Scavenged Art: North Carolina

 In my last post, I mentioned that I'd sent my hand painted ornaments featuring elements from the Mitford series to the Mitford Museum to be hidden around the grounds - and shared amongst the staff as Christmas treats - but don't know if the package ever reached its destination. 

(link to blog post A Donkey In Mitford: https://kellybrewer.blogspot.com/2025/01/a-donkey-in-mitford.html ) 

I was waiting to share, just certain any day now someone would log their finding Violet or Barnabas or a jar of Duke's Mayo (each ornament has a QR code on the back so we can connect and I know the art has been found.) 

In the interest of clearing some 'mental clutter' and without further adieu, my (literally) lost art for the North Carolina trip that weren't: 

NORTH CAROLINA SCAVENGED ART 2024 ALBUM

A Donkey In Mitford

I wrote recently about donkey zonks, and the importance of embracing the hee haw of it all. 

(link toDonkey Zonk: https://kellybrewer.blogspot.com/2024/12/donkey-zonk.html ) 

The catalyst for that analogy was a writing contest I entered last Fall. 

I usually enter with an interest in 'staying active' and having fun, getting a little feedback and just giving myself something to do. 

But this contest was a little different. I wanted to do well. 

This contest was connected to a favorite author and I hoped to reflect my appreciation for her work in my writing. 

I spent a lot of time planning, writing drafts, editing, proofreading, overthinking and even praying about my entry.  I used real life family members as inspiration.  I submitted from the heart, daring not to be too hopeful. 

And then, miracle of miracles - I placed in the top 3 finalists. 

I was invited to a reception at the upcoming literary festival at the author's museum (Yes! she has her own museum) and I would get the opportunity to tell her thank you for her own inspiring works. 

It was to be a grand adventure- right around my birthday, too. My sister in law and I would Thelma and Louise our way up the mountain, give Ms. Jan a hug, have some marmalade cake and call the whole thing a shin dig. We had taken a similar trip for the museum's grand opening. This time, we would take our girls. We rented a lakeside Air B&B @ Lake Hickory. 

Our group chat was named "Mountain Mommas" 

(link to Mitford Museum Grand Opening: https://photos.app.goo.gl/KRM1Sqo2484rvfLG7)

Leading up to the event, I hand painted no less than a dozen wooden medallions inspired by the author's works. I would tuck them around the museum when I got there -like the little scraps of art I'd recently been hiding around town to spread smiles in my community.  

(link to post: Hidden Things- https://kellybrewer.blogspot.com/2024/09/hidden-things.html )

(link to post: Scavenged Art: North Carolina - https://kellybrewer.blogspot.com/2025/01/scavenged-art-north-carolina.html)

Winds of change blew those plans to pieces, and we called her name Helene. 

I've said that gal was out to get me one way or the other, for it hit my backyard and blew the lights out in the museum at the same time. 

We were probably spared a lot of hassle and even kept safe by not being on the road that day - ya gotta count your donkeys for the blessings they be, too. 

We followed the museum's social media feed after that and watched a developing trend: whenever anyone asked about refunds for the weekend's event (due to an inability to travel or even put gas in our cars) those inquiries were not responded to. There were other communications, we got to see the first place winner of the writing contest with the author,  as well as the 'mend and make-do' candle lit reception for those who had gotten into town before the storm.  But the refund was a mute point. 

 I realized they probably weren't sure what they were going to do, but I felt terrible. 

My sister in law had paid for her ticket to the event where mine had been comped as part of my "prize".  I had wanted to cover the cost myself but had to wait for the extra to do so. 

Our Air B& B host had already initiated a return on our stay and we were all facing days of uncertainty for the foreseeable future. 

After a few days with no word, and having talked with my sister in law about it, heart sick that one of my favorite fictional hometowns did not appear to be, in fact, “taking care of its own”  I wrote an email to the museum office explaining our storm-tossed state and asking that my sister in law have her money refunded. 

The reply was cordial and a refund was granted - in fact they had sent out an email that very morning. 

