Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 14

The Scoop on Italy

“What???” most people said when I told them I was going to Italy in three weeks with seven women I didn’t know. “Is this another one of your impulsive actions that could end in disaster?”

“Yeah, kinda,” I answered uncertainly. “But it could also be amazing, you know.”

AND IT WAS!

Strange at times, but invigorating 
Disorienting at times, yet fascinating
So out of my element.

The first thing I noticed upon landing in Italy and spending the day in Florene was that Italian women are chic. You will never see them running around in sweat pants with baseball caps covering their hair. They wear their long hair twisted up in all kinds of causal but elegant ways and don scarfs artfully draped around their slim bodies. (I’m determined to grow my hair longer and learn all those intricate hair and scarf draping steps too.) 

Many of the young women have their arms adorned with large tattoos – of roses, vines, and unicorns. (I’m still undecided about a tattoo, though I got a glowing recommendation of a tattoo artist in Florence.)

Our first group get-together is in Florence. Here is a picture of our group, after finishing a light meal and a yoga class on a rooftop in Florence overlooking the city and the Duomo – a grand cathedral which took over 142 years to build. 

Later that evening we arrived at our villa.

The following morning, we had our first of seven silent breakfasts . It was a time to enjoy our cheese, fruit, flaky croissants and coffee. 
It was a time to center ourselves and set a personal intention for the 
day (Mine usually revolved around something pretty unoriginal, but difficult to execute nevertheless: fully living in the moment). And it was a time to gaze at the verdant, rolling hills of Tuscany.

Meals for Italians are an occasion to enjoy – both the dishes and the company. Dining often includes seven course meals, boisterous chatting and numerous glasses of wine spanning three hours. Unlike the USA, the portions are much smaller and Italians walk away from their meal pleasantly satiated, not stuffed to the brim. (I’m determined to mimic their dining style. No more setting down way too much food on the table at dinnertime, then mindlessly shoveling it in while watching MSNBC.)

For a few meals, the seven of us shopped together at a local market – concentrating on buying what was fresh and in season. Once back at the villa’s country kitchen, we sliced, diced, chopped and cut – artfully arranging the dishes while setting the table. We laughed. We exchanged suggestions on meal prep. We told funny stories about entertaining mishaps. We drank wine. We laughed some more.  How different from the way I entertain in Tampa – driving myself crazy cooking everything and setting up everything before my guests arrive. By the time they do, I’m simply too stressed and exhausted to fully enjoy them. (I’m going to entertain differently from now on – asking my guests to come slice and dice with me – as part of the evening’s magic.)

Barre exercises, gentle yoga or a sharing circle followed breakfast and then we showered and dressed for the day. Here’s our sharing circle:

During our stay, we visited San Gimignano, Greve, Montepulciano,and Siena. Plus, we had two free days at our villa in Panzano to veg out, enjoy the pool or book a side trip.  

Not all went perfectly:
Not easy to keep up with my companions who were all barre method aficionados who exercise regularly. Often I was out of breath and my muscles were screaming for relief.
My make-up mirror broke upon arrival at the villa, assuring that plenty of rogue chin hairs would be adorning my face.  
My watch band broke.  
My mascara magically disappeared. 
My arthritic knee hurt intermittently after walking for hours on cobblestones in the small towns of Tuscany – but glasses of red wine did wonders for my recuperative powers. 
I was consistently light headed and urged to stay hydrated. However, I wasn’t wild about some of the restrooms we stumbled upon, so I kept my intake to a minimum. Stupid. 

I often felt like Curious George diving into every experience – always eager to explore the unknown and appreciate each experience – even when it could end in a messy situation like getting caught in a downpour without a jacket in one of the town’s piazzas.

This column is dedicated to my new friends who traveled in Italy with me, ranging in age from 20 to 75:
Helena- wise beyond her years 
Esther – adorably assertive
Kendra – (our honorary traveling companion) – a bubble of vivaciousness
Beth – rock solidly beautiful within and without 
Jenny – our fearless, irrepressible leader
Veronica- who has the best laugh ever
Selina – an old soul

Here’s a picture of us at a winery, enjoying dining outside with one of the owners (far left).

May we all Keep Tasting the Wine and Preserving our Blooms,

Iris Ruth Pastor

Busy In Tuscany

Busy in Tuscany “smelling the Iris’s”.

Drinking lots of red wine and eating gelato every single day.

