Author: Minnie Lamberth

For an idea to come to fruition, one thing it needs is a font. So I asked my advertising friend and colleague, Slats Slaton, if he wouldn’t mind helping me with typography for The Nail’s Pace Collection. He didn’t, and a short time later, he delivered. Now I’ve got myself a font. Big day.

This is one step among a series of steps in the evolution of an idea.

Speaking of… Slats is the one who told me about the phrase, “This is not it, but…” It seems that when he and another colleague discussed creative ideas, they’d get a germ of a thought and give it voice with the caveat, “This is not it, but…”

When you say this phrase, it’s as if you’re saying, “I’m thinking of this direction. I know it’s not finessed, so don’t knock it down with reality-based concerns. Just see where we could go with it.” It’s a little like you’re opening a package while cautioning people not to focus on the packing tape and bubble wrap until you can get down to the essence of what’s inside.

I started the “This is not it, but” process on The Nail’s Pace Collection last February – which was when I first tried to glue found objects on a canvas in a way that conveyed an inspirational message. In that first attempt, I used the objects themselves to spell out the message. Interesting, but limiting in what could be said. This was not quite it. Back to the gluing board.

One day I had an idea to glue roadway rocks and dirt on a canvas with some found objects placed like a cross. I called it Cross Road, but I didn’t know how anyone would know that I called it Cross Road.

Later, I figured out how to put words with the piece so that people would know that I called it Cross Road.

I forget the exact order of my ideas – there were other attempts in the middle – but then one day I had an idea for a phrase that I wanted to use – “I may have a screw loose, but God loves me just as I am.” I had picked up a lot of screws along curbs and sidewalks, and I wanted to see if I could create a stick figure made out of screws.

Yes I could. By then, this was July. My experiment was on a black background. But I didn’t stop there. I wanted to see what I could do to make the piece better overall.

That’s when I came to the idea about adding other elements, including scripture underneath, a heart in the middle and acrylic paint.

Then once I had the idea about that heart in the middle, I went back to the original message, a verse from Ephesians 5, “Walk in the Way of Love,” now with different elements.

Then in September, I got to thinking about something else. What if I made the heart purple? I made a note about that one day in church.

Someone wounded in battle in the military would receive a purple heart, right? Well, in a sense, we’re all wounded. Life is tough. There are many battles, and we all have scars. So I was wondering what if I made the heart purple.

I could certainly try that, but if I did, what I would I say? What would the message be? I had to think through that a good bit, and I finally landed on the verse from Isaiah 53: “By his wounds, we are healed.”

So that’s pretty much the Nail’s Pace. Walk in the way of love. When you come to a cross road, take it. Even when you’re on that road, there’s a lot you won’t be able to figure out or fix, or tighten screws that are loose. You can’t heal your heart on your own. You get there by trusting in those nail-scarred hands that call to you and care for you.

Be not afraid, y’all.

“The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet,” Frederick Buechner says. That’s one of the oft-quoted quotes of this theologian and author of 36 books, and it’s a conclusion he draws in reflections about vocation:

“Like ‘duty,’ ‘law,’ ‘religion,’ the word ‘vocation’ has a dull ring to it, but in terms of what it means, it is really not dull at all. Vocare, to call, of course, and a person’s vocation is a person’s calling. It is the work that they are called to in this world, the thing that they are summoned to spend their life doing,” he writes.

My Aunt Minnie helped me find my vocation, though it was only in her passing that she began that process. She died 20 years ago last night. She was 87 years old and alone inside the home on Hillabee Road in Alex City where my father’s family set up housekeeping in the early 20^th century. I do not know the cause of Aunt Minnie’s death – not precisely. She was small and frail, with crippling arthritis in hands and feet, and had had some health issues, including surgery to repair an aneurysm of the heart.

But there was something else going on that night that makes me wonder about the stress she might have been feeling. Hurricane Opal, a category 4 hurricane, had made landfall in the Florida panhandle and was making its treacherous way up through Alabama. I remember listening to the frightening sounds of the storm outside my own door in Montgomery. I could not sleep; I could only listen. I had no electricity, but I did have a battery-powered radio. So I listened to the storm and the news of the storm. At midnight, all became calm. I turned off the radio and went to sleep.

