Sharing the Heart of the Matter: Staying Steady…

Another exciting announcement!

I was invited again by Wynne Leon and Vicki Atkinson to join them on their Sharing the Heart of the Matter Podcast, a feature of their The Heart of the Matter blog!

The Heart of the Matter strives to inspire writers (and readers) to discuss stories in an uplifting way, in a supportive and encouraging space, where all perspectives and viewpoints are welcomed.

To listen to our discussion about people who help us and inspire us to stay steady, click on https://sharingtheheartofthematter.com/2023/12/15/episode-48-staying-steady-with-stuart-perkins/ and scroll to the bottom for the podcast link.

Thanks again to all who’ve asked what I’ve been up to lately. Blogging continues to be great fun and has proven to be an exciting pathway to incredible opportunities such as this.

Stuart M. Perkins

Below is the link to the essay about my grandfather’s love of fishing and the family traditions it led to.

https://www.localscoopmagazine.com/living/because-granddaddy-liked-to-fish/

1. magic marker

This is a piece I repost every year around Christmas time. The holiday season is full of memories of gifts, gatherings, and glee. To that list of happy triggers I add one thing for me: 1. magic marker.

“No, no, no!”

Her reprimanding tone rang a bell. Behind me in the check-out line a young mother wrestled something from her toddler’s tight grip.

“No, no, no!” she repeated. The little boy grabbed a ball point pen from a display rack near the cash register. Swiftly removing the cap, he was about to demonstrate his unique brand of artwork across a stack of Washington Posts. He clenched his little fist when his mother tried to take the pen. I felt for him.

What child doesn’t like to draw?

I drew constantly as a child. Pens and pencils were my implements of choice but when I could sneak it away I’d use my sister’s fountain pen until it emptied. She always wondered why her ink ran out so quickly – and unless she reads this it will remain a decades-old secret. Of course I also had a box of Crayola crayons, 64 count with a built-in sharpener. I lived large. One thing I had never used, but craved greatly, was a magic marker. I didn’t have one, but Mama did.

I’d seen her use it once then toss it into something in the back of the high cabinet above the stove. I was too little then to know the secrets of that cabinet, but one day as Mama backed out of the driveway to go to the grocery store I seized the opportunity to learn. Home alone, I slid a kitchen chair to the stove, climbed up, and eased open the cabinet door. I saw spices, aspirin, glue, rubber bands, and a deck of playing cards. That was it. Disappointed, I started to close the cabinet and that’s when I saw it. There, from inside an old coffee mug, wedged between broken pencils and a pair of scissors it called to me. The magic marker!

My heart beat faster as I plucked the marker from the mug. I removed the cap, catching a whiff of that distinct (and what I considered beautiful) aroma. In slow motion I turned to hop from the chair, determined to be stealthy as I secretly drew with that marvelous thing. I’d return it to the mug when done. No one would know.

Except for Mama.

“No, no, no!” Mama said, coming in the back door with an armload of groceries. “You can’t use that. It’ll get everywhere and it will never wash off.”

Even when I drew with generic pens, pencils, and crayons Mama made it clear I was to sit at the kitchen table, draw only on the paper, and never get near the walls. No surprise that the notion of me with a magic marker made her nervous. I surrendered the marker to Mama, she returned it to the coffee mug, and I headed to my sister’s room to find solace in a fountain pen.

With Christmas right around the corner, my sisters and I started making lists for Santa Claus. I noticed their extensive lists included things like dolls, dresses, games, and make up. I wrote down one thing only.

1. magic marker

Oh, everyone laughed, but to me it was serious. I had to know what it was like to draw with a magic marker. Pens and pencils were great, crayons were fun, and fountain pens were nice while the ink lasted, but I had to have a magic marker! Christmas seemed like it would never come.

But it did, and when that morning came, in my spot near the tree was the mountain of gifts Santa Claus generously left every year. As my sisters hugged new dolls and compared games and make up, I marveled at my remote control helicopter and a book about dinosaurs. To the left of a new pair of slippers was a small, plain box. There were no words or pictures to provide a clue, but as I lifted the lid that distinct and beautiful aroma gave away the contents. A brand new magic marker.

