A lot has been on my plate this month. I decided to start my own business, my art illustrations and my jewelry the focus. It’s entailed time away from fiction writing but directed me towards writing copy for the marketing end of my business, where I got my ideas for my jewelry and art. It brought me back to around the time I began attending the Deadwood Writer’s Group. I was writing a children’s picture book. I’d developed illustrations which now I am selling as prints on my Etsy page, www.wjkartisandesigns.com. It’s an exciting time in my life and I’m glad and grateful that I get to share these artworks in my own way now.
Another aspect that’s filled my attention is all that goes into starting a business. Finance, marketing, social media, product development – more jewelry and illustration development. It’s a bit nerve-racking to fit everything in, meaning my artistic nature and my need to write juicy and intriguing romances. But a smart woman, when I thought doing both was crazy, told me, “Why can’t you do both?” Her encouragement toward my success and happiness has always been given right when I needed it. So, thanks Mom. Love you!
On other exciting news, I’m going to Ireland soon. I’m not even there yet and I’m already inspired. What kind of stories will sprout from my visit, the brogue, the people, the colors, the constant green that everyone talks about? My heart gallops to fiery beat of a stampede when I think of all the opportunities that have become evident these past few months, words that have been spoken by friends and family. I’ve heard encouragement before, but this time, as my friend and sister of the heart, Jo Self- who is also a branding/strengths consultant for business and the individual, would say, I listened to what the universe was trying to tell me and am using the strengths I’ve been given to make positive things happen.
You may be surprised by whom you find at a garage sale.
When you gather misfit belongings of your household, open your garage door, and offer the no-longer-treasured personal property for a pittance to the public, you’re going to come face to face with strangers you would never have intentionally thought about inviting into your home. And oh, what a shame it is that we don’t do that more often. People who shop at garage sales represent the melting pot of society. They’re genuinely interesting and have stories to tell. We can expect to bargain with them. But by talking with these opportunistic visitors, we may actually learn something about ourselves.
In my family, “garage sale” is a verb, as in: “We garage sale.” I grew up with a grandfather who frequented tag sales, yard sales, rummage sales, and garage sales. Different areas throughout the USA tend to adopt one of these terms, but overall the idea is the same. Grandpa didn’t care what anyone called their sale. For him, each designation meant roughly the same thing: he could buy items cheaply and later sell them for higher prices. But at some point, he developed an affinity for Jim Beam bottles. He hoarded so many of the decorative containers that he decided to build a small home adjacent to the one he lived in just to house his collection. He officially dubbed the building The Treasure House and boasted that it contained the largest collection of Jim Beam bottles in the world.
My own parents also eased into the hobby of collecting. On family trips, the six of us piled into our Oldsmobile Delta 88 and drove to far-off destinations. That took much longer than expected, because “Rummage Sale” signs always drew us into somebody’s yard.
One year while my family was staying in a cottage in Wisconsin, our dog died. On our way home, my siblings and I were crying over Smokey’s death. We stopped at a rummage sale that just happened to have puppies, picked one out, and brought the little girl home. Mom thought of the perfect name: Rummy.
A childhood spent garage-saling inspired my sister’s profession. She and her husband built and own one of the largest craft and antique malls in Allen, Michigan. The business is so successful that there’s a waitlist of vendors, all vying for rental space to become available in the 23,000 square-foot building so they can sell their wares at the Hog Creek Craft and Antique Mall.
Although I don’t make a living at buying and reselling, like my sister does, I don’t snub garage sales or worry that some people look down upon them. Other people’s disdain doesn’t adversely affect my love for bargains. So, in search of a good deal, I occasionally stop at sales throughout the spring and summer. I do hate the amount of work it takes to organize and run these types of sales, but the hassle doesn’t stop me from doing so. Garage sales are full of fun, surprises, and inspiration.