That’s it for now.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor 

I’m Going to Italy

Literally, as you read this, I will be in the process of boarding a plane – a big plane in New York City at JFK – for a six-hour flight to Paris, then a two-hour layover at Charles
DE Gaulle airport and then on to Florence, Italy.

Never having been before, I asked a lot of people for advice.

Here is some of it:

A good thing to bring is your one-of-a-kind jean jackets that you sell – it’ll keep you warm and who knows? You might even make a few sales. 

For G-d sakes, don’t wear your ridiculous unitards – you can’t be getting totally undressed every time you have to pee.

Don’t forget your passport. And compression socks for the plane.

Eat gelato.

Buy a sling for your feet to use during the flight.

Pack lightly and you won’t regret it, but carry with you a small tooth brush and tooth paste.

Must take this book along to read: Nobody Will Tell You This But Me by Bess Kalb. 

You must have a fanny pack.

You must have an adapter.

Forgot the baseball caps and yoga pants – Italian ladies look like ladies – dress accordingly for once.

Keep a journal.

Bring a scarf, rain jacket, bathing suit and pashmina.

No unitards, please. Geez.

Buy tubes to pack your clothes in.

Remember to pack lotion for your hands, an eye mask (I have a great one for you), a neck pillow and sunscreen. And fuzzy socks for the plane.

Wear skorts for travel.

Forget the heels – too many cobblestones.

Check out the high and low temperatures of each place you’re going and dress appropriately.

Wear a cross body purse and a fanny pack. 

Get your Euros early from your bank.

You didn’t need another Covid vax four days before your trip – that was stupid – of course you got a reaction.

Pack a light wrap for evening.  

Eat gelato.

Lose those ridiculous unitards you insist on wearing – public bathroom are really small in Europe – you can’t be undressing!

Wear your gym shoes on the plane because they take up a lot of room in your suitcase.

Order risotto – even better than pasta. And, oy, yes, gelato!

Apply the 5-4-3-2-1 rule – 5 tops, 4 slacks, 3 dresses, 2 purses 1 sweater.

Try wild boar, it’s delicious.

Sleep is important. Take Ambien on the plane.

Xanax works wonders if you want to avoid jet lag. Take it right after dinner on the way to Europe. Works even better with a glass of wine.

Have to get in your 40 winks on the flight? Take Z Quill.

If you wanna sleep, take Melatonin.

Eat gelato – whether you want to sleep or not.

Leave your AmEx card at home – Master and Visa card only and let them know you will be in Europe.

Get an international phone plan for the time you will be traveling. 

Practice up on haggling. Practice some more.

Carry your Cincinnati Reds backpack – you’ll be a magnet for everyone from the State of Ohio traveling in Italy.

Please, please leave your Cincinnati Reds backpack at home – honestly, you look like an idiot carrying it.

Buy leather goods. Lots of leather goods.

Ship home the fabulous balsamic vinegar, oils jams and condiments. 

Check out Rick Steve’s guide books – his free audio tours are fabulous.

Watch “Tea with Mussolini” – on DVD – before you leave.

Eat Gelato.

Sip the luscious wines and eat the amazing food while you are there – forget the scale for once.

I realize as I get ready for my first foray to Italy, that I am so fortunate to have so many people – friends and relatives – looking out for my welfare. I no longer have my mom, but in her place, I have a friend (Lynne Billing) who not only coordinated my wardrobe, but packed for me and Harry’s girlfriend Jen, who brought over a whole care package of stuff. And Margie who spoke with me in detail for over an hour about my upcoming foray. Plus, I received a constant stream of words of advice from my little sister!

I am truly blessed.

So thankful for real friends and relatives who always help me to Keep Preserving My Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

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I hated my mother, especially when I was 13 and she adamantly refused to allow me to shave my hairy legs. 

I hated my mother even more when she restricted the numbers of sleepovers I could attend per month – fearing I would get “dissipated.”

My friends thought that was hysterical. In 5th grade, I was 5 foot tall and weighed 110 pounds – hardly an ideal candidate for “Queen of the Dissipated.”

I hated my mother when MY problem became HER PROBLEM and I ended up comforting her. That made me crazy.