Merry Christmas to me!

I held the precious thing high in the air. I had to draw immediately! I ran to the kitchen table where I knew it was safe, grabbed my drawing pad and sat down. Mama, hot on my heels, pulled me and the entire kitchen table three feet from the wall. She instantly spread a layer of newspaper beneath my drawing pad, provided several wet paper towels, and reminded me that magic marker ink would never wash off. Daddy stood there grinning, amused by Mama’s panic. I think I know which half of Santa Claus was behind that particular gift. I happily drew as the distinct and beautiful aroma filled the kitchen.

For a kid who finally got his magic marker, it really was the most wonderful time of the year.

And Mama was incorrect. Magic marker ink will come off, it just takes rubbing alcohol and three good days of scrubbing. I know, because when she wasn’t looking that Christmas morning I scribbled a test patch across my knee.

Stuart M. Perkins

Hand on the Plow

This is a repost of a piece I wrote in 2020 at the onset of the Covid pandemic when we were unsure of what it was, how bad it was, and when it would end. I referenced the advice of a coworker from my younger days and how her words have stayed with me. I just found out she passed away and was reminded again of her and her words of encouragement.

Edmonia R. Wade 1940-1923

Back in the 1980s she and I spent many days over several years together at our retail job. When I left the position we said we’d always stay in touch. We didn’t. That’s just how it works. Although I never saw her again I thought of her often, laughed remembering her sense of humor, and never forgot her advice.

Hand on the Plow 

I watched the morning news but turned away as hopelessness washed over me while they reported infection rates and death tolls. Isolation was helping to end this nightmare, so they said, but for many of us it seemed an exercise in futility. When a reporter stressed the importance of perseverance even when we doubted, an old memory crossed my mind of a time when I was unsure of my own next steps.

“Nope.” Ms. Wade shook her head. “Here’s what you’re going to do.” She put her arm around my shoulder. “Keep your hand on the plow and hold on.”

I understood the metaphor. Don’t dismay, was her message. I should simply continue doing what I’d been doing.

It was the 1980s and I was a twenty-something kid working a part-time retail job. Ms. Wade was an older African-American woman who had worked there full-time for a number of years. She showed me around, trained me, and a couple weeks into the job was already my mentor and friend.

New in my position, one day I rang up a sale incorrectly. Technology not being then what it is today, that wasn’t hard to do. My mistake, which was realized later, cost the store less than twenty dollars but that was serious stuff. For an entire tense week I came to work expecting to be fired. During that time, Ms. Wade listened to my worries but smiled and encouraged me to keep my chin up and just keep doing what I was doing. I thought maybe I should quit.

“You can’t quit when things seem hopeless. That’s exactly when you don’t quit.” Ms. Wade looked at me and put her hand on her hip. “Just hold on, I told you. Keep your hand on the plow and hold on.”

I continued whining, bothered by the embarrassing thought of having to explain to everyone why I’d been fired. Not to mention I’d have to find another job. The situation seemed gloomy and I told her so. Ms. Wade patiently repeated that I should keep going even through confusion and fear. It was ok that the outcome wasn’t known. The point was to push on and take it day by day. So that’s what I did.

A few days later I was informed, unceremoniously, that personnel chalked up my mistake to inexperience and a learning curve. Because I’d continued working and demonstrated determination, they let it go. Wow! Just as Ms. Wade said, the best thing to do was carry on in spite of overwhelming bouts of apprehension.

What a valuable lesson that good woman taught me.

I turned back to the morning news. More reports of infections and deaths. So much uncertainty. When will this end? What can any of us do? I’m not the only person experiencing moments of confusion and worry. The entire world is swallowed up by these feelings as we wait for a resolution.

For now, our responsibilities are to follow advice and keep at it even during moments of doubt. Especially during moments of doubt. A solution will eventually come. In the meantime I can’t offer an answer to this mess, but thanks to Ms. Wade I can offer a bit of advice.

Keep your hand on the plow and hold on.