The next morning, I checked on everyone I could think of – my closest relations and friends. My mother was in Texas at the time visiting my sister Jane and her family; they weren’t even involved in the storm. So all were safe, all was well. But that night I got a call from Aunt Betty.

You can’t imagine what a sudden transition this call was for me. At the time, I had not grown into a person who received and distributed family information. My mother was the priest of family information; all requests, petitions and concerns went through her, and she passed them along to me. That was how things happened. If my mother was out of town, the next logical person would be my sister Anne, the eldest. The problem was, Aunt Betty couldn’t remember Anne’s last name to call “information” (an Old School term for Google). So it was left to me and my memorable name. I received the call from Aunt Betty with the news that Aunt Minnie had died during the night. I then had to call my mother and tell the others.

I’ve told this story before. With Aunt Minnie’s passing, as the bearer of her name, I received a portion of her cash. The summary is that her gift enabled me to have the courage to leave a position in state government, where I did not belong, to begin the process of transitioning to self-employment as a marketing copywriter. Also, I found the time and conviction to write the novel that would become Life with Strings Attached.

On October 1, I marked my 15^th anniversary as an independent writer, my vocation. I also made another transition. I became operator of half a booth at Amy’s Antique and Flea Mall (849 N. Eastern Blvd.) where I am selling pieces in “The Nail’s Pace Collection.” I placed a good number there last Friday, and I’ll be adding more and more. Who knows? Given all the pennies and nickels I pick up, I may create a new series called “The Coin Collection.”

I’m also exploring a new set of pieces. I’ve figured out a bit about transferring photos to canvas, overpainting with oil, and then adding words with gel pen. That took a lot of figuring, but as a copywriter, I should tell you, figuring out the words I wanted to say took just as much time as anything else. I finally settled on something I most needed to hear, and that’s how I came to this “Walk in peace” piece.

Anyway, back to Aunt Minnie. At her funeral that Saturday, the preacher of her church, Dr. Hallmark at First Baptist, talked about what it was like to visit Aunt Minnie in her home. He described her hands, and how they were misshapen from arthritis. He said he never shook her hand, thinking that might cause pain or injury. Instead, he held out his hand to her, palm up, and she put her hand in his, and they shook gently that way.

The preacher said he thought that’s probably how Jesus did it. When He came to take Aunt Minnie home, He held out His hand, and she placed hers in His, and He took her to be with Him.

For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you. Isaiah 41:13 (NIV)

By profession, I am a copywriter. I help my clients communicate their messages to their audiences – online or offline.

I’ve been at this work long enough that the media formats for my words-for-hire have changed. For example, these days, instead of writing a brochure, I’m more likely to write website content. Instead of writing a letter, I’m more likely to write a blog. Instead of a TV spot, an online video script. And so forth.

Sometimes messages change formats. That’s sort of what I’ve done with my found-objects, mixed-media projects. While, by day, I primarily write messages for others, I have this other area of diversification where I can create a few messages of my own.

The Big Idea

I love my work as a copywriter, and I was wondering how to make this work stronger and better, less prone to fluctuations in workload, more consistent in its growth. I was puzzling over these issues on my morning walks, with a continuing prayer, “Help me figure out what to do.”

In the middle of these prayers – “Help me figure out what to do” – sometimes I would notice a nail or a screw along the curb, and I’d think, “I better pick that up. It could hurt someone’s tire.” So I’d pick it up, then I’d get back to, “Help me figure out what to do.”

One day someone suggested that there was a story in the discards I picked up, so I started looking for that story. In this search, I came to the idea that I could create art with these pieces. The term “mixed media” did not come to me instinctively, by the way. I don’t remember the history of my search terms (Google does, ask them). But I was many searches into my research when I realized that’s what I’m talking about: mixed media.

Once I found that term, there were many more pieces of the puzzle to unravel – size, materials, tone, process… and glue. I have learned a lot about glue.

One day, for example, I discovered I do not like the odor of Mod Podge, the craft adhesive I use in every piece. It seemed to me that an area of diversification would be quite limited if I found the smells repellent. As I was puzzling over this issue, I remembered: I have a backyard. It’s right past that backdoor. So now I take the Mod Podge out there when needed, affix and apply, and come back inside. The odor is more tolerable in the greater air exchange of the great outdoors.

