Wildfires to Wildflowers

        The flames charged down Lady Face Mountain to the edge of the road that curled through the military compound-turned-church grounds. In between Quonset huts, bunkhouses, as well as a creek and a pool, the maniacal wildfire air brushed the landscape black and hazy. Fortunately, no structures lit. Leafless trees stood like ghoulish skeletons poised to pounce amongst charred brush and smoldering soil. This eerie graveyard greeted my friends, who lived at the church, from Thanksgiving to Christmas and all the way to the New Year.

         Then it rained

                                                                    and rained

                                                                           
                                                                                                                                and rained.

     By Valentine's Day everything had changed. Record inches fell on the blackened chaparral. While it's not unusual to see California's brown hills transform to verdant green during the winter, this year was different. The combination of consuming fire and abundant precipitation produced a rare natural phenomenon. A Super Bloom!

     I messaged my friend, "Send pictures of the flowers. I hear my home state is covered in yellow, blue, orange and purple." Spring has not just sprung, but exploded on the Santa Monica Mountains and beyond. Malibu Creek rushes again. Swaths of orange poppies and blue lupine streak the slopes and cliffs. Tall emerald grasses and bright blossoms flash in the coastal sun. The land is transformed from scorched to scattered rainbow hues. From wildfires to wildflowers.

Photo credit - Facebook

     But why the colorful blaze this time? Other years have had equally wet winters, but yielded much fewer flowers.

     As destructive as they are, fires help the environment. Harmful insects, mold and diseases burn away. The ashes return vital nutrients to the soil creating ideal conditions for vegetation to flourish. One local biology instructor explained, "Plants are made to rebound after a fire. Some flowers don't even bloom unless the ground is scorched. Deer and rabbits thrive again on the profuse grasses and grow in population." He went on to say, "We don't like to see fires, but they're necessary. After the fire, there's a rebirth."*

Photo credit -Facebook

     Last fall brought a personal onslaught of relational wildfires. We all felt the heat of conflict. Words singed. Emotions flared and nothing was seen clearly. We lost sleep and weight and almost hope. We fought flames of fear and confusion, often consumed by sorrow. The inferno of violation left the once serene clearing nearly barren.

     But in the winter, Grace fell. Mercy poured. The rain of God's comfort and instruction soaked our parched souls.  Now, like the poppies and lupine and Indian Paintbrush and mustard bursting, hearts are blooming forgiveness in bright colors, love is covering a multitude of sin. Flaws and failures seared by the Refiner are sprouting shoots of tenderness.

    Wildfires to wildflowers. Beauty for ashes.

    Because after the fire there's a rebirth

                                  and some flowers don't even bloom unless there's a burning.

Photo credit -Facebook

He gives beauty for ashes

Strength for fear

Gladness for mourning

Peace for despair

                                                                                                - Crystal Lewis, 

                                                                                                - Isaiah 61

* NPR news story, Mar. 27, 2019

Journey of a Blue-Collar Collector - Part One

  

Motel Art to Masterpiece

It all started over breakfast one morning when Phil Materio and his daughter were reading the Sunday paper.  The 1996 article was about a group of mid-century African American painters who made a side living by peddling their landscape oils. Jim Crow laws still reigned in South Florida and forced people of color to take low paying jobs. The enterprising men—later dubbed “The Highwaymen”— would pitch their paintings to tourists, residents and shop owners. Originally selling from 17 to 75 dollars each, the painters knew they weren’t creating great art; they were just trying to make ends meet. Soon the artwork decorated the walls of banks, motels, attorney and dental offices. The news column went on to say that although the value of these landscapes was on the rise, they could still be found for a steal at garage sales, thrift shops and flea markets.

As a stained glass artist and craftsman, Mr. Materio’s interest was immediately piqued and he and his daughter went right out to Lake Worth’s antique row to see what they could find. The first store they walked into surprisingly revealed three Highwaymen paintings. Phil scooped them up for $17 to $26 a piece. His interest quickly turned into a veritable obsession and propelled him into a statewide search for Highwaymen art. With a self-imposed limit of $100 per painting, he scoured the state for these new found treasures. 

Who’d have thought a mere news article could launch a lifelong quest?