When I stop to browse, I’m often asked by the homeowner, “Are you looking for anything special?” My answer is, “I’m shopping for our vacation Bible school program at church. I’m not really sure what I need, but I’ll know it when I see it.” With a theme in mind, my attention focuses on items that can be used as props and decorations to transform ordinary church rooms into exquisite settings for children’s enjoyment. I once bought an Ethan Allen wingback chair for $5 and felt horribly guilty applying metallic gold paint to the wooden arms. But I needed a throne for a king. Where else would I find one for that price?
I’ve had a lot of my own garage sales throughout the years. There have been many instances in which I felt like I was practically giving things away, and during my last one, I did that very thing. But I never anticipated all that I would gain simply by talking with my guests.
Here are my favorite encounters with garage sale people:
I eased a mother’s stress by providing decorations for her son’s high school graduation party which was less than twenty-four hours away. Decorations included a custom-designed logo of the school mascot—an original piece of artwork—created on a Lite Brite. I threw in extra pegs at no cost.
Realized gain: $4; pleasant feelings that I had helped an overwhelmed neighbor.
I changed my impression of the eccentric woman whom most everyone in the community recognized by her flamboyant clothing but never talked to. She was friendly and seemed very smart. She bought Spanish books so she could teach herself to speak the language.
Realized gain: $2; a spanking for allowing myself to mistakenly think that flashy clothing was the defining feature of this lovely person.
I provided peace and tranquility to at least one shopper by playing classical piano music on a karaoke machine I was selling. The gentleman commented, “This is the classiest garage sale I’ve ever been to.” I eventually sold the music CD to someone else and ended up donating the karaoke machine.
Realized gain: $1; bragging rights.
I inspired a middle-aged man to break into a cheer. A set of Michigan State pom-poms encouraged him, but he must not have liked the pair well enough to buy them.
Realized gain: $0; bewilderment and laughter.
I gave what was left of my expired and nearly empty tube of Benadryl anti-itch cream to a woman who was having an allergic reaction. Earlier in the day, she had bought a basket at a different garage sale and was driving around with the purchase in the back of her van. Evidently, someone’s cat had used the basket as a daybed before the piece was sold to the poor lady. The medication itself wasn’t worth anything, but the heavy-duty industrial bag I gave the woman to stuff the basket inside of had some value.
Realized gain: minus a dollar or so; feelings of goodwill.
I generated smiles by reaching out in friendship to a young family from Paraguay. The parents bought tools and household supplies. Their eldest daughter settled on a whiteboard and dry-erase markers. I gave the youngest a bilingual doll that spoke English and Spanish. The father asked if I was a teacher.
Realized gain: pure joy.
I listened intently to a woman testify that she used to be possessed by demons when she lived in Peru. I seriously wanted to hear all the fascinating details, so I gave her my phone number and hoped she would call.
Realized gain: awareness of evil at work in the world and thankfulness for my faith in Christ.
I exchanged contact information with a woman who buys clothes for a homeless man and mentors young ladies. She was generous in many ways and surprised me by donating, on the spot, to the charity I co-founded in 2016 and promoted during my sale.
Realized gain: a newfound friend.
I cried. With nearly every sale, I handed out prayer cards to customers. The prayer was special to me because I learned it from my pastor who died eleven years earlier in a car accident. One woman read the card, looked at me, and softly said, “I knew Janet.” And that’s all it took for me to feel connected to this woman who I had never met before. More words weren’t necessary. We knew Janet.
Realized gain: a flood of memories.
Garage sales are more than the perfect way for savvy sellers to get rid of stuff. They are more than a novel way for buyers to harness creativity and stretch dollars. These phenomenal American shopping experiences give us unique opportunities to express kindness and compassion. When we price things just right and open our doors to the world, we let in all sorts of fabulousness: priceless garage sale people.
It’s March, and far from feeling like winter. I settle into my cushion bench seat and look around the room. This is still the only place to sit. I reach for my writing bag when my for-here mug of Columbian coffee is brought to my table restaurant style. What unexpected service. Coffee shops are usually more self-serve. I already know I’ll be back.
Time to look busy. First thing, set up the tablet. While it boots, I’ll look even more productive with my Happy Planner calendar on the table. It has my blog schedule in it. Next, my yellow notepad, a few colored pens and voila! I’m all set to do work.
