Enough is enough. Let's get this thing going.

I've been procrastinating long enough.

Coming up with excuses for not doing what I firmly set out to do some time ago: share what I think are all the really cool things I've found over the years at various rummage sales, barn sales, estate sales, thrift stores, etc., mostly here in Arizona and back in Wisconsin.

At least I think they're cool.

And I've staunchly defended this belief for over two decades to friends, family and especially my husband and children who believe I have a sickness.

They're probably right. 

Even after bestowing and selling things on a semi-regular basis, I have no wall or shelf space left because I can't seem to walk away from something that moves me - some painting, or carving, or quilt, or what-not which calls to my subconscious, "I have a story to tell." - whether that story is social, cultural, political, historical, personal...

I was using just this argument for the umpteenth time with my husband, Kurt, about a recent purchase - a portrait of a couple done by a contemporary Moab artist, who, I come to find, has been living in a tent in the Utah canyons for decades. I brought the piece home a few days back and lacking wall space, placed it on the floor by his bedside.

Apparently the only strange faces he wants to wake to each morning are the dogs. 

However, I adore my colorful, charcoal couple and was arguing that their faces were full of a thousand stories, when it struck me. Literally lifting me off my feet with excitement. Maybe what was missing was fiction. Stories influenced by a scene, a face, a thought stirred by the things I've brought home over the years. I felt insanely inspired and excited that day.

But as the next rose, so did my doubts, insecurities and reasons for further procrastination.

Damn it, Anne, make a decision! What is this blog of yours going to be?

Finally, after coffee and toast, a conversation with my mom about an inspiring female artist, as well as a quick scan of the nearly 800 images (and counting) I've taken for the blog - I've decided that like most everything, finding balance is the key.

So guess what?

I'm going to do both. I've decided that if a piece offers a particular history, I'll tell it. If it doesn't, I'll make it up. Meaning, I'll see what kind of short story it inspires in me.

You might even get both fiction and non-

Who knows. 

I don't.

But I'm looking forward to finding out. 

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southwestern landscape, signed W. Muscato

(The following and first piece was chosen for no other reason than it was the first image downloaded, and that's exactly how I'm going to proceed.)

The Harvest

Grateful for the shadow of the ancient rocks and the outstretched branches of the old Mulberry tree, the old woman wiped her forehead dripping with sweat from beneath her wide-brimmed hat, taking several gulps of water from the canteen slung over her humped shoulder.

She was tired but satisfied.

Happy to have made it up the old canyon trail on her own.

Not totally useless yet.

Throwing an old sheet, heavily stained with harvests past, around the base of the tree long ago forgotten by anyone but herself, Claire reached out for the lowest branches, thick with glossy leaves and berries in various stages of ripeness, and shook.

Letting go a shower of small, dark berries, falling on her hat's brim, into her undergarments down her loose cotton dress, and onto the mottled sheet below.

Just the length of a fingernail and almost black, the ripest mulberries never look like much - hairy and beggarly - but Claire knows their secret, their dark purple sweetness which seasonally summon infinitely sweet memories, like the reward of each berry.

Brief,  but exquisite.

Gathering up the shabby, old sheet, the captured berries tumble into a sugary, purple pile which Claire gently guides into her basket. Its bottom discolored with a lifetime of bounty. Its handle worked and worn, mended and re-mended.

"Kind of like me," she laughs at her grandchildren when they tease her about its well-loved but dilapidated state.

Spreading the sheet beneath branches still undisturbed by her purpose and standing on tip toes to reach the fullest limb she can rattle, her aching fingers wrap around the smooth, grey bark of the Mulberry branch. 

Using her whole body, she jiggles and laughs as she hangs from the limb and watches the tree relinquish its fruit and listens as the berries softly hit the sheet below like a marshmallow rain shower.

It feels good to stretch her twisted limbs and even after all the mulberries ready to drop, had, she continued to hang from the small, strong branch, gently swinging backward and forward until her fingers cry for release and she's forced to plant her crooked form back on the highland floor.

Gathering her harvest and repeating the process all the way around the tree, releasing downpour after downpour of the dark, delicious berries, she stops only when her basket is overflowing with what will soon be highly anticipated preserves. 

Just as she's done each spring since she was a child.

Some years yielding more than others.

Some offering none at all.

This year's rains have provided a juicy, purple bounty; making Claire even more grateful that she shrugged off the aches, the funk and the gloom and made the journey up the canyon once more.

And maybe never more.

Sitting on the mottled sheet in the welcome shade of the old tree, she relishes one, tiny berry at a time, squeezing its frugal juice in between her tongue and the top of her mouth, feeling its tiny seeds and tender stem in her teeth, marveling at its sweet, tiny perfection. 

The Prickly Pears crowding the canyon walls below her are afire with flashy, fleeting, red blossoms and round, young fruits for another season. 

Another harvest.

Perhaps another hand.

"Today," she smiles as she stares down the trail toward home, "my basket is full."