Materio didn’t always have to travel far in order to build his collection. One of his neighbors was a doctor. When Phil asked him if he happened to have any of these paintings in his office, surprisingly, he said that he owned three. Phil was happy his neighbor agreed to sell two for $100.

Through his search, Materio acquired a deep knowledge of Florida’s social, political and cultural history. The Highwaymen community was centered in the Fort Pierce area, spearheaded by American Impressionist Albert Backus. Considered the “Dean of Florida Landscape painting,” Backus’ bohemian air fostered inclusion of all races and classes. He would invite people of every stratum to his house for art-centered gatherings.

One such guest was Alfred Hair who became one of Backus’ most enthusiastic students and a Highwaymen leader. Like other African Americans who worked in packing houses, factories and farms, he was a laborer. Ambitious and hard-working, Alfred set his sights on two things: (1) a Cadillac and, (2) a house in Miami. Under the tutelage of Albert Backus, Hair began painting scenes of Florida’s terrain and skies in exaggerated colors; palms, Poinciana, grasses, rivers and lakes, mountainous clouds and flaming sunsets. Costs were minimized by using crown molding for frames and painting on Upson board (compressed fibers) instead of canvas. After Alfred sold enough artwork he bought his prized Cadillac. When envious friends asked where he got the money, Alfred invited them to join him in his painting venture. Alfred trained them in the Backus style, but no one could paint as fast as Hair. It was said he could finish one painting in an hour. Unfazed by potential competition, Backus had told his art students, “I don’t care if you paint like me as long as you sell them for cheap.”

The artists sold their works door-to-door, along roadsides and out of their trunks, sometimes with the paint still wet. The 26 “official” Highwaymen included Alfred Hair, Harold Newton, Roy McClendon, Livingston Roberts, Al Black, Hezekiah Baker, James Gibson and Mary Ann Carroll—the sole female—to name a few.

Alfred Hair never got his home in Miami, as his life was cut short in 1970, but he endowed Floridians with a unique genre of far more worth than a house. It took a while, however, for the art form to rise from mediocrity to fine art. Well into the 80s the Florida landscape paintings were still relegated to motel walls and dentists offices.

It wasn’t until the early 2000s that the works started to appreciate. A few books and movies documented the Highwaymen’s story of struggle and success and generated a new public interest. The popularity prompted dealers to raise prices. Materio says it’s remarkable that in two decades, while many collectibles have dropped in price, these paintings have suffered no decline. They now command sales in the 3 and 4-digit range. 

While Phil had amassed hundreds of Highwaymen pieces, he wondered if this was the only art of note in the Sunshine State. Were there other Florida-based painters to be discovered? After reading Mabel Mann’s Art in Florida, he learned that there were three main creative hubs: Saint Augustine, Sarasota and Palm Beach.  Materio threw himself into gathering the artwork of these communities. His blue-collar philosophy (much like a good stock investor’s) was to buy undervalued pieces and watch them appreciate. After twenty years of collecting, 500 paintings and two storage units, his McMow Art Glass studio walls are a testament to his passion.

In Part Two of Journey of a Blue-Collar Collector, share in Phil Materio’s discoveries of images of Sarasota’s circus oddities, Palm Beach’s mansions that no longer exist and St. Augustine’s charming street scenes that have survived the centuries.

Phil in his MCMOW Glass Art Studio

Prayer Blogs and Racist Dogs

     We meet weekly, sometimes biweekly to pray. The three of us neighbors petition for wisdom for our disorderly national leaders, for peace in our country’s social unrest, for godly spouses for our grown children, and that one child in particular would lose weight before it was too late. We also pray that our adult offspring would take themselves to church. 

     Bonnie, the one who hosts us in her cozy, inviting study where her greatest-generation father used to live, had opened her home to a family of 5 and a dog—a miniature Snauser dog. Although they took the opposite side of the house, it was so quiet you could hardly tell they were there. Apparently, the noisy ones, the parents, were out. An untidy mound of shoes in the entryway was the only evidence that a teenage girl, two middle school boys and their parents lived with Bonnie.

“Yeah,” Bonnie grimaced, “We’ll have to include that pile of shoes when we go over house rules.” “Maybe a nice basket under your entry table would make an attractive solution,” I suggested.