An email I didn't receive because, as a winner, I was not on the email list for ticket holders. 

I thanked the office and we arranged that I'd send them some of the art tokens to be hidden in the days to come. 

Time went by and we dealt with the trees and debris. 

We are still dealing with trees and debris. 

I mailed a package with all my hand painted ornaments before December so that would-be finders might have an ornament for their tree. I encouraged those in the museum’s office to choose one to keep for themselves.  

Also tucked inside were bracelets made by my mom for Ms. Jan. 

She started making bracelets a few years ago when she was walking through a shadowland. When she makes you one, or gives you one of the many encouraging phrases she keeps in her purse,  she's handing you a tangible reminder that you are loved.  

The author's bracelet said "Thy Will Be Done" - which is a key phrase from her books, and also the prayer that never fails. 

(link to Thy Will Be Done: https://kellybrewer.blogspot.com/2025/01/thy-will-be-done.html?m=1 ) 

December arrived. Christmas week came and went. 

My sister in law mentioned the museum sent her a Christmas card. 

Again, I failed to make the mailing list. 

As we approach February, no ornaments have been found. Each one has a QR code that invites the finder to log their find. 

I'm a little sad because they were dated 2024 and now it is 2025.  

Perhaps the package got lost in the mail ? 

Another package of ornaments sent to our Air B&B host came back with insufficient address info. 

North Carolina has had its share of woes... so really, who knows?

I know there are good explanations for missed communications. 

Heck, in my most Mitford-like job,  as a Lutheran church secretary, I battled the bulge of multiple old email lists and had to re-send communications to those who'd not yet been merged in - it was never malicious. 

Still, the opportunity to feel rejection in all of this has been real. 

“Mitford takes care of her own” 

Perhaps I am one of the tourists they prefer keeps passing through. 

I placed in the contest but won less, somehow.

It’s kinda like hearing "Come on down!" only to become the butt of a joke on stage. 

I've been waiting for a sense that it has all 'worked for good' to share my lost art and my writing entry, but now,  I'm ready to just 'clear my cache' and walk on. 

 I'm going to use the next few posts to share my lost art and (probably)-third-place writing entry.   

Last night, before I went to bed, I saw the museum is hiring. 

The job description emphasized making all guests feel special and welcomed.  In addition to other qualifications that I possess for the job, I found that having been overlooked increased my desire to step into that role and do it very well.  

I considered the ramifications as I drifted into dreams... and dreamt my parents were cautioning me about moving away .  

In the morning, Rye vetoed any talks about moving to North Carolina, so I'm not putting in my resume. 

That would have been a swell conclusion, though- wouldn't it ?  I could say it all made sense now - could point out all the synchronicities and cosmic timing. 

But, it's still a mystery why every door in Mitford seems to be hiding a new and precocious baby donkey for me alone, lately. 

Me. Alone. 

I'm choosing to embrace the hee haw of it all instead of turning bitter though.  

My neighbor recently moved to Missouri. Though we both lived here for many years, we only met for the first time a month before she had to move. 

In that time, we shared more neighborly exchanges than I've had in this neighborhood the whole time I've lived here. She adopted my son's cat, Timmy and brought over soup, tea and medicine when I was sick. I loaned her air mattresses when all their furniture was packed up and sent her away with Book 1 of a rather special series. 

 On the note I wrote: 

"In Mitford, we will always be neighbors" 

The Take Out Shoppe

Stopping by the Take Out Shoppe at S&S Cafeteria after work is a rite of passage in Augusta. 

Up since 5 or 6 - maybe even 7 if the commute isn't too far. 

The morning's coffee, lunch and handful of hasty snacks tossed in our bags on the bleary eyed march to the car have all worn off. 

We've worked Downtown, all day  - in drafty historic buildings or the hectic, antiseptic halls of the medical district.  Or maybe, after a lifetime of working, we have finally retired. 

There are people waiting at home - or around the block in a hospital room-  and chances are, they're hungry, too. 

There's no energy for cooking. We have cereal, but the milk is probably bad. 