For instance, when, due to our parents’ conflicts with each other, my first husband and I did not have a traditional wedding. My mother’s laments were totally self-focused on the disappointment of not getting to give HER DAUGHTER a wedding. She never took into account how I felt. When other young couples brought out their deluxe wedding albums and we had none to show but one picture taken in the rabbi’s study, I felt sharp stings of regret over not experiencing a full-blown wedding celebration. My mother never considered that I had my own angst over a joy we both had been denied. 

I hated her as she aged and became more frail, less logical (she was never that logical to begin with) more needy, more stubborn and more demanding. 

At the same time, I loved her with endless intensity. 

She was what I measured all my plans, dreams, opinions and observations around. 

She was the sun in my planet, radiating strong warmth and serving as my guiding post – my North Star. 

If my mom thought it was the right decision, then it was.

If my mom thought it was okay, then it was. 

My mother was just 20 years old when she had me and by  the age of 24, she was a mother of two young kids. 

Very typically, for she was a 1950’s housewife, she never went to college and much of her self-worth was predicated on the cleanliness of our home, the quality of the dinners she cooked and served nightly and promptly at 6:30pm and how presentable her three children “appeared” to the world. She put gargantuan effort into these endeavors.

And yet, she also sought out alternate orbits for herself in spite of the restraining times.

She bravely developed her own persona, writing letters to the editor on causes she championed.  

In her finished basement, she painted – floral pictures she lovingly gave as gifts.

She assembled elaborate table decorations and created clever handmade invitations for friends and family occasions. Even when money was tight, my father refused to let my mother get paid for her artistic efforts. It seemed to him a direct and negative reflection on his ability to support his family – a dinosaur reaction in today’s world for sure. 

She put together wild and swirling collages she presented proudly to her children. 

This particular “beauty” was comprised of nuts, bolts and screws. In 1968, It rested under our living room couch – brought out and hung-up just a few hours before my mother would arrive from Ohio for a visit. Neither my husband nor I could take a steady diet of seeing it in the main showplace of our apartment. And yet, not only did it outlive my first marriage, but I carefully kept it all these years. And now it hangs in my arts and crafts room in a prominent place.

In her later years – I’m not proud to say – I sometimes longed to be free from her emotional and physical demands – to live out my 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s without always taking into account her desires and wishes and health crises.

“When will it be MY TIME?” I often wondered? 

And then she died. Quickly. Unexpectedly. On her 91st birthday. Five years ago. 

And now I’m free: 
Of her feedback that was sometimes too honest
Of her loneliness that she couldn’t seem to overcome
Of her lack of hearing that she couldn’t come to terms with

And now I’m free: 
To live my own version of my life 
To dream my own dreams
To chart my own course 

l hope that my mom has found peace and purpose – wherever she is.

And I wish I could stop missing her so intensely every single day.

Happy Mother’s Day. 
And if you still have one, hug her hard. 

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor 

I love newspapers

I love newspapers, especially the physical ones – I get excited each time a new edition arrives on my driveway or in my mail box.

I get busy reading it. First, I peruse the paper highlighting what’s relevant to ME  and then I proceed to enthusiastically rip out article after article I deem enlightening, informative or downright entertaining. Worth saving. And then, without fail, I dump the pile into my newspaper cache – a deep drawer in my antique mahogany breakfront in my very formal dining room.

The rest of the paper? I either plop in the recycle bin, use to wrap gifts or haul to my favorite thrift store where they use discarded newspaper for wrapping breakable items.

I think of my every-growing pile of articles that I save as “readable heirlooms.” I pull them out in moments of clarity, where I actually experience the possibility for realistic rejuvenation. 

My latest find is a huge four page spread garnered from the Wall Street Journal. Title: Supergoop!

Supergoop! is not related to Gynweth Paltrow’s brand Goop. Supergoop!, a broad-spectrum, SPF-50, is an environmentally friendly sunscreen that goes on easily, doesn’t leave a white residue, has a pleasant scent and is available in four sizes, including an 18 ounce jug.

Weeks ago, I read an article pointing out that people should approach their social activities encounters in the same way they approach their business obligations: with attention and care. It all seemed so exhausting – another thing to mindfully add to my ever-burgeoning To-Do list.

The spread on Supergoop! seamlessly raised my awareness of just how easy this intention could be carried out in real time. Supergoop!’s humongous ad spread listed 365 ways to embrace your power – your solar powered freedom – in easy to execute and simple to do ways. 