One day I came to the conclusion: I do not like glue on my hands. I don’t like pulling that glue off my fingers when I’m done with my pieces. Then I remembered: when I work in the church kitchen on Wednesday evenings, I wear gloves. So I went by the U.S. Foods store on Atlanta Highway and bought a box of kitchen gloves. Now I can wear gloves while working with glue – at least until I get frustrated with trying to place a piece “just so.” Then I yank off the gloves in frustration. Even then I spend less time with glue on my hands. And the gloves are reusable. This is not about containing the spread of glue germs, after all. It’s about reducing time spent with glue on my hands.

The pieces themselves present a set of problems to be solved. They begin like so: I wonder if I can…? What if I try…? How do I…? And I work to resolve those issues. My mind stays engaged, on the search, and an engaged and searching mind is a good thing. At some point, one of those questions was, “How do I package the pieces?” So I found out about plastic bags, figured out the ties – but you know what the hardest part of this was? Punching those dang holes in those plastic bags. Tough work, but I got through it.

The Other Part of the Idea

I am a storyteller by inclination. I am creating a way that art can tell stories, and I can tell stories about art. That’s a good fit for an area of diversification. Even so, I am a copywriter by profession.

Almost all of my work as a copywriter has come from a personal connection – through either someone I know or someone who knows someone I know. Having worked in an advertising and public relations community, I do connect with people who need copywriters within my professional circles – and sometimes outside those circles.

That’s what came to me on those problem-solving morning walks. Art connects. Stories connect. Connections grow opportunity. So on each piece, I put a label on the back that says: “The Nail’s Pace Collection. Hand-Crafted, Found-Objects Art Created by Minnie Lamberth. Get the rest of the story at http://minnielamberth.com.”

Soon I noticed something different on my morning walks. Now as I was walking and praying “Help me figure out what to do,” whenever I saw a nail or screw, I would sense that God was with me and showing me another piece of the puzzle. That’s a good feeling.

Now I’ve come to Series II of the Nail’s Pace Collection. I like these pieces. Hope you will too.

Find out what I’ve got available and how to order here: http://minnielamberth.com/artprojects

Series I is better for small easels, given their unequal weight. With Series II, I figured out how to add a rope-type ribbon for hanging. Believe me, that took a while – increasing my knowledge of glue and eliminating my momentary curiosity about thumb tacks. Ouch. Take a look here: http://minnielamberth.com/artprojects

Until next time,

Minnie

P.S. I figured out how to ship. I’m not sure how well “A Screw Loose” will travel. But I’m pretty sure the others can make the journey. Get the details here: http://minnielamberth.com/artprojects

I’ve liked all the stories I’ve written about people I met at church. Of course I did. It’s not like I’d tell you I liked 73% of them so you’d have to guess which ones fell below my standard. Nope. I liked all of them.

My most recent “most favorite story” was about Jane Ferguson. This one distinguished itself in a way where, unlike any of the others, her story kept crossing over into my own territory. For example, when she told me that she had grown up in Webster’s Chapel – a small community between Anniston and Gadsden – I told her I had been in that area only a couple of weeks before. In Wellington.

“That’s where we got our mail,” Jane said.

That’s about all there is to Wellington, actually – a post office. No businesses, not even a gas station. Just some houses, that post office, and a small church with a cemetery. That’s what my sisters and I had gone to see – Union United Methodist Church and the cemetery where our great-great-grandparents, our great-grandmother and some other greats are buried.

After Jane and Barney married, they moved to Alexander City, where I grew up. Their daughters were born in Old Russell Hospital, the same hospital where I was born. This facility that I do not remember was called “Old Russell Hospital” because that was the hospital before the next Russell Hospital was built and the old one was torn down. I remember my mother telling me, “You were born in Old Russell Hospital,” as if that were the first line of my biography. But I know now our stories are begun by others before we arrive. And their people become our people.

My arrival was between the DOBs for Jane’s daughters’ – Renee, me, Rhonda. And one other connection. Barney is buried in Alabama Heritage cemetery in Montgomery, just a short distance from my mother’s final resting place. Also, my mother’s name was Jane, as is one of my sister’s. In any case, once you start creative pursuits, you can hardly help but connect them to everything else.

