A really sweet writeup over on Two Ellie. Some days it just blows my mind at how folks with great taste find out about us, and beyond that, take the time to write something.
That's truly a blessing. To know that your story connects with someone. Whether they are from the South or not. But that that longing for something, that reaching out and feeling home, the smell, the hue, that is known by us all. Not just here in the US. But all over.
Thank you Paula. We appreciate you.
Was a good vantage point from which to mull about our troops' sacrifice, our falling dollar Remember how magazines used to cost us .60 and the Canadians $1? Well, we're now just about even and how fortunate we are to live in this grand country.
I can't say anything more than this was the more gorgeous wedding on the most beautiful day with the most deserving couple of perhaps all time. Insanely beautiful.
But I will say more:
Farms! Bluegrass! Pimm's Cups! Contra dancing! Laughter! Love!
A fantastic job by an interior designer just south of Nashville. When folks take our humble prints and make them look this good, well, I just get tongue tied. And then I jump up and do a fist-pump in the air. Cause I get excited.
Back when I was in Atlanta, in March, I got a call. From a nice lady named Marla. Marla, turns out, is the editor of a magazine called @Urban in Northwest Arkansas. A magazine, turns out, is a pretty great place to tell a story.
You know why? Cause When someone is writing for a living, they take their time. They write, then edit, then write, then cut, then marinate, then write, then cut. They turn phrases and hope in turn that you'll turn pages. They stress over the word. Because. It matters.
So we talked for a bit. Maybe half hour. Had a ball.
We haven't really had much of a piece written on us before. We've done an interview, once or twice. But those folks didn't take what we told them and build something else, something better, out of it. I was pleased as punch to read about us. To see a story I knew, heck, a story I told, told better than I did it myself.
Go give it a read if you got the time. I think it's spectacular. And I think Marla and @Urban, are, too.
It was just a year ago that I walked into the house.
Sat down my bag.
Then convinced Marianna, against her initial judgment, to start a company. To make some love letters home. To give it the old college try.
Gosh Almighty, time can fly. As can ideas.
This is a thank you. To you. To the folks who’ve heard about us from friends and came to see us – who’ve taken out their billfolds and parted with hard earned dollars to support a couple of strangers who are living thousands of miles from home. To the folks who’ve taken time to write about us. To the folks who’ve made an effort to share us with others.
It takes a village. Ours, we feel, with respect to Goldsmith, is the ‘loveliest village on the plains.’
I can’t but thank some folks by name, cause that’s just what a Southerner is want to do.
To our good Lord: you’ve blessed our endeavor. Let’s us seek to work at it each day as if we’re working for you and not for ourselves.
To Marianna: you are my heart and my better judgment and my cheerleader. I’m the luckiest.
To Union Press: if it weren’t for your craft and skill at executing the idea knocking around our brains, we’d have but a notebook of ideas and not a shelf of wares. We appreciate the hell out of y’all.
To Design Sponge, Garden & Gun: you guys gave us the benefit of the doubt as we were just starting and sent folks our way. You didn't have to but you did. Thank you.
To Fallen Arrows and Remnant: you make us look cooler than we are. Cause you guys are cooler than we are.
To Back Down South, Bowties & Boatshoes, Red Clay Soul, Bourbon & Boots, Bearings Guide, The Trot Line, Dreams of Perfection, WM Lamb and Sons, Cicada: Y’all run blogs and shops we love and respect and are just tickled to have been affiliated with.
To my bosses and coworkers at my regular job: thanks for putting up with my distraction.
To the 1614 of y’all on Facebook: I wouldn’t trade any one of you.
To the 880 on Twitter: I’d trade precisely four of y’all.
To the thousands that have pinned us on Pinterest: your board collection make us look stunning.
To our bullpen of official and unofficial lawyers, accountants, vexillologists, advisors, board members, etc: at least we're operating legally, right?
If I’ve failed to mention you it isn’t cause I don’t appreciate you. It’s cause we wouldn’t be much of anywhere without help of dozens of folks, and my fleeting memory failed me. But you didn’t.