Here’s the suggestions that jumped out to me:
Read this newspaper outside
Stop for a coffee
Sit down in the sunshine with your coffee 
Drive around with the windows open
Happy hour with friends at a sidewalk cafe or rooftop
Chill by yourself
Watch the sunset 
Watch the sunrise 
Start a collection
Stretch
Make a PB&J 
Learn a new recipe
Call an old friend
Play Wordle in the park
Practice random acts of kindness
Put your phone away and enjoy the park
Play hopscotch
Bake a pie and share with a neighbor
Scatter wild flower seeds in your back yard
Smile at someone
Hug yourself
Dance like no one is watching
Wash your car
Shop the farmers market 
Buy yourself flowers
Sing out loud at the top of your lungs
Host a barbecue
Play wiffle ball
Build it
Listen to your favorite album from when you were 13
Have breakfast for dinner
Have dessert for breakfast
Go to a state you’ve never been to
Wear sunscreen

And, of course,
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor 

I Take Back Everything I Said Last Week

I take back everything I said last week – I would rather be hauling water up three flights of stairs than dealing with the following:

I tore my hair out.
It didn’t help.

I cried hot, thick tears.
They only scorched my cheeks.

I screamed as loud as I could,
scaring my dog half-to-death.

Nothing helped.

First-world problem, I know.
Locked out of my main G mail account
since a week ago Thursday.

Impossible to talk to a live person.

My stomach is churning.
My heart beat is rapid.
Tightness in my chest makes me wiggle.
Spots appearing in my vision causes panic.
I’m sure my blood pressure,
normally “normal” is sky high.
But, of course, I can’t find my blood pressure machine
Either.

Password issues.
Verification issues.
Back up email is no longer accessible.

Am I the only person
In the world who has this problem?
Hard to believe.

I can no longer talk to a recorded voice
without sobbing.
And my husband’s plaintive pleas
to calm down
only infuriates me more.

Google support: a joke
Apple tech and Verizon tech: “not their problem.”
Geek squad: a dead end
My last hope: 
A tech guy working not far from my house
assures me he will get it done tomorrow

“Bring your computer and phone in,” he says expansively and calmly.
“I’ll take a look.
We’ll solve it.”
$190 later, he can’t fix it either.

Hopefully, by next week,
I will have found my blood pressure machine,
grown back some of the hair I pulled out,
And actually have access to my main G mail account.

And, hopefully, by next week,
I will be calm enough to pen a newsletter of substance,  
rather than one filled with 
irritation, aggravation and frustration.

Hopefully.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

PS: Late last night, miraculously,  I got access to my gmail account in my computer and my adored nephew, Mark,  then fixed the rest of the problems. Thank goodness for smart, whiz-bang young people who are relatives. 

Then and now – do we REALLY have it better?

One morning both my E mails on my phone and my E mails on my computer wouldn’t update.

I couldn’t find our theatre tickets – lost in my phone or did I actually misplace the physical tickets in one of my three desks in my house?

My nails were a mess and in need of a manicure.

And the lawn guy had mowed down one of my freshly popped-up bulbs in the garden.

Geez.

Clearly I wasn’t coping with the little daily annoyances of life in the year 2023.

Poor me.

I decided to calm down by reading my new book  97 Orchard – An Edible History of Five Immigrant Families in One New York Tenement by Jane Ziegelman.

I learned that due to the sharp rise in immigration, tenements began appearing in New York City around the 1820’s. Since there was an absence of indoor plumbing, tenement housewives “were like human freight elevators, hauling groceries, coal, firewood and children up and down endless flights of stairs.”

Housewives carried heavy, sloshing tubs of water needed for bathing, cooking and house cleaning. The tubs soaked both the stairs and the women carrying them – not pleasant in bone-chilling February.

Due to lack of space and short on resources and money, the women of the house cooked as simply and efficiently as they could. That could mean going out and shopping a few times a day – haggling over prices and quantities. And amidst the plethora of push carts, cramped tenements, and dirty teeming streets, these displaced housewives preserved their culinary traditions while also improvising and adapting to the conditions at hand.

And then there is the subject of gefilte fish – you know, the kind immersed in jelly and vacuum-packed in a glass container? That simply didn’t exist back then. Instead, immigrant housewives routinely slit the backbone of the fish, scraped off the flesh, chopped it finely into a paste, put it back in the fish, and sewed it shut. And then cooked it. Being a delicacy in Jewish households for the Sabbath, the dish “was a perfect measure of the Jewish housewife’s culinary skill.”

