the objects

But sometimes you get what you need

Last summer, I fell in love with a nearby property overlooking the Ohio River that was up for auction. A tiny house on a 1/4 acre lot with an oak tree at its side, which probably sprouted the same time they built the house 100 years before.

There’s an open room on the main level with a metal circular staircase through the ceiling leading to an open room under the rafters upstairs. Both floors have banks of windows in the rear wall that invite the outdoors in. The view of the river is spectacular.

It was perfect for a writer’s annex and artist studio—a space for creatives to gather. Something I had wanted for some time.

I drafted a business plan with visions of easels, comfy chairs, writing workshops, and paint parties.

My husband and I ran the numbers and agreed on the maximum we would spend on the property. We felt it was a fair market price.

We arrived at noon to the outdoor sale and registered; I was bidder number 44. The household contents—a lifetime collection of antiques and ephemera—were first to be sold. We stood with the crowd in the brutal heat as the auctioneer warbled over each item.

When he held up a miniature violin and started the bid at $4, I raised my card. The music of a violin has always resonated deep down and it thrilled me to win the decorative object at $8.

A few hours later, it was time. The mob gathered closer to the auctioneer as he described the real estate and conditions of sale. The temperature had soared to near 100°F and it was difficult to breathe the oven-like air.

When he finally shouted the opening bid, it was $5K below our limit, my hand shot up, but within seconds, the amount surpassed our threshold. The auction kept going. I didn’t get a second chance. It was over. The property sold for twice the amount we had set.

We got in our car and drove away. The cold air from the dashboard vents my only consolation.

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Back in my home studio, I open the violin case. It is in worse shape than I thought; the tailpiece is loose, the strings unusable, and the bow warped. But, in my imagination, I hear it play a song. The music brings tears and soothes. The notes, gentle whispers of the possibilities still to come.

This is the 50th (and final) story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.

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Thank you for reading, for your support, and for your kind words. You made a difference. xoxo

In late 2015, a year post-transplant, my physical health had improved, but mentally and emotionally, I still struggled with survivor’s guilt and depression.

My counselor suggested I try a 365 grateful project: each night, for a year, write something down about my day I was thankful for. So I did.

On January 1st, 2016, I began the project and used random scraps of paper tossed into a basket. After a few weeks, I put a cube of colorful notes into service and used an old Mason jar for a container.

As the bottom of the jar filled, the weight I felt lessened. I caught glimpses of light through the veil of darkness that seemed to cloak me. There were some days, like on August 9th, all I could write was one word: Nothing.

Fortunately, that was the only day I couldn’t come up with even one thing I was thankful for.

On January 1st, 2017, I opened and sorted the notes and relived the previous year, one day at a time. I found messages from others who had added their notes to the jar; each one a heartwarming hug on that cold winter morning.

Seeing and celebrating the good in my life every day, even in small ways, I experienced firsthand the extraordinary power of gratitude.

I could not ask for more.

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This is the 49th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.

The object I kept for too long

It’s a poignant scene. The pet dog, a collie, interceding on behalf of a little girl standing in the corner. He begs for his mistress to be released from her punishment.

The piece of art is called A Special Pleader, and they sold reproductions in the 1980s. Granddad adored the picture, and he gifted me one to hang in my first home.

After I had children, he would point to the print on the wall and tell them stories about my childhood pet collie, Taurus. Then he would launch into a monologue about his interpretation of the artwork. He would lament the little girl’s plight.

“Look how sad she is, what could she have done wrong?” he would ask and answer, “Even the dog knows the little girl doesn’t deserve such a harsh sentence.”

This was priceless coming from the man who never hesitated to wield his belt on my body when I was a child.

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I quit hanging the picture in my home in the 1990s, yet with every household move, it came along. Someone dropped it once, and the glass cracked, yet I kept it.

In 2016, I converted the spare bedroom, a storage area for junk, into a dedicated studio. During the haul out, I picked up the print and the frame released its broken glass. I still kept it, this lighter version, hidden in the back of a closet.

Once the room was empty, I painted walls and dubbed it Studio BE. After a few years of using the reclaimed space, of honoring my creativity, the dormant artist within wakened and the desire to purge the old to make way for the new resurfaced.

I retrieved the gift from the back of the closet and leaned it against the waste can by the curb. Back in my studio, I sat by the window and stared at the object relegated to the trash. The painting I had toted 35 years of my life—if I let it go, will I still be the same? I hoped not.

I turned from the window and picked up a paintbrush. I didn’t even notice when the truck took it away.

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This is the 48th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.

I have a signed, limited edition art print of Switzer Bridge surrounded by trees in autumn glory. It’s a covered bridge no longer used by vehicles but open to foot traffic near Stamping Ground, KY. I purchased the piece at a nearby bookshop the same day my then boyfriend, who’s from that tiny town, took me there to show me a small piece of where he had spent his youth. It’s also where he professed his love.

The artwork is a keepsake from our beginning. We had no way of knowing a dozen years later we would face a devastating illness.

I’ve read about some reasons they built covers on bridges: provide shelter for travelers, strengthen the entire structure, and prolong life.

We had no way of knowing my husband’s love would be just like a cover for a bridge during one of the hardest times in our 22 years of marriage.

For some years, I carelessly kept the framed print on a shelf that met the afternoon sunlight and its rich colors faded into a worn and comfortable patina.

You don’t go through these kinds of things and remain unchanged.

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This is the 47th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.

I don’t know why my family had such an affinity for handmade wooden boxes of various shapes and sizes, but I inherited the love for them and their backstories.

One of these boxes, a smallish rectangle with a hinged lid and dovetail joints, made its way through the hands of generations of women on my mother’s side, and landed in mine. My great grandmother kept a lock of hair wrapped in tissue and an abandoned cross stitch project inside the box and I became its caretaker.

I never learned whose head the lock of hair belonged to, but the unfinished cross stitch holds images of GG in her pink bedroom, sitting in her white rocking chair, the material draped over her lap, stitching by the glow of a nearby lamp woven into its fabric.

I’ll also never know why she stopped where she did, on the ‘a’ in the word ‘sake’, right before the next line, Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.

She left the needle, still threaded with navy blue floss, tucked into the canvas, ready for her return. Over the years, it detached from the material and disappeared, a rusty imprint the only evidence it existed.

I’ve thought many times about completing her project, but deep down, in some irrational part of my heart, I think if it’s finished, then she’s done, she’s really gone. But if it remains a work in progress, then it’s simply waiting for her return.

I refold it for the umpteenth time, place it back in the box, and close the lid once more.

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This is the 46th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.