I don’t feel productive. I feel cluttered. I’m restless.
I always carry a few distractions in my workbag. The item I’m craving to use is my Café Bingo game. It was a gift from my writerly friend, Kelly, who said, “I thought of you instantly when I saw it.” Yep, she got me right. The idea is to Bingo with coffee shop stereotypes. There are 12 cards, but I can play by myself. I wonder: can I cover the entire board, or at least get a bingo? There’s 0nly one way to find out.
These cards are reusable. Cool! I wasn’t sure how that worked. When I read “pushing back” the squares on the package, visions of pieces popping off onto the table, never to be replaced again filled my head. With this, you fold the cardstock squares back while playing and then refold them when you’re done. I’m set to play with only one rule: I can’t count myself in any of the squares.
— Barista
That’s the center square and a gimme.
— MP3 player
Who carries these anymore? I amend that to seeing a cell phone with headphones. I see a hipster guy plugged in over in the comfy chair corner.
— Tip Jar
There’s one at the register where I ordered. I don’t recall the handwritten note on it, but I’m sure it’s something like “Fear change? Leave it here” or “Tipping isn’t just for cows.”
— Newspaper
Sure enough, there’s an older man in a comfy leather lounge chair in the corner. He’s reading a real newspaper, buried beneath an umbrella of inky pages.
— Laptop
Uhhh…yeah. Who doesn’t come to a coffee shop without a laptop? You have to look hip and trendy and productive. Okay, I’m two for three right now, but my Surface has a detachable keyboard, so it would count for that square, if I included myself, which I’m not. I’m still hipster-ette.
— Briefcase
There’s a guy in business clothes–a suit, maybe–with a speckled tan bag next to him. I can’t see it exactly because it’s sitting on the floor and I don’t have a clear shot. I count it. I wouldn’t expect to see one of those hardcover square boxes with a latch and handle, and I’m surprised I think that.
— Cell Phone
This is another gimme. A more challenging square would be “No cell phone.”
— Reuse of Cup
Remember, I can’t count myself. A lot of people have for-here mugs on their tables. Some people don’t. What a waste. Unless it’s tea. Tea almost always needs a disposable cup.
— Date
I’m not sure how to count this. The square shows two stick figures holding hands with a heart between them. It’s just past lunchtime, so there are no caffeine kisses here. There are lots of people sitting together in twos, and I’m sure someone is on some kind of date. Meeting a friend for lunch, I count that.
— Iced Drink
I don’t see ice cubes anywhere, nor a dome lid cup sitting on any table. Straight ahead there’s a woman with what looks like an icy blended drink. It’s a shade color different than the store’s cardboard cups, but that’s good enough for me.
— Bulletin Board
This is a local coffee shop. Of course, there’s one. Heck, even Starbucks has them. The Fine Grind has theirs on the back wall between the bathrooms. I saw that the first time I was here, but I found it awkward to peruse while people pee nearby.
— Spilled Drink
I didn’t expect to see this, but within five minutes of pulling out this game, a patron sloshes something on the floor. It looks like water, but I feel rude staring at him.
— Meeting
There are no poster-board graphs or carpet swatches anywhere in here. There’s no table of suits. There’s no cluster of notepad papers. I bet some of these couples are in some sort of business meeting. I glance at Briefcase Guy and wonder, can I count him twice?
— Rushed Patron
There’s one person walking deliberately to the door, so I count him. He’s walking with a purpose not trudging along.
Now even the game is making me restless and bored. I don’t think I can find the rest of the squares right now. I can’t see outside the door, so I’m not sure there’s a Dog Waiting, another game square. This coffee shop is smooshed in a strip mall, not stretched on a quaint, tree-lined street among boutique stores, so I doubt I’d ever find one. The woman at the high-top table against the wall, she may be dressed in All-Black Attire, again another game square, but I can’t tell if those are black pants or dark blue dress pants.
The other items I can’t find now are: Book; Menu Typo; Foreigners; Student; Latte Art; Goatee; Political Debate; Pastry Crumbs; and Artiste Glasses.