Omg! I would have failed miserably. My main skill is charcuterie boards – involving little more than choosing delicacies from the vast array of foods at one of the major grocery chains near my house and then artfully displaying them on my wooden board.

Immigrants were most impressed with two foods in particular: bananas and sandwiches. “Many tried to gnaw through the skin” on the banana and as far as the American sandwich, immigrants were busy “marveling over the sweetness of American white bread.” Most of us with any degree of sophistication know enough to peel a banana and wouldn’t serve white bread as a delicacy under any circumstances. Perhaps it’s time to re-think Wonder Bread. 

The ubiquitous push carts were both a reminder of the old country and an antidote to hunger for the immigrant. Push carts contained a wide assortment of familiar foods at the lowest possible prices and in the quantities the tenement housewife desired – a single egg – a cup of pot cheese. This was a practical matter: there was nowhere to store provisions or to keep food from spoiling – so shopping meal by meal was the most practical action.

I have a refrigerator and freezer in my kitchen and an extra one in the garage – and yet, I’m always complaining that I have to walk an extra thirty steps into the garage to check to see if I am running low on mozzarella cheese and Coffee Mate. 

Geez. One of my biggest frustrations? No room on my kitchen counter for my Instapot. Poor me.  Every time I want to use it I have to schlep to my butler pantry seven steps away and bend down to get it. Imagine that! 

And my paper goods? In an outside storage area because I ran out of room in my pantry due to an overabundance of appliances I never use and have long forgotten how to operate. 

Apartment doors were hardly closed. Stairways were playgrounds. Rooftops were communal bedrooms. Front stoops were open living rooms. 

What a far cry from today with our Ring doorbells to keep out intruders, our fenced years, our sprinkler systems, our alarmed equipped homes and sealed up windows.

We now can go days without talking to a live person. Uber Eats fulfills our need for food. Remote work is routine. We live in sweats and t shirts that rarely need much care.

We get highly irritated with our long list of passwords, never- ending tech directions and not talking to a live person when we need to solve a problem with our credit cards.

We are isolated. 

We live far from family. 

We rely on the Internet for advice.

The immigrants lived jumbled together where privacy was craved and quiet non-existent. 

We’ve got the privacy and the quiet, but we are certainly missing community, connection and camaraderie.

Ah the good old days! 

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor  

Dear Andrea

Dear Andrea,                                 

On April 15, 2023, it will be forty-eight years since I’ve seen you. That last fateful morning, you went bowling with our weekly league; I went into surgery. Ironically, I survived the surgery – you didn’t survive the day.

No one knows exactly what happened. Was your radio too loud? Were your reflexes too slow? It was obvious from the TV news coverage which showed your smashed-up car that you never had much of a chance against the train.

You were a young wife. And you were a young mother. And you had your whole life ahead of you. Or so we thought.

Forty-eight years…your husband remarried, divorced, remarried and now passed away – lying beside you in the cemetery. Your babies are grown…one is an attornty and one a city councilman. And they now have children of their own. You would have been such a delightful grandma. 

Time has dimmed your memory and eased the pain, but I never sail nonchalantly over railroad crossings nor hear your name without a surge of longing as I recall your generous heart and your fun-loving spirit and the crazy adventures we had together with our four little boys seat-belted in the big back seat of your car.

Forty-eight years…I watched your parents dance together in perfect rhythm at your youngest son’s wedding many years after you left us. And, though your brother’s wife told me your mom had Alzheimer’s, I didn’t believe her. When she saw my face after all those years and I mentioned your name, her smile went all the way up to her eyes. 

Time has dimmed your memory and eased the pain, but I never see good friends lunching and laughing without a twinge. And I always think of all the years of living you’ve missed when I mark your birthday by buying myself a single, long-stemmed red rose.

And although, to me, dear Andrea, you’ll always be twenty-seven –  vivacious, naive and irrepressible – with your big beautiful blue eyes and your unruly head of chestnut colored hair – it may surprise you to know your best friend is now close to 76 – and a little wiser and a tad more subdued.

I’ve learned many things in the years since I’ve lost you, Andrea, but the two things that seem to always hover close are:
         Don’t tangle with trains.
         And best friends are forever.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

I never thought it could happen, but it did.

Studies show that as people age they get happier.


How can this be?