Stuart M. Perkins

The Local Scoop Magazine – Because Granddaddy Liked to Fish

I’m excited to let you know that my essay paying homage to Granddaddy, the reason so many in my family grew up loving the Chesapeake Bay, appears in the current issue of The Local Scoop Magazine!

It’s always a thrill to work with the kind folks at The Local Scoop. Having enjoyed time at the bay my entire life, it was especially fun to contribute to a magazine representing an area I’ve always loved.

Below is the link. Feel free to leave a comment on their site at the end of the essay. We love the feedback!

https://www.localscoopmagazine.com/life/because-granddaddy-liked-to-fish/

Thanks again to all who’ve asked what I’ve been up to lately. Blogging continues to be great fun and has proven to be an exciting pathway to opportunities such as this. Exciting!

Stuart M. Perkins

Sharing Chicken Nuggets with The Heart of the Matter Podcast!

Another exciting announcement!

I was invited by Wynne Leon and Vicki Atkinson to join them once again on their Sharing the Heart of the Matter Podcast, a feature of The Heart of the Matter blog!

The Heart of the Matter strives to inspire writers (and readers) to discuss stories in an uplifting way, in a supportive and encouraging space, where all perspectives and viewpoints are welcomed.

I like writing – but it’s not always easy. I dislike public speaking – it’s never easy. So my hands sweated profusely while publicly speaking about writing, but Wynne and Vicki made that easy. I enjoyed every minute.

To listen, click on https://sharingtheheartofthematter.com/2023/05/05/episode-16-nuggets-of-kindness-with-stuart-perkins/ and scroll to the bottom to Episode 16.

You can also search for Sharing the Heart of the Matter on Amazon, Apple, Spotify, or PocketCasts and select an episode from the show line-up.

And please follow https://sharingtheheartofthematter.com/ for excellent content provided by Wynne, Vicki, and their team.

Thanks again to all who’ve asked what I’ve been up to lately. Blogging continues to be great fun and has proven to be an exciting pathway to incredible opportunities such as this.

Stuart M. Perkins

Sharing The Heart of the Matter Podcast!

An exciting announcement!

I was invited by Wynne Leon and Vicki Atkinson to join them on their Sharing the Heart of the Matter Podcast, a feature of The Heart of the Matter blog!

The Heart of the Matter strives to inspire writers (and readers) to discuss stories in an uplifting way, in a supportive and encouraging space, where all perspectives and viewpoints are welcomed.

I like writing – but it’s not always easy. I dislike public speaking – it’s never easy. So my hands sweated profusely while publicly speaking about writing, but Wynne and Vicki made that easy. I enjoyed every minute.

To listen, click on Episode 12 Show Notes: On Storytelling with Stuart M Perkins and scroll to the bottom for the podcast link.

You can also search for Sharing the Heart of the Matter on Amazon, Apple, Spotify, or PocketCasts and select an episode from the show line-up.

And please follow https://sharingtheheartofthematter.com/ for excellent content provided by Wynne, Vicki, and their team.

Thanks again to all who’ve asked what I’ve been up to lately. Blogging continues to be great fun and has proven to be an exciting pathway to incredible opportunities such as this.

Stuart M. Perkins

Garden Gifts

Out of nowhere, a robin landed on the concrete fountain. It took a drink, pivoted, and flew over my head towards the dogwood. Wings stirred the air just inches from my face. I felt the rush. 

Birdwatching was an added bonus on my frequent trips to public gardens like this one. On lazy Sunday afternoons I would amble down moss-covered brick paths flanked by ancient boxwoods and towering magnolias. I was captivated by blankets of wild roses scrambling over weathered trellises and fragrant lilacs peeking through picket fences along the winding paths. While blissfully lost in contented thought, a bird would always appear to punctuate the scene. Spending time in any garden became the respite I sought more and more often. Gardens promised joy – and birds flew in to seal the deal. 

I found myself traveling farther and farther for the experience. I had to. The sense of calm in these outdoor spaces was remarkable. It was a feeling I loved and needed, so traveling to find it was never an issue. Besides, there was no way I could recreate that level of serenity in my own back yard.  

Or could I?

