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INDEX AUTHENTIC 10 | Chopped Wood 14 | The Little Things 18 | Tyler Axtell 112 | An Essay STORY 24 | Snow Had Fallen 28 | Grant Puckett 32 | A Grandmother’s Garden 34 | Our Land 38 | Resurrection 40 | Within These Reflections 42 | The Road Often Travelled

CREATE 48 | Carol Woodard 52 | Reach For The Surf GATHER 56 | In Like A Lion Quiche 58 | Sweet Paul Eat & Make 60 | Marmie’s Blueberry Muffins 62 | New England Clam Chowder 64 | Thank God For Lemons


JOURNEY 68 | The Community 70 | It Was Magnificent 72 | Wanderlust 76 | Wales On Film LIVE 82 | Ranchlands 88 | Ashley Sullivan 90 | Woolrich Inc. 96 | Rikki Snyder 100 | Tradlands

… Jen O’Connor Presents… Artful Décor and Accessories for the Handmade Life and Home paintings, jewelry, folk art, textiles, soft-sculpture, heirloom toys, pottery art dolls, vintage items, luxury goods, books, paperies, fashion and more

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“And I stood arrow straight Unencumbered by the weight Of all these hustlers and their schemes I stood proud, I stood tall High above it all I still believed in my dreams” — Bob Seger





























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THE VETERAN: I want to start this issue by thanking all of those who have served our nation’s military forces. We

thank you for protecting our nation and securing the promise of a continued American story. | This photograph was taken by my mom, Darline Ashby, of her dad Walter “Buster” Wimpee. He is a WWII and Korean War veteran. | Photo taken near Scottsville, KY. Summer 2013.


FOLK FINDS 9 goods made with serious integrity and authenticity.










1 | White Crew Neck Tee. 2 | The Brown 30 Year Belt. 3 | The 20 Year Boot. 4 | Denim Crew Neck. 5 | USA Tee. 6 | Classic Tee. dyerandjenkins. com. 7 | Jackson. 8 | Utility Stool. 9 | Cabin Spray.


VISIONS OF WANDER FOLK readers share images from their wandering.

TOP TO BOTTOM | LEFT TO RIGHT: 1) Andrew Ohman 2) Ginny Corbett 3) Ashley Post 4) Max Lowe 5) Sasha McMahon 6) Steve Naylor 7) Jeff Benegar 8) Melissa Barrett 9) Steven Holmes

You are capable of more than you know. Choose a goal that seems right for you and strive to be the best, however hard the path. Aim high. Behave honorably. Prepare to be alone at times, and to endure failure. Persist! The world needs all you can give.





here’s something magical about a sunrise in the Santa Cruz mountains. It leaps through the trees and pours over you like warm water, making you feel clean and new. As we chopped wood for the evening’s fire, the morning sun refreshed our bones and unsalted our skin. A wave of calm washed over us and we knew it would be a great day filled with good friends and even better coffee.



TRAVIS WEAVER WORK HARD, LIVE WELL. WHO IS TRAVIS WEAVER? I’m a small-town country guy from Zephyr, Texas. Currently I live in Houston with my Weimaraner, Dylilah, who is a complete handful. Growing up in rural Texas taught me a lot about respect, honesty, loyalty, and hard work. These are valuable traits that not a lot of folks have these days...this, of course, drives me crazy. When I’m not working, I prefer to spend my time pickin’ or doing anything that I possibly can outdoors.

marketed to, and sold to women, and made them ok for men as well. I didn’t necessarily invent anything, I just changed the way it was packaged and marketed, therefore changed the way it was perceived. Make no mistake, women are the target audience. After all, they’re the ones that shop more often. The best thing about the line is that it solves the age old question, “What do I get him?” If you can’t remember a name like Manready, then I officially give up. WHY THE NAME MANREADY MERCANTILE? The name was originally Manready, but we were always hiding the name on the labels because it was almost misleading for different reasons. About two months into the business, Roby and I decided to add the Mercantile as it added a heritage-type feel to the brand and it coincided with the labels and style that we were going for. All-in-all, the name turned out to be a winner and everybody was always talking about the line and where they saw the goods or read about us. The name solidified the brand and I think that’s what made it all click.