Stories. Art. Family. Rocks. And about all of that…

My mother was born in old St. Margaret’s hospital in Montgomery on July 8, 1923, though she only lived in this area for a short time. Her parents, Roscoe and Inez, had grown up in Fort Payne, but they were here because Roscoe was the superintendent for a sand and gravel operation near Millbrook. This was an enterprise owned by my great grandfather; it was a supplier to work he did in bridge construction.

I had asked Mother about these early days, and she happened to mention a story — just something that came to mind. She said that Roscoe and Inez had a car. Two girls from Fort Payne were attending the school now known as Huntingdon, my alma mater, and on Sunday afternoons, Roscoe and Inez would take them for a drive. Mother was a baby, and one of the girls was holding her during one of these drives when, at an intersection, Roscoe ran into another vehicle. The girl must have gotten jostled because she threw Mother out of the car.

Oh, the 1920s. What a fun time that would have been.

In any case, Mother must have seen the horror unfold on my face as I heard this story. I was probably picturing a scene sort of like in Back to the Future, where the family in the photograph starts to disappear because something happened in the past, and they don’t exist anymore.

“She didn’t mean to,” Mother explained. “It was just from the reaction. It didn’t hurt anybody.”

Okay then. As long as she didn’t mean to throw my mother out of the car. Because otherwise I was about to be upset.

The sand and gravel operation was later sold as part of a business settlement, and my mother’s family moved to Ensley outside Birmingham for a time, and then on to Fort Payne. Roscoe became a dairy farmer on Valley Head Road, on land that belonged to Inez’s family.

I did not meet these grandparents. They died in 1957. That February Inez had a heart attack during surgery for a brain tumor in a Chattanooga hospital. Later that year, Roscoe had a sawmill accident in Fort Payne. In August, he collapsed while recuperating at our home in Alex City.

When you’re not born yet and you hear these stories as past facts, you wouldn’t necessarily recognize the enormous emotional impact these events might have had. I just knew something disappeared before I was here. And I knew that a lot of family pieces in the house were explained as “That came from Momma.” “That came from Daddy.” This is why Chapter 3 of Life with Strings Attached, my novel, begins:

“There were always people who were missing, whose absence left a hole or set certain things into motion, and you wonder in what way the world may have changed, or stayed the same, had that absence never occurred. In our house, the evidence of people unseen was kept in the living room, which meant a different set of operating rules. I could enter if I was looking for Pumpkin or walking through to the front door, but I was not to dawdle or bump into anything. A denied object becomes an irresistible force, to be sure.”

The reason I was thinking about these things lately is because someone asked about the rocks I use in my art projects. I explained that they come from the debris that settles at the curbs — they’re the overflow from the concrete and asphalt that create the curbs and roads. As I considered this source, I realized that they are just sort of like the things you’d be working with if you were, say, running a sand and gravel operation. As my grandfather had done when my mother was born.

That’s another nice thing about creative pursuits. You can not only bring new life to discarded things, but also connect it to the lives that came before you.

The day my sisters and I drove to Wellington, our first stop was in Fort Payne. Driving through town and beyond — where Gault Avenue becomes Old Valley Head Road — we saw the home where our grandparents had lived. My sisters recognized the barn where Roscoe had kept his cows. I did not. But we stopped for a photo at a little road perpendicular to the home, and I stepped from the car.

After taking a couple of pictures, I noticed a metal washer underneath the driver’s door. I reached down to pick it up. “Look what I found,” I said as I returned to the car.

“Even in Fort Payne,” one sister said.

“Yes, even here.”

When you start making connections to stories, families and art, you see things in a new way any old place you go.

 

I was telling one of my Sunday preschool colleagues about my new art projects, showing some pictures and explaining, “I wanted to see if I could glue rocks on a canvas.”

She said, “If you’re a person who says, ‘I wanted to see if I could glue rocks on a canvas,’ you’re definitely in the right department.”

Maybe so. I do learn a lot from this class of 4-year-olds.

This past Sunday, our director was out, and I was the substitute “runner of the show.” I was telling one of the kids – he’s probably 5 by now – that we would be talking about Joshua crossing a river. He said, “I thought Joshua had the wall.”