     All three of us have long-term house guests, not just Bonnie.  Marie and I host Chinese high school students—two each—who present their own unique set of domestic challenges. Spending far too much time socializing and complaining about our Chinese students’ strange habits and outrageous spending, we finally got to our prayer requests. Marie’s son in D.C. wants to quit his job at Fair Trade America. Despite the job’s positive social contribution and attractive compensation, millennial son says it’s not fulfilling. He would rather make less money doing something about which he’s passionate.

 “That’s commendable. Now’s the time to have the luxury of changing jobs and making less before he has a family,” I comment.

     And then there’s her other son who works for Olin Musk. His problem is he just needs to get to church, and they both need to find a wife, Marie says. I jot down the requests in my beige moleskin.

     Mid conversation, Bonnie’s younger house guests, Tim and Ted emerge—one wrapped in a Christmas blanket—from their side of the house with their dog at the end of a leash. Marie exclaims, “Oh you have a dog just like mine, a miniature Snauser. Can I see him?” With one brother restraining the grey scruffy dog in the entryway, the other stammers, “Oh, well…he is kind of old and blind…and he’s racist, so I don’t think we should bring him any closer.” They turn and take the dog out to do his business.

“Did you hear what I just heard,” the three of us ask each other? “Did he say, ‘racist dog?’”

“I’m so sorry,” cringed a mortified Bonnie to Marie. “I apologize for my guest’s bad behavior and will talk to the boys.”

“It’s OK,” said Marie. I was not sure if she was offended—as she should've been—by the archaic and childish remark. “Kids don’t know what they’re saying half the time.”

“But really! Racist dog. I’ve never heard anything like that in my life,” I interjected.

“I’m so sorry, Marie.” Bonnie again winced.

The boys came back and the first thing out of their mouth was and apology. Their consciences must have gotten the best of them, thank God, as they realized their rude blunder.

They started for their rooms and I pressed in, “How can a dog be racist, really?” 

“Well, he once attacked some black boys, so we didn’t want him to do the same to you.”  The older brother explained.

“Well,” attempting to reason with the middle schoolers, “Obviously, the  dog doesn’t understand bigotry based on color of skin. Nor does it grasp our country’s terrible history with African Americans. So, don’t say the dog is racist. Poor pup most likely was scared of the boys for some other reason. Racist Dog!!”

We prayed and went home. I tell my husband the dog story and he guesses that the parents must've put the idea into the kids' head. I suggest it was the cultural hot topic and swirling buzz words from news or their peers.

Three weeks pass before our schedules allow another prayer meeting. Bonnie's son is losing weight and eating healthily. Marie's son is more settled in his cushy job. The situation with my kids has improved greatly also. We share more requests, read a Psalm and before we pray Bonnie says,

"By the way, the guest dog died last Sunday. Marie is crushed. Bonnie and I not so much.  The mom put him down due to the dog's ailments from old age and the kids stayed home on President's Day to recover emotionally."

It was hard for us not to think that the racist dog got what was coming to him. But of course, we were joking. He was just old and absolutely never racist.

The Mona Lisa Tribe

A native of Deland, Florida, Tabitha Meeks organized her first quartet in elementary school and has been getting girls together to sing ever since.  In high school, she briefly started an all-female group. More recently, with the help of some smooth singing friends, she formed “The Mona Lisa Tribe.”

It happened after church one day, when future band member, Caroline Shrope asked Tabitha if she wanted to start a girl-band. Tabitha was all over it, and they invited a third player. Tabitha saw a kind of Mona Lisa look in Caroline, so she dubbed the band “The Mona Lisa Trio;” then changed “Trio” to “Tribe.” Good thing, because they are now a quartet (which includes Sarah Elkins and Erin Cascioli) and sometimes a sextet when they add the drummer and bassist—who happen to be male. They call John McGrath and John Wagner, the boys in the band, the “Man-a-Lisas.” 

MLT’s lush vocals sing a blend of classic and modern folk music. Sarah and Caroline alternate on percussion and mandolin; Erin, the fourth member, adds her velvety cello to the mix. In short, it’s the freshest sound in South Florida—a trendy acoustic combo of folk, pop, and a tinge of bluegrass dressed in Madewell fashion. They do a few covers, like “500 Miles” and “Wildflowers” but offer mostly some very well written originals. Playing since 2017, the band is excited to bring a folk music scene back to West Palm Beach and beyond.