At the time, my yard consisted of a pitiful patch of sickly grass flanked by two haggard shrubs and an old crepe myrtle, their placement decided by a previous owner. I only passed through to take out the trash, but lately I wondered whether I really had to rely on the horticultural efforts of others. Surely, I could create a garden of my own, not as large, but just as amazing as those I visited!

My excitement drove me outside to assess the yard. My disgust drove me back. Wow, worse than I thought. 

Resigned to the ugly truth, I trudged back out for another look. One shrub needed pruning and the other was actually dead. The jury was still out on the old crepe myrtle. And not a bird in sight. After accepting the status of my bleak little space, I did what any rational person would have done. I grabbed my car keys and left home. Hurriedly, I drove to the next public garden on my list and felt the familiar peace wash over me. Out of nowhere, a bluebird dropped from above to snag a beetle in the grass. 

Before the next weekend, I mentally regrouped. Then, with renewed confidence in my ability to transform, I ran into the tiny yard and feverishly dug at the yellowing grass to scratch outlines of future flowerbeds into the dirt. Would that look good? Should the borders be straight? Maybe curved? Wait, birds would never come anyway. There’s no way to replicate a fine garden here. 

Defeated, I grabbed my car keys and backed out of the driveway, list of public gardens in hand. Once seated on a bench overlooking a patch of blooming irises, I felt the familiar peace wash over me again. Harmony at last. Out of nowhere, a cardinal landed on a nearby branch.

Later, back at home, while pulling the trashcan across my dusty plot it dawned on me. I didn’t need to recreate a thing. No garden is wrong. They all change with seasons and years and mine didn’t have to compare. It had only to make me happy. 

Determined now, I walked bravely back outside to tackle things anew. Shovel by shovel my vision would be revealed. I began work that evening and in spite of fleeting flashes of frustration, felt no urge to grab my car keys. 

For days, I dug grass, said goodbye to the shrubs, and filled empty spots with fresh plants. The old crepe myrtle looked grand after a light pruning. I wrestled with hoses, tripped over trowels, and fell into holes I had only just dug. But I enjoyed getting every bruise. Paths appeared, and beds aligned. Jaunts to the local nursery were made, repeatedly, to purchase seeds, bulbs and vines. I even bought a concrete fountain as the final crowning centerpiece. I was done.

I thought fondly of my list of public gardens. I would still visit them, but that day I need not travel. Sitting on my new bench under my old crepe myrtle, I watched foxgloves sway, ivy creep, and water sparkle in the fountain. The little dogwood I planted would show off soon enough. Flowers, bees, and butterflies began to appear that before the transformation had absolutely no reason to be there. It had all come together. 

Yet, I watched in vain for a bird.

My satisfaction with the little garden was amplified by the fact that I created it myself. As the garden grew, so would my delight in its metamorphosis. My elation was overwhelming as I listened to the trickling water and there, in that moment, I felt the familiar peace wash over me.

Out of nowhere, a robin landed on the concrete fountain. It took a drink, pivoted, and flew over my head towards the dogwood. Wings stirred the air just inches from my face. I felt the rush. 

Stuart M. Perkins

Turning Over a New Leaf

My bed felt too good to leave that summer morning years ago. I yawned, fluffed my pillow, and rolled over. The house seemed quiet. Hopefully no one was around to tell me to get up.

“Get up!” my sister yelled from the hallway.

“For what?” I yelled back with no intention of leaving the bed.

“We told Nannie we’d pull weeds.” My sister now loomed over me, hand on her hip.

My grandmother’s farmhouse in Richmond was surrounded by flowerbeds which always required attention, but we loved helping her with the work. One tedious task was pulling the first flush of spring weeds from her rose beds. They were periodically smothered in wiregrass and other low-growing things which we simply referred to disgustedly as “chickweed.”

My sister and I pulled for hours that day. Starting at one end of the long bed, by the handfuls we ripped out wheelbarrow loads until we neared the opposite end. Tired of wiping gritty sweat from my face, I could think only of escaping on my bicycle to meet friends. But, just one patch of chickweed left and we’d be finished.