WHY DID YOU START MANREADY MERCANTILE? The crazy American Dream story started in late 2012, so it’s all really new to me. I met my neighbor and now business partner, Roby Fitzhenry, at the back of our apartment and we got to talking about what each other did for a living. He was a graphic designer and apparently I was a “maker.” After a few glasses of whiskey, we were business partners and the brand was born. The growth has been out of hand and it’s really taking some getting used to. I started the business with the idea that you can start something from nothing and make it these days. You don’t have to grow up wealthy, you just have to work smart and work hard. This company is proof.

WHY FOCUS ON MEN? The focus was on women. Women love to shop, but they don’t always know what to buy for their man, this makes it easy for them. I mean, every time it’s a holiday or a birthday, I get a call or text from my buddies’ wives or girlfriends, or boyfriends, and they all say the same thing. “What do I get him? If he wants something, he just goes and buys it.” Well I can guarantee you that I make products that he either

WHAT IS MANREADY MERCANTILE? It’s a unisex line of goods that are great for men. We created products that were typically only packaged,



never knew he needed or would want for that matter. To top it all off, we have goods that he can’t live whiskey soaked beef jerky. Who in the hell wouldn’t want that as a gift? WHAT INSPIRED YOU TO DO IT? I’m pretty hard-headed, so I always think I’m right. I hate working for others, so I was pretty much done with that. Earlier in 2012, I had created a product for men that had never been marketed to them. This particular product did take a significant amount of money, so I started talking with a group of investors. Needless to say they strung me along and got my hopes up, only to say no, and it was all because I had no sales. How could I have sales if I had no money to make the product? I refused to give up, so I started making candles on my stove in whiskey glasses from my pantry. I figured that I could make small batch products and grow it from my home in order to raise the money on my own to fund the initial project. After the candles, I just kept making interestingly packaged quality goods and didn’t care what anybody thought or said about it. I was done listening to others. This was my time. WHERE DO YOU PLAN ON GOING WITH IT? I don’t want everything, I just Want to be a memorable website for people wanting quality made goods. It’s going to be pretty hard to screw that up with a name like Oh, a storefront would be nice some day! One with a barista and a cafe that offers farm-to-table sandwiches. I may even have a place for men to pamper themselves with a straight-razor shave and a shoe-shine. Let’s just say that I have a few things up my sleeve... WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN MANREADY AND T.S. WEAVER & CO? Manready Mercantile is more of an apothecary line, mixed in with some home goods. T.S. Weaver & Co. is a dry goods line that focuses on custom made leather goods and unusual products that are oneoffs or deadstock. Some of the T.S. goods are really 24k gold axes on 33” hand painted hickory handles, for instance. There needed to be a dividing line between the type of products and ideas that were coming out and the other name was the only way to do it. WHY HANDMADE? WHY AMERICAN-MADE? I grew up with my grandparents due to my dad being in the military, among other things. My grandfather was born in 1911 and he only used goods that were built to last. He needed gear that he could depend on, trust, and respect. Just about everything that he had was made in the USA and made by hand or at