Let's see what year two has in store.
West Wind #2
By Mary Oliver
You are young. So you know everything. You leap
into the boat and begin rowing. But listen to me.
Without fanfare, without embarrassment, without
any doubt, I talk directly to your soul. Listen to me.
Lift the oars from the water, let your arms rest, and
your heart, and heart’s little intelligence, and listen to
me. There is life without love. It is not worth a bent
penny, or a scuffed shoe. It is not worth the body of a
dead dog nine days unburied. When you hear, a mile
away and out of sight, the churn of the water
as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the
sharp rocks – when you hear that unmistakable
pounding – when you feel the mist on your mouth
and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls
plunging and steaming – then row, row for your life
A month or so back, I got an email from a Tennesseean up here who lives up this way in New Hampshire. He'd bought a couple of prints from us, and had them hanging up in the Granite State. And this is what he said about them:
Well, heck yes I'd like a new pair of shoes. I'm a shoe guy. I love shoes. And free shoes? Just because I sent him a print he bought? Well, course. Picked em, the Counterpane Spectator Oxford, they were sent down.
“ The prints have been many topics of conversation during cocktail parties at my home. Come to find out, many New Englanders, especially here on the seacoast, do not have a clue about what makes us who we are. Our culture, our values, sweet tea, and our firm belief in bourbon - neat. Just wanted to say Thank You for helping me share that with some new friends.
So, to the point. I work for Timberland and would like to send you a pair of shoes or two. Check out Timberlandbootcompany.com. This collection harkens back to the days of yesteryear. Hand tacked wooden outsoles. All are hand sewn, some in Maine. ”
"If the Mass Pike were considered the Mason-Dixon Quincy, MA would probably fall somewhere near Richmond—but with more two family homes of course. God Willing, the South rises again, please remember to move onto Dorchester. Please and thank you."
Manners hanging on the wall of a buddy's place in Quincy, Massachusetts. A buddy, who, as of right this second, is at the hospital, awaiting the arrival of his little one with his champion of a wife. Sometime in the next day they will have a small one to put in this nursery to raise up in the proper way.
I didn't really know my momma's daddy. He died when I was about 3. There are a few pictures floating around around old family photo albums where we look like we are having just a ball. He's a man I see blurry in photos, and not at all in my memory.
But he's also a man that my momma sees in me. When she came up to Boston a couple of years back, I was wearing my vintage safety glasses and a white v neck undershirt. And she swore I looked just like her daddy. She'll talk about him from time to time about this or that, about how he was a hard worker or a quite man or how he'd put up with her and her sisters and how she just wishes we'd know him more.
By Thomas Allen Orr
The October air was warm and musky, blowing
Over brown fields, heavy with the fragrance
Of freshly combined beans, the breath of harvest.
He was pulling a truckload onto the scales
At the elevator near the rail siding north of town
When a big Cadillac drove up. A man stepped out,
Wearing a three-piece suit and a gold pinky ring.
The man said he had just invested a hundred grand
In soybeans and wanted to see what they looked like.
The farmer stared at the man and was quiet, reaching
For the tobacco in the rear pocket of his jeans,
Where he wore his only ring, a threadbare circle rubbed
By working cans of dip and long hours on the backside
Of a hundred acre run. He scooped up a handful
Of small white beans, the pearls of the prairie, saying:
Soybeans look like a foot of water on the field in April
When you're ready to plant and can't get in;
Like three kids at the kitchen table
Eating macaroni and cheese five nights in a row,
Or like a broken part on the combine when
Your credit with the implement dealer is nearly tapped.
Soybeans look like prayers bouncing off the ceiling
When prices on the Chicago grain market start to drop;
Or like your old man's tears when you tell him
How much the land might bring for subdivisions.
Soybeans look like the first good night of sleep in weeks
When you unload at the elevator and the kids get Christmas.
He spat a little juice on the tire of the Cadillac,
Laughing despite himself and saying to the man:
Now maybe you can tell me what a hundred grand looks like.