I stopped to stretch and noticed a thick stand of violets under a nearby crepe myrtle. For years we’d been unable to get rid of that particular mass, try as we might, and we knew we’d be wrestling with it that year too.

“We’ll pull that when we finish this,” I pointed with resignation to the chickweed at my feet.

“You can leave the violets be this year,” Nannie said as she walked towards them. From her old galvanized bucket she sprinkled a small handful of fertilizer into the leafy mass. We stared in disbelief.

“Did you just fertilize those weeds?” We were puzzled. She had always wished those violets gone.

“It’s only a weed if you don’t want it,” Nannie said, casually going about her business.

Baffled by her about face, we agreed to leave the violets alone and continued with our task at hand. I looked down and noticed several strands of chickweed lodged in my shoelaces. I plucked one stem and absent-mindedly studied the small piece of nuisance.

Although I’d pulled tons of that stuff over the years I had never bothered to look at it closely. “Hey!” I yelled to Nannie. “The stems on these things are square! Look! The flowers are like tiny orchids!” What a remarkable discovery – I thought.

What I had “discovered,” I learned years later, was that the sprawling nightmare is not chickweed. It’s actually purple dead-nettle, a non-native intrusive plant with purplish-green leaves and tiny purple flowers. The plant is found, well, all over the place. Unknown to me at the time.

“Can we keep these?” I asked excitedly, pointing to the last bit we had yet to pull from the rose bed. Suddenly I was determined to preserve something so special. “They might be the last of their kind!”

“Yeah, except for those.” my sister said sarcastically, pointing towards the barn where at least two acres of pasture appeared dusty purple from the masses of dead-nettle growing there.

Nannie stared down at the remaining patch of alien green in her rose bed. “You want to leave those weeds?” she asked.

“But it’s only a weed if you don’t want it,” I grinned. The problem I cursed every year was suddenly something unique and worthwhile to me.

Nannie smiled and said nothing. She walked again to the crepe myrtle where she sprinkled another small handful of fertilizer onto the violets growing beneath. Admittedly, they had turned into quite a display after weeks of benefitting from her new policy.

Nannie had shifted her view. Practiced at picking her battles, rather than fight the violets she chose to embrace them and by doing so turned a headache into a showpiece. Satisfaction can come with a simple change in attitude. Nannie learned that long ago and taught it now with the help of a few insignificant weeds.

I understood her change of heart and marveled at how smoothly she turned a problem into a bonus. From her reaction though, I guessed the same didn’t apply to my remaining clumps of chickweed in the rose bed. Sure, there were acres of the scourge growing just across the fence, but the remnant at my feet intrigued me. Nannie headed to the house as my sister and I stared at the scraggly patch I’d lobbied to preserve. Maybe she hadn’t understood my similar reversal of opinion.

Nannie was just a few steps past us when she stopped, turned around, and with a grin sprinkled a small handful of fertilizer onto my chickweed.

Stuart M. Perkins

Get Dirty!

This is a re-post from a few years ago. I was reminded of this piece when I walked outside on an unexpectedly warm February day in Virginia and smelled the air. Nothing gives me a shot of happiness like the smell of spring, more specifically, the smell of good old earth in spring.

I’m going to be dirty today.

As a kid, Mama often met me on the back stoop as I came in from playing outside. With a broom in her hand she’d have me slowly turn in a circle as she brushed dirt from my blue jeans. She wasn’t against sweeping my bare legs either if I happened to be wearing shorts.

“Don’t bring that mess in this house.” She’d say. “Did you plan to get dirty?”

Well no. I hadn’t planned to. I was a kid. There was dirt. We met and fell in love. The end.

I remembered that this morning as I thought about where to plant some things in the yard. I still love dirt. Not perlite and potting soil in plastic bags. I love real dirt. Earth.

One of the finest smells of spring is that first whiff of good clean soil. Sealed in by frigid winter, spring unlocks the scents I noticed as a kid. Dirt in our garden had a plain chalky smell, dirt in the yard had a more sour smell, and digging in the woods provided pungent aromas too delightful to describe.

Dirt smells good.

Dirt feels good too.