Mona Lisa Tribe is one of those bands that people really can’t stereotype, which is testament to their innovative sound. While the band has a unique Americana vibe full of energizing rhythms, unexpected tempo changes, instrumental solos and clever lyrics, Tabitha cites influences from bands like, “The Staves,” “First Aid Kit,” “Joseph,” and “The Wailin’ Jennys.”  

And the members aren’t your typical hobbyist players. Three out of six of them have music degrees, resulting in tunes that are both musically solid and accessible.  As the primary songwriter, Tabitha says, “We try to take our songwriting seriously, but also make sure it’s fun and feels good.  The combination of trained musicians and non-music graduates makes a good dynamic. I usually bring a song I’ve started and let the team work their magic. We’re having a lot of fun and are becoming each other’s best friends.” There’s nothing like the camaraderie that musicians share. The bond runs deep and the connection long lasting. 

Mona Lisa Tribe has been featured on NPR’s Sunday afternoon “Folk and Acoustic Hour.” I asked Tabitha to explain the experience. “It was a bit nerve-wracking. We went to the NPR Miami offices, met briefly with the host of the show and then set up to play.” Everything was live radio. Yup, a bit unnerving, to say the least in this pre-recorded, edited, vocally enhanced audio age. But of course, they did great and reached a large audience. You can see the entire NPR show at https://youtu.be/fAX2Rzi2hHQ. 

One might wonder if the female band genre inherently holds a feminist agenda. While they don’t fly a girl-power flag from the stage, the band is eager to see more women take the lead in music. Rather than settling as token background singers, Mona Lisa Tribe hopes to encourage other young girls to step up front-and-center, by demonstrating that women can be musical directors, arrangers, lead vocalists and instrumentalists. “It’s important that younger girls see women doing what they love with excellence. I hope we can help break the stereotype that women are second class musicians. I would love to see the music-playing field more equalized—a place where gender is not a consideration—only good artists are.”

When I asked Tabitha what plans are in store for the band, she said they hope to tour in 2019, play major festivals, and maybe head to Nashville for a time. “The band has gone farther and grown faster than anticipated. It really has surpassed our expectations,” she says.

You can hear their original single on ITunes, Google play Music and Spotify, with two new releases on the way, as well as an album. Freshly minted t-shirts are their latest offering and are sold at their concerts. You can hear the band play at “Elizabeth Ave Station,” “Respectables,” “E.R. Bradley’s,” and “Voltaire.” But their favorite venue so far was in Jacksonville at the “Blue Jay Listening Room.” “We all said that show felt like we’d reached another level. The audience was so engaged,” says Tabitha. 

Here’s their schedule of upcoming performances: September 8 - Bumble fest; Sept. 9 - Matthew Brewing Co.; Sept. 19 - Voltaire; and Sept. 29 - Hullabaloo. And in October ;

Oct 5th Subculture Aleeyway, WPB

Oct 10 - Ladies' Night Voltaire - 9-12am

Oct 20 - WPB Green Market  9-1

Oct 20 ER Bradley - 6-9pm

Mona Lisa Tribe is sure to become your favorite Instagram feed. Like them on Facebook.com/monalisatribe and visit their website at monalisatribe.com  for more information.  Enjoy these links to their videos and songs.

 https://open.spotify.com/artist/59c6s4aOPZuzKun2aaAOXC

https://youtu.be/oY8VeB8S8C4

https://youtu.be/OrlAmYtCkYw

https://youtu.be/MX53DsNeesc

https://youtu.be/s2e1BW-okao

Why I Can't Shake the Kate Spade News

I don't know why I'm obsessed--in almost an unhealthy way--about the news of designer Kate Spade's sad and sudden death. I didn't follow her on social media, didn't know her age or family status and I never owned a purse of hers.  Nor do I remember her rise to fashion fame.

I do know, when I entered the mall through Nordstrom and walked passed her tailored handbags with her name all in lower case letters, was that I really wanted one. Coach and MK and Yves St. Laurent were familiar. But, Kate Spade, not so much. Only one person in my circles owned the diminutive bag.

I imagined her a young, chic designer who lived on Madison or Fifth Avenue. Turns out it was Park Avenue. Of course! 