I said the Bible is a big book and there are several stories about Joshua. This was one where he crossed a river on dry land, that God separated the waters and enabled him to do that. The little boy said, “I thought that was Moses.” I explained that God did the same thing for Joshua, separated the river. And just as I walked to another activity area, I heard him say to himself, “It was a sea.”

In any case, whoever it was that wanted people to be able to learn the Bible on their own – Gutenberg? Martin Luther? – they’ll be glad to know the program is working.

This week, we are in fact talking about Joshua and the wall. Walls are significant – building up the ones that are broken down, removing the ones that shouldn’t be in place. I think about things like that. One part of scripture I read on my own for a number of years goes like this:

“The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail. Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins and will raise up the age-old foundations; you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls, Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.” Isaiah 58:11-12 (NIV)

Oh, to be a repairer of broken walls. The first time I tried that – the first project I created out of broken pieces – was my novel, Life with Strings Attached. Published in 2005 and written over the nine years before that, the topic is a southern childhood in a southern neighborhood; it’s set in 1972 with an undercurrent of social changes taking place. My soundbite was this: “There are two themes. One is a girl and her dog because my narrator, a seven-year-old in a small southern town, is trying to keep a watchful eye on her beagle Pumpkin. Two is a girl and her God because at the same time she’s sensing an early call to God’s service and is wondering how to express it.”

Among the issues I faced in the pursuit of this novel – before I could write about a southern childhood and a southern family, I had to repair something pretty significant: the memory of my actual father. He let us down. I knew I wouldn’t enjoy writing about those experiences, so I reinvented him. I wrote about what he would have been like had he not let us down. In other words, I reframed my memories into a creation that I liked better, and my novel became a sweet and funny story that I enjoyed sharing.

I should mention, however, there were a couple of things about my father that have been useful. He was a good storyteller, for example, and his sisters were funny. Annie, Minnie and Lena. I think it was when Lena died that a family friend told me how funny they were. This friend had lived in Alex City next door to Annie for a time, and she said that when Lena came home from Dallas and Minnie came home from Tallahassee, and she saw that they were at Annie’s duplex apartment, she said, “I could not get over there fast enough. It was like a carnival, they were so funny. And they played off of each other.”

I can imagine. For my sisters and me, our mother was our best audience; there’s never been a better one for us. We could play off of each other and make her laugh. Good memories.

But continuing this other point – the image on my website header is of a rock wall at Callaway Gardens. My mother did a watercolor of that rock wall, and I have it now. It’s in my office. Also, I was at Callaway Gardens with growing-up friends the weekend she passed away. That’s just one of the ways I connect to rocks, to walls and to broken pieces.

When Daddy died at the age of 79, a man I did not know came up to me and said, “Minnie, your daddy was the first man I met in first grade.” Mr. Cox explained that Daddy pointed to his forehead and said, “Rooster.” Then he pointed to his nose and said, “Pullet.” Then he pointed to his chin and said, “Chicken.” Then Daddy pointed back to his nose and asked, “What’s that?”

“Well,” Mr. Cox said, “I said ‘pullet’ and your daddy pulled my nose.”

That was a delightful story, a gift in fact, and I wrote him a note later thanking him for telling me.

In any case, here’s what I’m getting to: Daddy’s name was Walls. That was his mother’s maiden name. He was a broken man, true, but memories don’t have to stay there. New things can always come from broken things. Like Isaiah said:

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.” Isaiah 43:18-19 (NIV)

Southerners are gracious, especially at funerals. When Daddy died and people came to say goodbye, they didn’t talk about how he had disappointed them. They talked about his humor, his charm. They remembered who he’d been when he was young. They mourned and were comforted by the memory of the boy they’d known.

I guess the point here is: we often look at others as the adults they are, or were, sometimes as the ones who’ve disappointed us. At whatever age, however, I think God looks at us as children, with the chance for redemption. Where we mess up and see no hope, He still sees hope and a chance for new life.

Oh, to find new life in broken things. That’d be nice. In the meantime, I’ll pick up discards and debris and, as I’m able, turn those pieces into something a little sweeter and funnier.

