day. Perhaps they knew. Perhaps it was the sharpening of the pencils or the clean backpacks. Perhaps it was the tilting of the sun or the birthday of the twins.

After their ritual of stories, I always sat out on the swing on the porch and looked out over the fields. Sometimes Doc would be there getting ready for harvest, but usually it was quiet. Fireflies dotted the landscape, and the early crickets joined in with the cacophony of other night sounds. There was always an owl somewhere in the distance. Those nights I remember as counters of their youth slipping away. Finally, I would do one last check of the barn, and call it a day.

On this night of waiting for the shooting stars, I think of all those August nights on the farm we waited for the meteor showers. Taking blankets and thermoses of hot chocolate outside, we watched until our eyes burned. The boys grew tired, and always wanted to go to bed, but then. But then a star would shoot across the sky in such wonderment that we never wanted to go to bed. That’s the way it was. That’s the way it should be. I look around my empty garden wishing they were here, but they are not. Finally, it is time to go in. Harley, my cat, follows me up to the darkened house for one more treat before he goes out for the night. Where he goes, I know not.

A couple of weeks ago someone posed the question to a group of us, “So, what would you do if you only had six months to live?” The answers were wonderful and varied, “Go to Paris, Rome, watch the Cubs win, see the grandchildren.” It was my turn. What would I do? Probably it is different for all the different times of the year, and my answer would never be the same. But on this night, I said, “I would want to watch the shooting stars with my children one more time, and smell August.”

“June dawns, July noons, August evenings over, finished, done, and gone forever…” states Douglas in “Dandelion Wine.”

Well, not quite over, let’s give it a few weeks. And, hey, it is still August, and there is still much to do. Kayaking, Swimming, Star-gazing. Blueberry picking.”

It’s not over ‘til it’s over, right?

I make tea before bed and sit out on the front porch once again listening to August, and there it is. My melancholy disperses, and I smile as I hear a two folks in quiet conversation walk down my street.

August. Here. Now. Step outside. Isn’t it delicious?

 

*This column was published by KPC on August 17, 2019.

 

And off to Madison...

Image of the only Shrewsbury grandchild from the late 1800's.

It’s quiet on the river tonight. Quiet and cool. No barges in sight from one end to the other…just a couple of sailboats and a small fishing boat strolling by hoping to catch the last few fish of the day before going in. To the East the sky is blue, pale blue as in a robin’s egg, but to the West violet hues fall in ribbons. Except for a few lovers wrapped up around each other, I have the park to myself. I like it this way as my imagination can travel back in time with a flourish and I have no boundaries. This river, the beautiful Ohio River, is home to many towns and ports, but for me this week, Madison, Indiana is my town. No, I am not here to sightsee…well, not exactly. It started with a phone call early in the summer from Ellen Munds, Executive Director of Storytelling Arts of Indiana. The conversation went something like this, “Hi Lou Ann. It’s Ellen. So, the Shrewsbury-Windle House in Historic Madison just won the Cook Cup and we were hoping you would take the commissioned story. What do you think?”

I did have to think a moment.  On one hand, I love these projects having completed two Cook Cup commissioned pieces before: The Bass Mansion and The Charley Creek Inn in Wabash. On the other hand, I know how much work it is and this one will require overnight visits. On the other hand, as an artist, I am free to build my story in any way I choose. On the other hand, what if the magic doesn’t come and I get no story?

“Oh, I would love to,” I say without thinking anymore! And the deal is complete. The Cook Cup commissioned story is sponsored by Storytelling Arts, Indiana Landmarks, and Historic Madison, Inc. I hang up, mark the premiere date of February 16^th on my calendar. I mark off four full days of research and go about my other work until the time comes.

The time comes to pack up my Jeep and head out of town to begin the research. The drive is long and hot. Upon arrival, I stop at the Broadway Tavern for dinner and much needed conversation. I meet Larry who fills my head with ghost stories. Perfect. Larry tells me it is the oldest bar in Indiana. Much later I go check in to my home-away-from-home. I organize my room by throwing everything on the floor and fall asleep.

By 9:00 I am at the Shrewsbury-Windle House ready to meet John Staicer. John is the President and Executive Director for Historic Madison, Inc. and will be my guide and tour companion for the week. Actually I meet him at 9:15 as I get lost…even with my GPS. It is not a good way to start out, I think, but maybe he won’t notice. I shake his hand, chat my way out of being late, and enter the house, or should I say mansion?

The truth is no matter how many historic homes and locations I put my heart into, I am never prepared and always surprised at my amazement. The Shrewsbury-Windle House was built in 1846-1849 for Captain Charles Shrewsbury, his wife Ellen, and their six children. Just walking through the doors conjures up images of Christmas trees coming through the twelve-foot tall entry doors. There is so much to see and ask about, and it is magnificent. The restoration took five years to complete at a cost of 2.3 million dollars.

We tour the house, the basement, the attic, the outhouses, the gardens. I ask question after question and we are there for over three hours. It is easy for me to realize within the first few minutes that John and I are kindred spirits in our love for history and travel.

By noon I am faced with the daunting task of finding story. Finding story means combing through over fifty boxes of coal-sooted material gleaning a piece of story from a letter or a photograph or a household item or a diary. I spend three days in the belly of the archives. John comes to visit regularly anxious to find out what I have found. Other members of Historic Madison, Inc. make their way to me!

It is time to go home. The initial visit and research is complete. I have new friends, new stories, and a beautiful river to guide me through the twilight.