We have more health-related issues: 
     High blood pressure
     Faulty hips and knees begging for replacement
     Frozen shoulders 
     Arthritic fingers
     Acid reflux
     Lower back pain 

We spend more time in doctor offices. We get colonoscopies regularly. Stress tests. Blood drawn. And we routinely find ourselves at rehab centers readjusting our parts that are wearing out.

And we worry that Pickle-ball – that ubiquitous sport boomers are embracing in droves – will result in our permanent physical demise, though we play it anyway.

We have more walkers, crutches and raised commodes in our garages than strollers and bicycles – unless they are our grandkids.

On top of that, friends are becoming ill at an alarming rate and we are more apt to have our social lives increasingly revolve around visits to convalescing friends in assisted living centers. And funerals? Too plentiful to mention.

And, yet, I must admit, at age 75, I’m happier than I have been in a long time.

Part of it is because as I’m entering the winter of my years, I’m more conscious of not letting the minor irritants of life get to me.

And when it comes to family relations, I have finally arrived at the stage I’ve been working toward for the last two decades: calmness and a non-judgmental attitude (most of the time).

I’m going with the flow.
I’m not being overly sensitive. 
And I’m not looking for things to be overly sensitive about.
I’m not dwelling on those things that have aggravated me in the past and ruminating incessantly about those same issues in the present.

As a result, I am less needy around my kids – more relaxed and easy-going – which leads to them extending to me more opportunities to be with them.

In the magazine, Scientific American, I learn that as people grow older, they tend to experience what psychologists call the age-related positivity effect—an increasing focus on positive events and happy feelings.

I am at the forefront of the boomer generation and as we give up our sports cars, boats, and family homes where we raised our children, we are squarely confronted with life’s fragility. As Bill Clinton once remarked, “We have more yesterdays behind us than tomorrows ahead of us.”

Yet, psychologists have found that when individuals of any age are reminded of life’s fragility, their priorities shift toward emotional goals such as feeling happy and seeking meaningful activities.

Seniors with still healthy minds accentuate the positive. Studies have discovered that when seniors are shown pictures depicting negative situations (funerals, plane crashes, angry faces), they look away faster than younger people do. On the other hand, seniors fix their gaze longer on images of good stuff: little babies, smiling kids, cute kittens, perky dogs and happy faces. And just like their attention, the memory of older people is skewed toward the positive.

Studies find that the happiness seen in older people reflects a change over time, rather than a consistently sunny personality from the get-go. This suggests that we tend to  remember things as being more positive than they actually have  been! 

A few years back, I was having a conversation with one of my sons about how his father and I not only had an amiable divorce, but a very enjoyable relationship post-divorce while our children were young.

My son looked at me strangely and remarked that he didn’t quite remember it as rosy as I did.

On most mornings, I don’t have anywhere I HAVE to be. I can wake up leisurely, do my stretching routine and meet the day on my own terms – doing what I want to do. 

The fact that I glory in new experiences and fill my days with innovative and challenging projects is my choice. I’m welcoming my increased curiosity and my passion to broaden my horizons without a debilitating fear of failure. 



Age-related changes in the brain may contribute to the positivity effect in old age. Or it could just be that an awareness of our own mortality leads us to concentrate more and more on regulating emotions to maximize good feelings in the time that we have left. 

Whatever the reason for my new-found sense of ease and optimism, I never thought it could happen, but it did.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom, 

Iris Ruth Pastor 

How The Deland Arts & Crafts Fair Ultimately Played Out

It was a day of newness – beginning with driving a cargo van 125 miles to my destination, which was The Annual Deland Outdoor Art Festival, where I had secured a booth to sell my creations for the very first time.

I knew going into this virgin endeavor that I’d never recoup my costs:
Canopy
Wagon
Shabby chic mirror 
Area rug
Labels
Bags 
Signs
1950’s style candy to give away 
Booth rental
Hotel
Cargo van rental
Gas 
Food
Etc.
Etc.
Etc.

But I was hoping it wasn’t a total financial disaster.

And I was nervous about mundane things like changing lanes and backing up in the U-Haul cargo van I had rented the morning before the fair. But the thrill of being so high up after routinely driving my Mini around my neighborhood was truly thrilling. And before we took off, my good buddy Naomi – who accompanied me on my adventure – assured me she’d help me navigate.

This was THE weekend I had been both looking forward to and having acute anxiety attacks about.