With every mall visit, I'd saunter by the simple bright bags with a longing gaze and the clear realization that, unless I found one on Poshmart or at World Thrift, I could never call the stylish clutch my own. I would leisurely pass with a longing gaze until my neck hurt from looking backwards.  My brother bought one or two for his wife. Lucky sister-in-law, I envied.

What I didn't realize was how much I epitomized this unknown designer as the pinnacle of success. Nor that I'd begun to idolized her. Her business savvy, her dreams fulfilled. Her trio-of-a-family: a self-assured husband-business partner and a daughter with the middle name of Beatrix.

Photo credit: Akira Yamada

To me, Ms. Spade's life was Audrey Hepburn, Jackie Kennedy and Beatrix Potter and Coco Chanel all in one package. Just being married to a man who wore faded jeans with well-made blazers and good shoes would do it for me.

When I heard the news of her suicide, I was dumbfounded; mystified that someone with so much could feel so empty. Yes, there is talk of her depression and mental health issues and marital struggles. But to have arrived, so to speak, at the not-so-old age of 55 and to have strung her self up with a red Hermes scarf surrounded by Andy Warhol art, custom furniture, a breathtaking New York City view, and a world of fashion ventures to pursue, appeared unthinkable. Money would answer most of my problems. My brain sort of short-circuited to see someone dispose of everything I've ever desired.

Then two days later, cuisine and travel icon, Anthony Bourdain does the same. He was my husband's age, birthdays two weeks apart. Admired by many for his wit, earthiness, writing, again, I can't fathom the degree of desperation that made him just stop living. He had "the life," I thought. I mean, really, all that fascinating travel and exotic tasting.

Both celebrities possessed what I dream about while cleaning my toilets, teaching unruly third-graders, and shopping at Costco. What? Their lives didn't bring the 'it' I chase?  'It' will leave my handbag only half-full?

The obvious radiates in blinking neon lights. All those things, fashion, beauty, creative fulfillment, travel, delicious food were meant to be enjoyed, but not worshiped. They are meant to be enjoyed with the Savior by our side. Inside.

Conversations with neighbors reason out. "I think it's the anti-depressants that put people over the edge. They're no good and too easily dispensed," said one friend who has taken them and knows from personal experience.

My husband said this morning as we talked in the kitchen, trying to understand why these two people who had it all, ended it all. "All I know is that in my deepest gut (while he pressed his hand on my stomach), when I am in right relationship with Jesus, I'm satiated.  It's like sunshine on your face and a breeze in your hair. It's like the dancing flowers sunning themselves as they reach upward. That's how we are with Him."

Without Him, all the beauty and pleasure in this world is nothing.  Can I learn this? Could I live this? Or will I keep seeking the same stuff instead of the stuff of his Kingdom? Kindness, gentleness, love, righteousness.  

"Happy are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled."

If I'm going to dream or pine or pick an obsession, unhealthy or otherwise, it better be Him, and nothing else.

A Month of Love and Presidents

Poetry is one of the most romantic ways of expressing love, and many other sentiments as well. For being the shortest-month-of the year, February packs a lot into it's 28 days.
And it's all worth celebrating, pondering, and even debating. After all, not all chocolates in the Valentine box are palatable...

I found a wonderful poem by  Countee Cullen in Caroline Kennedy's The Best-Loved Poems of Jaqueline Kennedy-Onassis  that combines brotherly love and Black History.

                                           Tableau

photo credit letterpile.com

Locked arm in arm they cross the way,

    The black boy and the white,

The golden splendor of the day,

    The sable pride of night.

From lowered blinds the dark folk stare,

   And here the fair folk talk,

Indignant that these two should dare

   In unison to walk.

Oblivious to look and word

   They pass, and see no wonder

That lightning brilliant as a sword

   Should blaze the path of thunder

And another by Lanston Hughs, born 1902 and a pioneer of Jazz Poetry:

Merry Go-Round

Where is the Jim Crow section

On this merry-go-round, 

Mister, cause I want to ride?

Down South where I come from

White and colored

Can't sit side by side.

Down South on the train

There's a Jim Crow car

On the bus we're put in the back--

But there ain't no back 

To a merry-go-round!

Where's the horse

For a kid that's black?

 Each of these two poets deserve more print the the above. Pick up their books and you'll be enriched.

 Yes, February is the month of love, presidents, and Black history.  May we spend each of the 28 days and beyond, honoring from the heart, all three.