Powdery dirt in the garden stuck to our sweat when we worked the long rows and red clay in the yard felt almost oily as it clung to our fingers and hands. Different soils in the woods provided a variety of textures from mushy sludge along the creek to a sandy light mix up on the hill.

As a kid who spent almost every day outside, I knew my dirt. Mama ended up sweeping off quite a bit from my pants before allowing me into the house. But it wasn’t mere dirt she swept, it was ground-in goodness and muddy proof of the fun I’d had. I didn’t plan to get dirty, it was just good luck.

Excited to get into the yard this morning I remembered the happiness that digging, feeling, and smelling good old dirt can bring about. Coming home with blue jeans caked in mud for Mama’s broom was never my goal. I’d had great fun and muddy jeans were a byproduct of my good time. I never planned to get dirty.

Today I’ll put on blue jeans and dig in the yard to plant a few more things. Along the way I’ll wipe my hands on my pants, feel gritty soil stick to my skin, and marvel at how sweet the earth can smell when you stir it up a little.

Today I plan to get dirty.

Stuart M. Perkins

Stew Day

This is a repost of a piece I wrote a few years ago about my family’s annual tradition of making Brunswick stew. I hadn’t thought about those times in a while, but today while outside in the crisp air a slight whiff of wood smoke took me back…

My morning walk took me by our local farmers market. It was a lively scene as vendors slid from their truck seats, stretched, and waved to others setting up for the day. I watched as a hardworking woman spread out ears of corn alongside tables of huge tomatoes and I was reminded of summers back home when it seemed everything in the garden ripened at once. Our piles of corn and tomatoes rivaled any farmers market.

Mounds of homegrown produce also meant it was time for a Brunswick stew.

I was an adult before I realized just how fortunate I was to grow up the way I did. My grandparents had a small farm and gave each of their children a bordering piece of land on which to build their homes. My grandparents’ farmhouse and the huge garden worked by our families were focal points for us all. I grew up surrounded by best friends – who just happened to be my cousins.

From my backyard I could look across garden, field, or pasture to see a cousin on their swing set, Daddy on the tractor, or my grandmother, Nannie. She might be picking beans, shucking corn, or emptying a bucket of tomatoes onto on old metal table under the apple tree. With so much ripe and ready at once, it was time for the stew.

It was exciting to wake up to the faint smell of wood smoke wafting across the field. Daddy and the uncles gathered early to start a fire beneath the huge cast iron stew pot. By the time we kids showed up the fire was at perfect peak, gallons of water were boiling, and Nannie, Mama, and the aunts had readied the vegetables and cut up the meat.

For the next several hours we kids played – usually as close to the fire as we could without getting fussed at – while Mama and the aunts scurried back and forth between the kitchen and the stew boiling outside. Daddy and the uncles would talk and take turns stirring the stew with what seemed to be the oar from a sizeable dingy. How interesting that Mama and the aunts were in charge of family cooking all year long, but on stew day Daddy and the uncles took over. I think they just wanted to play with the fire.

I never paid attention to what went into the stew. Even today I have no idea what recipe was used, the proportion of ingredients, or how long and how often the boat oar needed to swirl around the giant pot. I do remember timing seemed important and there was debate over several points: add the corn, no add the butter beans first, is the meat already in, should we add more water, have the tomatoes cooked down, add salt, don’t add salt, get that oak leaf out that just fell in, and on and on.

Hours later, after being properly talked over and paddled, the stew was ready. It was always good, but with Nannie’s homemade rolls alongside, it was even better. Naturally we washed it down with sweet tea.

As I walked back home after passing the farmers market I thought about the many family stews and how long it had actually been since I’d had any “real” stew. When I got home I checked the kitchen cabinets. There was one can of store-bought Brunswick stew. It might be ok, but it won’t be as good as “real”. I don’t know if it was the fresh vegetables, the boat oar, or the occasionally fallen oak leaf in the pot that made those stews so memorable.

It was more likely the fact that each time I ate real stew I was surrounded by laughing aunts and uncles, Nannie in her apron, and a gang of cousins. All gathered under a tree with bowls of stew in our laps, a roll in one hand and sweet tea in the other.

Stuart M. Perkins