What can I say?

We arrive safely in Deland.
We have help setting up the booth and canopy, as promised.
We are thrilled with the location. The nice lady in charge of the placement – the one I barraged with questions almost daily – gave me a strategically placed booth out of the kindness of her heart.

The upside?
It was the first booth at the entrance.
The downside? 
The entire back quarter of the booth was not usable because it sloped precipitously downward.
And people entering the fair were focused on the path ahead, NOT the first couple of booths.

(Later that afternoon, when we tactfully pointed out the deficiencies of the booth space, she generously allowed us to utilize the grassy pad area on the side of our booth to compensate for the lost inner booth space.)

At 2 pm on a sweltering Friday afternoon, we start unloading the cargo van and setting up the booth’s interior. 

Just as darkness descends, my friend Naomi and I finally finish placing the last jean jackets on the racks and filling the tables with my knitted creations and the walls with my Fannie dolls.

What can I say?

From the get-go Saturday morning, the heat was intense and the crowds kinda sparse. Those who paused at all by my booth remarked about the vitality and freshness of my booth and then strolled on by.

And the comments that day of time were kinda discouraging: 
Love your purses, but I only carry the most non-descript purses so no one will grab them 
Oh how cute – I have to learn how to do this.

Two scoops of caramel praline homemade ice cream for lunch at 1 pm and the intermittent breeze that floated over my sweat-soaked body revived my flagging spirits. I turned on my charm, utilized my selling skills and sales began trickling in.

As the day wore on, I began making friends with the vendors too.

There was born again and immensely friendly Bill in the booth right across from mine who in a long winded discourse assured me he was a very tolerant person of other peoples’ religious views. He then went on to assure me that because I was Jewish, I needed to be saved or I’d be going south of the soil we were standing on. 

Then there was Bobbie – a retired Home Depot store manager – who spent an hour helping me hang my jean jackets in a more eye-catching way – resulting in an increase in sales immediately.

And then there was the kid from Miami selling t-shirts who gave me a detailed tutorial on what upcoming art fairs would be the best fit for my wares within easy commuting distance to Tampa.

The people who did stop were overwhelmingly friendly and everyone got a laugh from my Fannie doll sporting the following message on her skirt: Girl, unless he wears a diaper, you can’t change him.

But no one bought one.

Another highlight: Familiar Faces. 
A friend from elementary school stopped by with her older sister and we laughed about the time I got marshmallows in her hair and her older sister threatened to beat me up in the girls’ washroom. (She never carried out her threat.)

And then another friend from high school stopped by and my handyman from Tampa too. (Utilized his skills too.)

Five o’clock couldn’t come soon enough. When it finally did, Naomi and I gratefully headed for the hotel to check in, shower off the sweat and grime, and soak up the air conditioning after enduring the unrelenting 91-degree heat. 

We went to Tony’s New York Pizza – both the food and the waitress were delightful. Immediately, I began to feel more positive about the whole crafts/booth experience. 

My good mood lasted until Sunday morning when I got the hotel bill for our two-night stay and realized I was lucky if my sales covered the cost of just that invoice.

Sunday sales were lighter.
And disappointing. 
And though I had help loading up the van and dismantling the booth as dusk descended, it still took us three hours of constant bending and lifting to complete the task. 

I was close to tears – physically depleted.

To make matters worse, we had trouble finding our way home – resulting in us adding 75 minutes to our trip. 

Things didn’t improve until we stopped at Burger King for dinner since my friend had a coupon. Barreling down the highway minutes later, I turned my attention to driving and eating my Big Whopper with cheese, French Fries and a jumbo non-Diet Coke – all of which suddenly revived my flagging spirits and my faulty perceptions.

Five days later, my buoyant mood still prevails.
Why?
I met terrifically kind people
I got out of my comfort zone 
My friend who accompanied me gave me helpful hints galore 
And I realized that all that I invested in can be used again 

When I got home, my sales actually totaled more than I thought and were in line with what Naomi had found out from other vendors close by my booth.

I’m grateful: 
I had the time to pursue my adventure 
I had caring friends and family to cheer me on 
I had the means to put a booth together 

What can I say?
Yes,
I’m exhausted.
Yes,
I wish my sales had been better.
But I had a vision 
and I made it happen.

Hoping you will try new things too – and if you need a cargo van driver, I’m your girl!

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor