Dr. Seuss had it right: “… and the people you’ll meet”

Photo by Carolyn Hoggard

 

 

When this blog post hits Facebook , I will have returned home from a week in the Ozarks. I go there each April and each October, and bask in the beauty of the place called Little Switzerland. I also attend a 3-day poetry retreat on either end of both weeks’ stay.

Before I left home, however, I determined to take flowers from the yard with me since they would likely be gone by the time I returned. I found the largest container on the place, filled it with water, picked a variety of flora and added stems to the water. Now, how to get it to stay upright for four hours of driving? I spied an old stewpot, placed the vase in the center, laid rolled-up dishtowels about halfway up, then dropped hands full of marbles and colored stones until the vase was solidly wedged in the pot. Voila!

At dinner the day I arrived, I met a needle felter from Chicago. She was ending a two-week residency at Dairy Hollow. Have any of you done needle felting? Do any of you know a person who is a needle felter? I never heard of the phrase/ artistic process. [Google "needle felter": you might be amazed, too.]

This 68-year-old woman who flew into Highfill in North Arkansas, then took Fuzzy’s taxi to Eureka Springs and Dairy Hollow, was surprised to be accepted at, she said, a “writer’s colony.” But the director assured her there were other types of creative activities that happened there. Fiber artists, composers, culinary pursuits—all are welcome.

After dinner, we “toured” each other’s suites, and I was lucky enough to actually see what in the world she meant by different types of “felting.” Not the craft store felt—“that’s crap,” she said. The basic material is actual sheep wool, carded but not spun. It comes in long ropes the size of the old-timey coils some women used to roll their long hair on and fasten around their heads.

After that, we made plans to hike up the rough gravel path to the Crescent Hotel the next morning with the aid of our hiking sticks. I wanted to buy a newspaper. We did, talking all the time except when we needed to get our breaths back.

 She was leaving at one p. m. At her door after our hike, she said, “Wait a minute,” and soon brought out a little plastic bag of six, needle-felted toy balls for cats. “Throw them in the air, then watch the cats scamper after them.” I want to show them to someone before I give them to Greye and Bibbs.

Since I had brought some copies of A Journey of Choice with me, I said, “Would you like one of my books?” Of course, she said yes (what else could she say?). “I’ll read it on the plane back to O’Hare.” Thus, a one-day acquaintance ended happily. We have already been in touch.

Another bit of serendipity about our meeting: My second book, Her Face in the Glass, has a woman from Chicago who moves to the Ozarks to pursue her yen for writing.

Is that not a coincidence?