least in small batches. A lot of the goods that I make are somewhat inspired by him and I really think about the goods that I make because of him. People these days try to cut corners and leave out steps that I can assure you this company will never do. Yes, it may be a little more labor and a little more effort, but you know what, it’s all good...really good. When you see our goods on a shelf, the labels pop and the packaging is spot on. Best of all, you know what’s inside them is just about as good as it gets. Other businesses have big advertising budgets that they have to pay for which is why their products are expensive. We don’t have that added expense, so we put all our money into the goods themselves and leave out all the fluff. This way you truly get what you pay for. WHY SMALL BUSINESS? With a small business, we can make changes quicker and you get a personalized-type feeling when you buy the goods. You know who is making the goods, who’s designing the labels, who they’re collaborating with, and you can even come meet the makers at events like flea markets or “pop-ups.” We all know that when you deal with big businesses, you get lost in the crowd, rarely have people that truly care, and furthermore, you have no idea who you’re dealing with. Personally, I hate dealing with them and the trend is to support the smaller guys. My question would be, “Why not?” WHY YOU? If you want to support someone that gives back, takes personal pride into every product made, and responds right away when you call or email, then I’m your guy. I’m your guy if you have an issue, and I’m your guy when you need something shipped quickly even though I’m swamped and stressed out. Know this much, the look when your guy opens one of my goods is nothing compared to the look on my face when I see your order come though the site. Saying that it’s a privilege and an honor is an understatement. WHY DO MEN NEED YOU? Men deserve to look and feel their best and have something that’s well made. If I told you that my $14.00 bar of soap would make you want to conquer your day and kick some ass, would you buy it? Maybe. Probably. The choice is yours. Point is, I offer some crazy awesome stuff that you’ve probably never used or even thought of. If I don’t make it, then one of my other makers on my site does. Ether way, you can’t go wrong. Work hard, live well. —

TYLER AXTELL THE CREATOR OF BRADLEY MOUNTAIN SHARES HIS STORY I felt dirt and leaves between my toes as my feet sank into three years’ worth of caked pine needles. I was under attack and disaster boomed in every direction. Diving back behind the tree that resembled a giant slingshot, I screamed, “Jeremiah, DUCK! The Storm Troopers! They’re right above you!”

piece I remember those adventures I had as a kid, and days spent running through the pine needles crafting traps and honing my imagination. There is something so special about the simple mediums of leather and waxed canvas. They bring a certain heritage with them. Although the products we manufacture are new, the materials themselves have a nostalgic, reminiscent quality. I think it’s their unrelenting durability. You could take a brand new Biographer bag to the mountains and throw it down a ravine, then find it with new scratches and bruises. However, it wouldn’t be ruined in the slightest. The oils and wax that treat the surface will merely adopt these new entities into the fabric. The blemishes coating surface tell a story as if your father had handed the bag down to you from his adventures in Alaska.

That’s a typical scene from my summers as a preteen in Ventura. One of those summers I crafted my first trap using braided vines, a young birch tree (which I used as the fulcrum), and a large hacked off log for the counter-weight. A trap that effectively stopped Darth Vader many a time. Bradley Mountain’s work originates from two places: a love for adventure and a love for craft. As I work on the development of a new leather

This is what I love most about working with leather: it reminds you of adventure, and



inspires adventure even as it undergoes its own transformation. The work I do day-in and day-out is satisfying, but it never ends in the workshop. I get to be a part of many adventures because people have a bag or journal that they can trust. They come home and tell me stories, or send me photos. It doesn’t take long before I am itching to close up shop and take off on my own adventure, knowing I’ll return more inspired in the craft. Craft and Adventure are so intertwined for me. I recently made a travel pack specifically for a trip I was taking to Switzerland. In constructing the pack I had to think through exactly what I would be carrying with me and the most comfortable fit. I tailored it specifically for my adventure. I then tested it for durability and practicality during my long hikes in the Swiss Alps. After only a few days of use a man on a train between Interlaken and

Bern asked me where the bag was from. Before I could answer he said “that looks like it has a lot of stories”. I told him about my business and how I love to make durable goods that have a heritage feel to them. He was surprised that the bag was, in fact, new because it already looked worn in with long days of travel. At that point I had a choice: to end the conversation or to ask the man about his travels. This might seem like an incidental or simple concept, but I truly believe these moments of decision are what distinguish an Adventurer from a Sitter. A Sitter, in my mind is someone who has the potential to be living adventurously, but, for any number of reasons, is not. Adventure is not just about physically traveling to the unknown. I think that the underlying truth of all adventures is that it draws a boundary, a line in the sand. We get to choose whether to cross it. I think

but by telling our stories and sharing the inspiration. We want to be a group of craftsmen that can lovingly nudge others into a state of adventure.

that adventurous living can take place in locations other than mountains or the woods or overseas (although these adventures are highly encouraged). I believe it is a lifestyle choice, just as much as it is for someone who only purchases ethical, organic, handmade goods. So, too, the life of adventure can be chosen.