What I can’t wait to find is a friend to play this game with.
I understand why some people give up on golf far too soon—before they develop a passion for the game. It challenges even the most seasoned players, requires lots of practice, and can be quite costly. For instance, Callaway’s Great Big Bertha Epic driver will set you back $500. If you want to put the club to use on a prestigious course, such as Shadow Creek in Las Vegas, you’ll have to pay another $500 for green fees. But there is ample opportunity to contain costs. You can purchase less expensive clubs; and you can play public courses in hometowns like mine for $15 a round. So considering that the financial outlay can be reasonable, I believe it’s basic intimidation that most often squashes love for the sport before a devotional spark has the slightest chance to ignite. Understanding the truth about golf may help you approach the sport with greater affection.
Golf Truth #1: It takes skill to get that little white ball flying in the air. Practice.
My first golf experience was with friends during high school. Mark was the only one of our foursome who knew how to play, and he was a patient teacher to the rest of us. Margie, Lisa, and I were athletic, so Mark probably thought we would easily learn this sport too. But taking three beginners out on a course is not the best way to introduce newbies to the game unless you’re looking to play the longest round of your life. Because Mark was dating Margie, I think he was okay whiling away the time.
The girls and I struggled to transform our softball swings into anything useful. Heck. We would have just liked to have gotten out of the Whac-A-Mole ground-pounding mode that was beating our confidence into oblivion. We were A-W-F-U-L. So bad that I’ve blotted out most other memories of that day.
But there was that one shot . . . when I struck the ball just right. It didn’t roll across the ground like it had every other time I hacked at it. This time it took flight, sailing skyward.
Personal triumphs, like lofting that little white ball for the very first time and sinking a pitch from seventy yards out, are what keep us golfers coming back. We hit the driving ranges and work on our long game. We find our putting strokes on the practice greens. And we test our fortitude by chipping out of six-foot bunkers. We want to emulate the pros, who make it all look so easy.
Golf Truth #2: It takes positive thinking (and an impressive outfit) to build a good game. Believe in your ability (and wear something that boosts your confidence).
The view of Lake Michigan from Arcadia Bluffs is as spectacular as the golf course.
Arcadia Bluffs is the number one ranked course in Michigan, where my husband booked a Memorial Day afternoon round for the two of us. That springtime day in The Great Lakes State was partially cloudy and projected to reach sixty degrees at best—chilly for me. If I had my way, all golf days would be eighty degrees and sunny, but northern Michigan isn’t known to bend to my will. So, I dressed in five layers of clothing to help me deal with the brisk air and fluctuating winds that would make the atmosphere feel ten degrees colder.
Trust me when I say that it wasn’t easy deciding on all those layers. My slacks and shirts were running a bit tight at the time, and I refused to invest in new pieces of clothing to accommodate my expanded waistline. I was counting on losing the ten pounds I kept complaining about.
I opted out of getting a propane heater for the golf cart even though I was shivering. “It will warm up,” I hoped. Standing beside our cart and waiting for our tee-time, Greg and I admired the seemingly endless and beautifully blue Lake Michigan, lying beyond the grassy bluffs and rolling terrain of the course. The view rivals that of Whistling Straits in Wisconsin, whose own gorgeous shoreline constrains the massive freshwater lake and prevents it from inching farther west.
There were several groups of men on the grounds but no women that I could see until a couple came in from their round. The model-gorgeous young lady loudly talked about how pleased she was with her 46. Whether that was her score on the front or back nine, I didn’t know. I was sizing her up and observing how attractive she was in her stretchy, black, Nike golf pants and matching jacket. Black is a great choice when you want to look slimmer, but she didn’t need the help. I wondered how she could possibly have been warm with so little to wear.
The only other woman on the course, besides me, looked like an expert—as if she could appear on the cover of Michigan Links Magazine. I compared myself to her and realized my silhouette resembled that of the Pillsbury Doughboy, plump and round. I wore a black sleeveless golf shirt just in case the temperature rose; a long-sleeved pullover because I was pretty sure it would not; and three jackets of varying thicknesses for extra protection.
