On a Saturday in early December bright with new snow, what better thing to do than get together with friends, acquaintances, and a few utter strangers (friends of friends) at a low-key arts and shopping event? Hilary has been putting such gatherings together with a few friends for several years, and we hosted another one a few days ago featuring Hilary’s pottery, a friend’s dazzling runners, placemats, and other weavings, and even a few of my old books—plus a few newly printed miniature paperbacks on display as “stocking stuffers.”
Everything was priced to sell, and besides, any gift takes on added luster when it’s accompanied by the remark: “A friend of mine made this.” Not to mention the fact that the artworks themselves were first-rate. But matters of commerce aside, it’s fun to participate in an event where people come and go at odd intervals, bring a few friends, run into people they haven’t seen in a while or have perhaps heard about but have never met. They might eat a cookie or drink a cup or cider, watch the nuthatches and woodpeckers at the feeder out on the deck, or strike up a conversation at random as they examine the wares.
We sent out a few email invitations and so did our weaver-friend, Dave Taylor. We also invited a few young friends who live on our street. Three generations of Dave’s family showed up, two of Hilary’s brothers, a cousin or two, and numerous friends stretching back more than half a century.
In the course of the day I found myself discussing the bison kill site at Itasca State Park, the Danish String Quartet, the comparative civic health of Chaska and Chanhassen, grizzly bear attacks at Glacier National Park, the novels of Thomas Bernhard, cross-country skiing at Wirth Park, the films of Mel Brooks (I somehow forgot to mention Young Frankenstein!), the merits of E-bikes, and sundry other things that escape me now. One friend was recovering from cataract surgery, another from knee surgery,
Once the guests had
gone home, as we sat around trying the sort the proceeds, Dave told me that he’d
spoken at length with six people who owned looms, including one friend of ours who
used to design them! (I’d forgotten that.) He’d sold nearly all of his pieces
and gotten two commissions. It had been a good day. "Now I can buy more yarn."
Hilary has also “done well.” But I’m pretty sure they would both agree that the most precious result was the memory of friends and acquaintances chattering musically, getting to know one another on a bright December afternoon.
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