These are small gestures, but through them we strive to help some of the Sitters become Adventurers, while pushing ourselves to become truer Adventurers as well. I hope that the stories people make with our gear are imprinted on the fabric and leather fibers so that they can hand it down to their son or daughter and inspire their adventure.

I think fear is what stops most people from stepping over the boundary into the adventurous life. Asking a stranger about his life can be difficult when fear reminds you of past rejections. Whatever you are faced with, I believe that adventure comes with a sort of sacrifice.

Tyler Axtell strives to instill the element of adventure into all aspects of his business, from donating panniers to a pair of daring cyclists ( to holding adventure giveaway contests through their Instagram— #liveadventurously.

On the other hand, I believe some people are just waiting to be told that they can go on an adventure. Bradley Mountain was founded on wanting to help people tap into the full measure of life that comes from doing something new. We seek to inspire a new set of adventurers, not through buying our product,



give gather delight

decor . baby . stationery . jewelry . gifts



SNOW HAD FALLEN SIGNS OF SPRING As winter gives way to spring, I must share one snow story about a late winter/early spring snow when I was probably no older than five…if that.

driving snow-covered roads. Mom did. She knew Dad had about 70miles, round trip, of slick 2 lane roads to travel to/from the steel mill. I remember watching him drive out that long tunnel-looking road headed to Owensboro for his shift at the mill. On snowy days or nights, depending upon which shift he worked, I would watch till I couldn’t see him or his tail lights and marvel at the cloud of snow that swirled up behind his vehicle. He probably was driving a little faster than normal just to keep the momentum needed to overcome the snow banks.

Our farm lay less than a quarter mile from the main highway. The one lane, gravel road, which led to our house, was lined with huge trees (mostly cedar) that gave the appearance of a tunnel. Though good for shade and a cool walk in summer, they sheltered the road from needed sunshine for melting snow in late winter or early spring. The later in the season it seemed the deeper the snow accumulated. At the time, I had no idea what adults meant when they said it was a wet snow. To a little girl, snow was snow. When I played out in the snow, I always ended up wet from head to toe so I didn’t understand that “wet snow” comment. Now that I’m an adult (really just an overgrown kid), I understand moisture content, humidity, powder snow and packing, or snowman building, snow.

One day, the six of us had all been to either Louisville or Lexington (possibly both) to visit our grandparents. As we traveled home, snow began to fall, as did night. There were no salt trucks or pre-treating the roads with brine solution in those days. What available snow removal equipment in use only worked the most traveled roads so neither the highway in/out of Centertown, nor certainly not our road, were cleared for traffic. So, on this particularly cold night, an unexpected snowstorm settled in over our part of Kentucky.

It seems we had deeper and more frequent snows when I was a little girl. I’m not going down the global warming path. I was short for my age (which is hard to believe being 5’ 8” now) and I know that the snow probably wasn’t that much deeper than what we have today. It just didn’t take much for it to be deep for my short legs. Playing in the snow was terrific fun! I didn’t mind the required layers of clothes or getting wet as the snow melted on my gloves and outer layers. That’s what snow was all about for me! Just as I didn’t understand the term “wet snow”, I didn’t realize the hard work of shoveling snow or the hazards of

State route 69 from Hartford to Centertown, a curvy stretch of 7 miles to our road, also had 6 one lane bridges. The biggest and narrowest spanned “Muddy Creek”, a creek that fed off Rough River. Dad carefully negotiated those treacherous miles and one lane bridges then made the turn of the main highway onto our road (now known as Chandle Loop) and, within 100 feet, into a snowdrift. We were stuck. He tried backing up, pulling forward, backing up and pulling forward with only minimal success.