So, there I was: at a mental disadvantage for golf because I didn’t feel comfortable with my weight, let alone with what I was wearing, and I had never golfed a 46 in my life.
Whether blessing or curse, the sky released a downpour. It wasn’t supposed to rain. Greg and I rushed into the clubhouse to see the storm cell on radar and ask the pro-shop attendant if we could delay our start because of the wet and cold conditions. Ideally, the rain provided me with the opportunity to change my negative mindset and prepare to golf my own best game.
Overly-critical thoughts about ourselves can have disastrous outcomes in golf. Adversaries trash-talk to mess with our heads and destroy our confidence. We shouldn’t crush our own spirits with self-condemnation. Knowing this, however, didn’t prevent me from beating up my real opponent before she had even taken her first swing.
Greg and I got a reprieve. The storm cell moved quickly, and there was a half an hour before another group was scheduled to tee-off. With no one pushing us, I expected to be able to relax.
We teed off, and I plowed through first-hole jitters by hitting a decent drive. Still, the ambiance of the exceptional course overwhelmed me. My next shot landed in a seven-foot-deep bunker and I had trouble chipping out. I took a nine on the first hole and berated myself for the embarrassing start. My focus during the next few holes was just as much on the mental battle I was having as it was with the physical trial to strike the ball well.
Once I gained control of my nerves, I began to see good results. The day progressed, layers of clothing came and went, and I shot a 100 for the round. Overall, not bad. I celebrated by buying a black and white, stretchy, athletic jacket and vowing to start my diet the next day.
Golf Truth #3: It takes knowledge of the sport to earn respect from other players. Study.
Even if swinging a club and striking a ball comes naturally, we need to acquaint ourselves with the rules governing play. Otherwise, we won’t make it past the driving range without alienating ourselves from seasoned players. They may forgive innocent mistakes made by beginners, but they have little tolerance for ongoing rudeness.
The Rules of Golf are long and daunting, and I’m not sure anyone knows them all by heart. Even golf’s greatest pros sometimes ask for clarifications from officials. The rules book is commonly tucked into golf bags and pulled out during competitions. But it rarely sees the light of day during more relaxed and friendly rounds.
If we care about the spirit of the game, and we should, we’ll grow in our comprehension of golf’s long history and honor the sport through fair and honest play under all circumstances. Golf’s two governing entities want to make the rules easier for golfers—of all levels—to understand and apply. The United States Golf Association and The R&A hope to achieve this goal by revising the rules. This is a unique opportunity for those of us enamored with the sport to directly influence the game by reading a draft of the proposed rules and providing feedback by August 31, 2017. Our suggestions could be the ones that are settled upon in the finalized rule book, expected to take effect on January 1, 2019.
Golf Truth #4: It takes patience to find the swing and strategy that work best for you. Pace yourself.
Watching a video of me hitting my driver, I was surprised to see how slow my backswing is. I’m tempted to swing faster but worry that I would lose accuracy with the change. It’s not worth that risk to me. There are other areas of my game, like putting, that I can benefit from improving instead of a major overhaul in my long game.
Being in a hurry on the course can be as big of a mistake as letting intimidation influence our confidence. The last time Greg and I were being pressed by another twosome, he and I evaluated our pace of play. We were coming in under time, as designated by course policy and indicated to us by the starter at the beginning of our round. As such, we could have defiantly held our ground and made the twosome wait at every hole. But the pace of play rule indicates that we should allow faster players to play through. This makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Why deal with tension if you could instead alleviate it by simply being polite?
In our case, Greg and I waved for the guys to move past us and then patiently waited as each teed up, swung, and sent their shots flying forward. We watched as the second golfer searched for his ball 100 yards farther from where it was actually lying. I felt really badly telling him that his ball never made it past the forward tees. Haste makes waste, as the saying goes; and in this case, a hasty swing off the tee made for a bad shot.
So yes, it takes time and commitment to develop a love for golf. You need to approach it like you would any other relationship. Get to know its history. Who are the greats that loved it first? Regularly focus your attention on it. Is one night out a week too much to ask? Invest in it. How much better could the two of you get along if equipped with the right tools and some counseling? Shake off the tense moments and bad results. Can’t you just see how spectacular you are together too?