The parking lot is busy, but the food will be hot and prepared by hands with know-how. 

The lobby holds a patient, patchwork family of neighbors who smile a greeting when another weary traveler walks through the jangling door .  

Everyone minds their manners here, on both sides of the counter. 

The ladies behind the counter call us  Sweetie, or Baby or Hun.

In my waiting, I feel connected - not only to these neighbors sharing time and space, but also to those  I've watched deliver meals - from this place and others - for decades. 

 

There is chop steak, always. 

And those little twice baked cheese potatoes, same as when we were children.  

On rotation are Beef Liver and Onions and Meatloaf with Roasted Potatoes, amongst other 'Meat & 3' fare. 

It's a little disappointing that Baked Spaghetti didn't make today's roster, but they do have Macaroni and Cheese, Cabbage and Baked Squash. 

Choose from the Jell-o rainbow, pick a southern staple like pea or pear salad or have a couple of deviled eggs - it isn't even a holiday, but you can do that here. 

You can have Strawberry Shortcake for dessert - or Egg Custard Pie. 

If you eat it in the car, you won't have to share. 

A dinner roll, wearing a perfect pat of butter for its hat, will help sop up your supper, but cornbread or a muffin are available if you prefer. 

The Shoppe lady makes sure each order is complete before handing it over. She packs the bags with extra napkins and all the accessories we might need, double bags everything to prevent leaks and sends us home, Godspeed. 

Thirty Eight

Now, it happens from time to time that there is a shooting at the mall. 

We try not to take it personally - this is life in community. 

Not unlike our recent snow day, there's a flash in the pan then the all clear. 

How could we not go back?

That's where Barnes & Noble lives; Claires, Boxed Lunch, EarthBound and Hot Topic too

( can you tell I am raising a teen-aged girl? ;) 

They have Komma Tea and Mr Cow's CornDogs - not to mention the accu-pressure people and that fancy cotton candy machine. 

And so it startled us a little when the cowboy ran into Rue21 yesterday.

He swerved to miss a clothing rack, crouching his tall frame low beside the cash register.

What was he going to do? Who was he running from?

He seemed to be smiling, his neck tattoos looked neutral enough.

He was wearing earbuds and a large white cowboy hat. 

And then, we had an answer, and just as suddenly, many more questions.   

From his position near the registers, he scooped the entire stock of one men's cologne into his arms.

It appeared to be Rue21 Sport but I didn't get close enough to be certain. 

He lined the boxes up at the back of the registers and went to pick out some pink pajama pants

(Was he an employee on his lunch break? Day off? We couldn't tell) 

Amused, we were now aware that fragrances were 50% off (*some exceptions apply) and we sniffed the

various bottles left on the fragrance display. 

Now there came a moment when we were checking out that I could have had an easy laugh- it was low

hanging fruit for the taking "And I'll take all of those" I could have said, gesturing to the colognes

lined up like an infantry. 

He was in line behind me, the comic timing was there, the amusement in the air was right, but the

lanky cowboy's companion seemed less likely to laugh along under her own ten-gallon cowgirl hat. 

So I kept it between Rye & me. 

While he waited behind us, I heard him ask a shopgirl where the tester bottles were. 

I heard him offer to buy that one, too. 

Rye gathered her purchases and we turned to leave as I heard the cowboy tell the cashier

"Should be thirty eight there"

Each day may seem like the same old (same old) songbut how many times will that one happen again, do you wager? I reckon not a lot. 

So I write it down to remember: In this box of Ordinary Life Oh's there are lots of sweet and colorful  Offbeat Marshmallows. 

All we gotta do is dig in.

Writers Whenever : Whittington

Of all the good reads I've enjoyed over the last few decades, I owe a large percent to Whittington. 

And of the bad books, from which I've been spared wasting my time, I owe to Whit's elliptical machine. 

< link to: The Elliptical Test-  http://blog.bradwhittington.com/p/elliptical-test.html >

Brad Whittington is the author of The Fred Books, amongst many fine others. 

<link to: Brad Whittington - http://bradwhittington.com/> 

It was the Fred books that put us on the same orbit and, without hyperbole, changed the course of the rest of my life in many good ways.  

I've avoided writing about Whit's influence in my life because it is - the Grand Canyon? 

I don't know. I've never been to the Grand Canyon, but I have been to Stone Mountain and that one isn't big enough. One can - with enough distance and a proper lens, fit the whole mountain in one frame. 

I won't be able to fully explain to you the way he fit all that gravity in one pocket, nor why he saw fit to share some with me. I'm just so glad he did. 

He taught me to ask questions, good ones and lots of 'em.  (The best ratio: more questions than answers)

And then to turn and ask myself. 

He read my words and encouraged me to write more of them. 

He taught me that writers write and less is more. 

He taught me the power of repetition. 

I have adopted the simplicity of his one, solitary "Ha." 

He showed me rules were made for breaking - especially Strunk & White's 

(but who doesn't love that E.B. White?) 

He gave me Wodehouse, Bradbury, Lisa Samson,  Gordon Atkinson and Timothy Cotton amongst many, many fine others. 

< link to: Tim Cotton Writes - https://www.timcottonwrites.com/ >

>>Because Whit has been a friend, I've become better acquainted with Mark Twain, Don Quixote, photography, food and so much good music. 

I carry with me a talking bran muffin, runaway scuba-doo and paisley painkillers. 

I learned about L'Amour,  living by The Code and a not-so-fictional father's admonition that what Jesus would actually do is die for the enemy. 

>>Because Whit has been a mentor, I write. 

I have never had to shout up at lofty places to learn from Whittington, and though I've had much to learn, he's never made me feel stupid or ashamed.  I've been allowed to grow without embarrassment. 

I'm a little less self conscious about my drawl and all that "y'all" when talking to him.

Unless you are an adult PK, you won't understand why it matters that Whit is one. 

Timothy Cotton, too. 

And because they both are, I want to promote their books and blogs and musings,  but without offering up intimacies for unsolicited fishbowl viewings. We've all had enough of that for a lifetime - or two. 

So - why bother writing with 110 film? 

For the same reason we bother to go outside at all - for the reason we hike mountains or wade in streams... simply because I can. 

The air is fresh, the sky is beautiful and my life is better for the readers and writers alongside me. 

Brad Whittington is one of my all-time favorites. 

And it deserves to be written down. 

In recent months, I've been sifting through a measure of personal disappointment(s). I haven't been sure how to talk about it all, if at all. 

Without a neat little package or bow tied on top, it's little more than whining.  Who do I think I am, King David? At least the Psalms are followed by Proverbs. 

If I am to bemoan my life, I must offer you a token metaphor in exchange for your time, or a takeaway that makes all pain relevant, always. 

Ya'know?

That's just the way I am to me sometimes. 

Unreasonable. 

Today, in Barnes & Noble, I saw another all-time favorite author, Anne Tyler, has released several new books since last I saw her name on shelves. 

<link to: Anne Tyler -https://annetyler.com/ > 

I've been kinda busy, getting divorced, trying on new jobs, setting boundaries and building new routines, so I forgave myself for the lapse. Then I sat on the floor and started reading the new synopses and reviews. 

As I reached for the next title, my eyes fell on Mark Twain and then on Updike... 

I realized in that moment, like a faint memory whose facts may not be entirely plumb, perhaps it was whenWhittington sent me in search of 'Roughing It' by Mark Twain that I first glimpsed 'A Patchwork Planet' by Anne Tyler or a collection of short stories by Updike. 

I cannot put in order all the good reads I owe to Whittington, but they have been a continual - and monumental-  feast. 

On the floor of Barnes & Noble, surrounded by books that have nourished me and books that await me, I found an edge piece to the puzzle ever before me: What writing means to me is ______  ( this space intentionally left blank- you'll have to find your own answers. But, hint! Start with good questions... ) 

And now, a toast:  To writing....To words...To Whit... 

L'Chaim!

Donkey Zonk

Mid-morning game shows are woven into the fabric of my childhood. 