On my stroll through a Montgomery neighborhood this morning, I spotted a large nail at the edge of someone’s driveway. I reached down to pick it up, as I often do, and continued my purposeful walk even as my thoughts went in their own meandering direction. They landed, in fact, on one of the worst decisions I ever made in my life.

I’ll connect these two dots in a moment.

Sometime in the 1990s, I had a series of tire mishaps — one flat after another, or so it seemed. During that period, the threat of flat tires began to hang over my head, like one of those arbitrary fears that not everyone understands unless you’ve been there yourself. So wherever I was, in a parking lot or on a sidewalk or at a curb, if I saw a tire damager, I stooped down and picked it up.

This habit developed out of reaction to my own circumstances, and I was once grabbing the tire damagers from the ground with feelings of annoyance and dismay. These days, I do so with gladness and joy.

Seriously.

To find an old nail in my path, and to be able to remove it from someone else’s path, is my freelance ministry. This morning, I not only found the large nail, but also a tiny nail near someone else’s home. Well, those nails are not going to be bothering anyone’s tires now, I assure you.

I think of these tire damagers as “dangers, toils and snares,” like the old hymn says. They cause trouble. And they’re everywhere. Not every day but many days, whether I walk the same path or turn a different way, I find nails, screws, bolts, shards …

So I like to say that I walk at a “nail’s pace.” Purposeful, intentional but not too fast that I don’t stop for what I see.

But back to that other point. When I picked up the second nail at the edge of someone’s driveway, I started thinking about one of the worst decisions I ever made.

More than 20 years ago, I had moved into a new house. I’d been only a few days in this location, and a number of people were coming by to see the place. I didn’t yet have a peephole in my door, which becomes relevant to the story. Also, I had been working hard unpacking and setting up, and I was tired. So one night, sometime in the 11 p.m. hour, I was sound asleep when the doorbell rang.

I rose, confused, thinking that some friends who had come by earlier had come back for some reason. I said to the door, “Who is it?” No answer. The bell rang again. I said again, “Who is it?” No answer. Frustrated and groggy, I opened the door to find out once and for all exactly who wasn’t answering my “Who is it?”

I was not expecting to see the man I saw. You can picture for yourself someone you wouldn’t want to see if you are a woman living alone, and it is the dark of night. This particular man seemed drunk, confused, and as if he had been unable to find a restroom before taking care of his business. He asked, “Can you tell me how to get to Union Springs?”

I said, “No,” and closed the door that I had opened. Safe and sound. No further incident. End of story. Except that I often think of that experience as one of the dangers, toils and snares I came through without repercussions. Someone or something else could have been on the other side, and for a pile of reasons — fatigue, confusion, frustration, etiquette — I opened a door I shouldn’t have opened.

Lesson learned? If only.

Between the doors I opened and the ones opened for me, I’ve got a whole assortment of dangers, toils and snares I’m grateful, relieved or embarrassed to have stepped around, through or over. Sometimes I came through unscathed, but not always. Life is tough, but you probably already know that.

In any case, this is the background story for one of the messages in a new series of art projects —  art projects that incorporate the tire damagers collected for years and years, along with lessons learned along the way. And I call it …

The Nail’s Pace Collection

These 4″x4″ art pieces have elements of metal pieces found on morning walks, lunch stops and routine shopping, placed around a relevant message. Like this one I created: “Thro’ many dangers, toils and snares, I’ve already come. How about y’all?”

Or this other thought, derived from Exodus 14:13, “Be not afraid, y’all. The Lord will get us out of this mess. Just watch and see.”

Or this idea: “When You Come to a Crossroad, Take It.” And there are a couple of others too.

The art pieces are small, 4”x4”, suitable for small easels. They’re hand-crafted, each one of them. Like snowflakes, no two are exactly alike. And they have a story behind them.

I’ll be creating this series until I run out of raw materials. Also, I should mention — at this hour, I’m only opening the door to people in my community (readers of stories and posts and other people of good will). So let me know if you’re interested. You can get the details here: http://minnielamberth.com/the-nails-pace-collection.

Until next time,

Minnie

P.S. One of the lines I incorporated came out during sorrowful times for the church. Yet people see it, and smile. Learn more here: http://minnielamberth.com/the-nails-pace-collection.