The snow formed a barrier that our Chevy couldn’t penetrate. Dad got out and pushed as Mom steered the car. In the fall, I had walked that stretch of road from the house to the highway to greet my brother and sister when they got off the school bus. I didn’t think it was very long at all, but on that snowy night, it seemed to stretch to the end of the earth. I just knew we would have to walk home in all that snow, in the dark and without our boots. I saw an adventure in my future but I sure didn’t like the idea of not having my boots for that adventure.

barn with the horse. I guess that’s one time Ronnie was less than happy to be the oldest but he was able to get Bonnie across the creek (not the bridge!) and on to the gate of the horse lot where he released her and sent her kicking snow all the way to the barn. It was a short car ride for us to the house…again about 100 feet. Dad’s work was not finished for the night. We had been gone for the bigger part of 2 days. We heated with a Stokermatic stove. The fire burned out with no one home to feed the coal into the hopper so the house was cold, but not so cold that the water lines froze. Thank goodness for that! Dad cleaned out the firebox while Ronnie carried in a couple of buckets of coal to get the fire started. While they worked on restoring the heat, Mom started cooking and Janet, Mark and I huddled on the couch to stay warm.

Dad finally got back in the car to warm up a bit. He told us to sit tight and he’d be back in just a few minutes. He knew he would have to dig the car out of the snow so he set off for the house while we waited. Of course he went for a shovel and we expected to see him and his flashlight coming back for us. What we didn’t expect was the mode of transportation. He came back riding our trusty mare, Bonnie. I didn’t have to walk the endless pike in the dark with snow up to my ears and without boots. Dad hoisted his 4 children onto the bare back of that gentle soul and sent us to the house, my big brother, in command, sitting in front, my sister at the back and the other 2 of us sandwiched between them.

Traditionally, when we returned from a weekend visit with grandparents, Mom cooked breakfast. That night was no exception. By the time the Stokermatic started blowing warm air, Mom served bacon, eggs, biscuits (homemade, of course) and gravy. She perked (old school, not brewed) a pot of coffee for her and Dad but had hot chocolate for the 4 of us. Warm and wellfed, we headed to bed.

As gentle as that horse was, she balked at every bridge and that posed a problem. To get to the house, you had to cross a bridge over a branch of Walton Creek. Sure enough, we reached that bridge and Bonnie stopped. She had been so good with the 4 of us perched on her back but when she got to that bridge, she had reached the end of her journey. She could have gone down the short bank and crossed the creek as always but she didn’t want to do that either. She deserves credit for not endangering us. She could have slipped or jumped or bucked and lost her passengers, but she stood still.

Dad didn’t have a lot of weekends off with working swing shift. Usually he had farm work to do on his days off but he did manage to make time for visiting his and Mom’s parents and giving us treasured time with our parents and grandparents. I’m sure that he probably didn’t make it into bed until way past midnight that night and had to get up earlier than normal for his trip to work the next morning due to the road conditions. Only as an adult can I now fully appreciate the struggles and worries Mom and Dad endured that night. I was a 5 year old adventure seeking little girl who thought it was another of her adventures rather than a trial.

We sat huddled on the horse while Dad dug and Mom maneuvered. It wasn’t long till the sound of spinning wheels turned to a more normal tone, the car’s lights came into view, and Mom and Dad came to our rescue. Dad lifted Mark, Janet and me, off the horse and put us back in the car. He sent Ronnie on to the

Breakfast for supper still reminds me of that snowy adventure in late winter…long, long ago when snow had fallen.



My name is Grant Puckett. I was born-andraised in the Midwest; I know, some people may think the Midwest doesn’t have much to offer being smack dab in the middle of the country, but I feel truly blessed to have grown up here with the amazing people I have known.

capture, for adventures I want to document, and with film you never know how things are going to turn out, but that is what is makes it so exciting and rewarding. I am finishing up my last year in art school studying photography. ​At one point I didn’t think I needed school and most times I still don’t. To be honest, if I could do it all over again, I probably wouldn’t have gone to college. Though, I must admit that the experiences I’ve had along the way, both good and bad, have helped me sort out what I really want for my life. I have had many instructors that are only concerned with teaching kids how to make money, how to be commercial, how to keep up with industry standards. I suppose that made me a little jaded towards all aspects of photography.