Control the way you think and behave, and soon you’ll be head over heels in love.
It’s my second week in New Jersey, and I see a woman in a yellow University of Michigan sweatshirt.
Really?
I live in some vortex that I can’t escape my former home state. Are there more of them? I scan the room. The big windows behind me let in light, but at this hour, there’s more shadow than light. It’s one of those wood-floor hipster coffee places with tables scattered around the room to add a cohesive look with a funky vibe. The tables match way too much. It’s not like Plymouth Bean back home–I mean, back in Michigan. Speaking of, I don’t see any more Michigan folks, but I also don’t see a free table near an outlet.
Just as well. I can’t resist. I shuffle left and say, “I notice your sweatshirt. I just moved here from Michigan. Did you go there?”
“Oh, my daughter goes there,” she says with that proud momma smile. “She’s a freshman and loves it there. When we went to visit, it’s beautiful there.”
I have my own opinions of campus. There’s too much cement with wide walkways and sidewalks, making the campus look grey. I’m used to my campus with its lawn stretches of grass and tall, green trees lining thin sidewalks. There’s too little greenery for me to call Michigan’s main campus pretty, let alone, beautiful. I smile politely. I hope my eyes don’t betray me.
“What about you and Penn State?” she asks, nodding at me and my sweatshirt.
I heft my writing bag on my shoulder, adjusting it. The bag’s getting heavy and awkward. I spy a free table on my right. I want to snag it, but I can’t resist a Penn State question.
“My husband and I are alumni.” I pause. I never know people’s reaction to that: Love? Hate? Ambivalence? I have no idea what the atmosphere is in New Jersey these days, especially now that Rutgers, The State University joined the B1G Ten.
“My other daughter goes to Penn State,” she says her eyes bright. We’ve made two connections in about 30 seconds. I’m almost spin-dizzy. Really? What are the odds? Is there some practical joke camera hidden behind the dark paintings on the wall? I feel foolish flicking my eyes around, but still, I do.
“She loves it there,” Proud Momma continues. “She got so involved with THON last month.”
I swallow my tears. I danced in THON [https://www.thon.org/ –open link in new window] twice: as an undergrad and years later as an alum. THON is 100% student-run event that raises money for children with cancer. This year, they raised $10.1 million dollars. That’s the money raised this year. I am so intensely proud of that organization and my stamina to stay awake and stand on my feet for 46 hours. Simply saying the word THON makes me weepy.
Please don’t let me cry. What will this woman think of me?
“They raised a lot of money this year,” she continues. “She was so involved with it. She stayed awake the entire time.”
Thank you, dear woman, for giving me time to compose myself. Now I have the voice to ask, “As a freshman?” This event is intensely popular, and participation as a dancer or committee member is competitive and priority is earned by upperclassmen. I can’t think of a single freshman dancer. Ever.
“She didn’t dance. She didn’t have to be awake all 46 hours,” momma says, “but she was up for at least 24 hours or more. Still, I donated.”
Still? I would hope she didn’t need her daughter’s involvement to donate to this charity. Given her daughter’s status, she was probably part of some general stay-awake cheering section for an organization or special interest group. I wonder if she’s a pledge in my sorority.
I don’t the chance to ask because the man next to her shuffles his for-here plate and to-go cup. He slides down the cushioned bench and stands up. I feel his eyes rolling, so I look down at the wood floor. The man must be her husband because he gathers her coffee cup.
“Take care,” I say to her and nod to her man. They crumple napkins and brush crumbs on the floor. I adjust my bag on my right shoulder and shuffle towards the pastry case. I always check out the food in a new coffee shop. I want to see a shop’s dedication to local or defrost.
I glance back to see if the woman waves at me. She doesn’t, but she and her man step far enough away from the table that it won’t be rude for me to dash over and claim their seat. I plop my workbag on her seat and toss my coat on the bench seat behind the table. I look down and see outlet under the bench. Thank you for giving me this space.