Accordingly, my metaphors often come from  Let's Make A Deal or The Price is Right as much as  birds, bees and baby's breath. 

I remember thinking the lucky winner of a donkey behind Door #3 got to keep it and I wondered how they got this exciting prize back home. 

As a child, I didn't understand why it was a bad prize. It seemed to me then like pretty much the best prize ever.  

My parents already had a kitchen and a car but we didn't have a donkey or goat. 

Some shows referred to these so-called prizes as zonks. 

There's even a mathematic principle for the probability of ending up with a zonk.  

During my research, I read that some folks did indeed keep their zonk.  

I think those people - the zonk-keepers - are good sports and probably pretty interesting people to get to know. 

Even as I write this, I am looking for first hand accounts of domesticated zonks. 

Why am I telling you this?

 I'm not. 

I'm reminding me. 

This last quarter of the year, every door has seemed to hide a donkey or a zonk. 

There have been lots of zonks. Even more donkeys. 

One by one, I stuff them into my tiny toaster of a car and carry them home with me. 

Slowly ... slowly,  they become domesticated blessings. 

It requires squinting one eye to read the tiny inscriptions of gratitude aloud. 

:: some days a short mantra ... every day a litany ::

This year, an unlit, undecorated Christmas tree looks out the living room window over the remains of a large and fallen tree. 

I don't know when we'll get to either one of them. 

But everyday, between the boughs of pine, life waits to be unwrapped again. 

Life that is busy and brimming full of things to do, things we have to do, things we get to do...  I recite gratitude for all of it. 

I think about the donkeys of Christmas and Easter - two different donkeys, never stage play stars but not zonks either. 

Humble beasts in a holy play; always necessary for the narrative, to carry hope forward to birth or certain death...

They bear burdens. They bear hope.  Just like we do. 

And - hee haw - how they laugh. 

Maybe we ought, too. 

Whatever on Wednesdays: An Interruption

I interrupt my regularly scheduled "Writers on Wednesdays" to say that I actually hate it and I'm not planning to continue the schtick. 

And... I hate gimmicks ... opportunistic alliteration, too.

Yet, in an effort to be " a better writer " - or a more consistent one - in order to to do what it seems like I am "supposed " to be doing- I fall into these traps time and again.  ( re: Patheos )

I've realized I'm just not interested in building the typical platforms or structures associated with writing success - or much of anything at all really - with my words. 

It's not how writing works for me. 

It could. I realize that. 

I could work at writing and make it work for me. But, I don't want to. 

I haven't found words for what I find fulfilling about writing...yet. Maybe it's purpose that eludes me. 

Maybe I'm waiting on a story worth telling - or the right time to tell the ones I know. 

I enjoy writing, capturing truths and humor. 

Reading back over chronicled days has been helpful and informative in my journey.  

But... 

I've studied many of the end roads and don't desire those destinations for myself. 

I don't want to market and promote myself. 

I've always liked to say "Write your plans in pencil". I don't want to ink-down ideals I may grow to see differently. 

I don't want a microphone or a three-part series. 

Knowing what you don't want is an important step in figuring out what you do. 

During this season, the things I have to say are best shared one-on-one, in forums that welcome deeper conversations and accountability from those who hear from me. 

I'm more interested in good connections  than a large following or social media presence. I can't imagine building a follower base so large that replying to each comment takes a full day. (With deep respect for all my friends who do just that.) I already run over the margins of every given day.  

Still, I will share these words all the same. 

That's the why I'm looking for. 

Q: Why hit publish at all - if I'm not building anything?

A:I am compelled to. 

It's hardly an answer, but it's the only one I've got so far. 

Hands in my pockets, I roll my writer's twopence between my fingers and shuffle down the road. 

Perhaps I'll find something good to spend it on. 

Maybe there's a destination somewhere ahead worth building a road to,

Maybe I'll discover it. 

I'm content if I don't. 

Meanwhile, what I'm saying today is, sometimes I feel like talking about authors I admire. 

When I do, it isn't always Wednesday.