I​ have been skateboarding for my entire youth and I cannot believe everything it has brought into my life: great experiences, some of the most interesting and genuine people, and a lifestyle that I wouldn’t trade for any other. As a skateboarder, you find yourself outside and on the street a lot. Things are going on all around you, at all times, so much that you can’t help but take on a different perspective of the world. I want freedom and adventure in everything I do, and I think that skateboarding has allowed me to create this not-so-traditional lifestyle for myself. This passion is what initially brought me to take an interest in visual art forms. I started out with a desire for filmmaking, but quickly gravitated towards photography once I got a 35mm camera in my hands for the first time in high school.

By trying to gear myself towards just about every kind of photography taught in school I somehow got lost along the way…for the first couple years, at least. This past year I let go of a lot of preconceived notions of what I needed to be as a photographer and focused on what I truly wanted to be doing. I put my all into shooting what makes me happy instead of thinking so damn much about my career, those heavy life questions, and the weight of the “real world”. For right now, I feel like I may be a bit limited in the kind of clients I get, but I gear my work to appeal to the kinds of companies and people that I want to be able to work with in the future. I have been fortunate so far that the people I do work with let me really put myself into my work—shooting what I want to shoot, how I want to shoot it. I just like having that freedom and I am glad people trust me with my vision.

I​ choose to shoot film over digital because I like the mentality behind it. People can easily take a digital photo and put a film filter on it and it will look great, but it’s the process of film that I am passionate about. You are forced to slow down and think because, well, every frame is ultimately costing you money, but I also love those little imperfections that you can only get when shooting film. I get ideas for images I want to


I live in the city, and while I love the urban lifestyle, I am constantly itching to explore in a way I cannot necessarily put into words. My friends and I take to the road whenever we can. It maintains our sanity—being in nature, being somewhere new—getting out into the world and experiencing the stillness and beauty that can only be found when you are in a new and unfamiliar place. It is unfortunate that a desire for the unexplored seems to be dying in our generation, but I hope to be one of those people that can help preserve it, keep the road alive. There is something to be said for people who can pack a car full of friends and just drive somewhere, anywhere, without a second thought or a plan, and know that great things lie ahead.

Photography and skateboarding have been my way of expressing the way I live my life for many years. I love that I have been able to channel my passions into a life for myself. I currently work at a skate shop to support my weekend adventures and explore when I’m not working to learn more about my style and direction with photography. I’m lucky to have grown up in the Midwest where so many talented and kindhearted people that have helped me to grow as both a person and an artist. So for now, when you can’t find me at the skate shop I’ll be exploring, learning from the best teacher there is, nature. Right now, that’s all I really need. Well, all that and my dog, Roo.

A GRANDMOTHER’S GARDEN You could find her touch in all of the garden’s painterly, ruddy expressionism...

Each year, as summer approaches, a seed of nostalgia is born in me. It stems from remembrances of a family garden long since gone, one that influenced my appreciation of simple backyard pleasures.

Pyrex bowl. She would wink at me as she handed me a small, red tomato to taste, after polishing it on her apron. With juice exploding from its skin as I sank my teeth into it, I would inevitably giggle. Inspired, my grandmother would always join in. I would sneak some chives and perhaps a sprig of mint, enjoying every little nibble.

For my brother and I, the long weekdays of our childhood summers were often spent at my grandparents’ home in Ottawa, Ontario, in Canada. They had a white stucco house with a detached garage on a half-acre of land dotted with maple trees and firs. Here, a simple but meaningful garden was lovingly tended each day, brimming with a kind of hopeful energy that only a grandmother could sow.

The produce that survived our secret tasting in the garden was brought indoors and washed carefully then laid out to dry. She reserved some for pickling, some for soups and sauces and the rest was usually eaten fresh in salads or on their own, arranged on pretty relish trays, dressed with only a sprinkling of salt. Later in the day, when my parents would return from work to have dinner before taking us home, my brother and I would regale them with stories from our day – the simple pleasures we had enjoyed and the discoveries we had made in the leaves and wood piles, the stone pathways and all the pinecone –laden corners of the yard. To us, it all seemed so big and magical.

You could find her touch in all of the garden’s painterly, ruddy expressionism, pristine order swept askew by the undulating boughs of the lilac hedge and the big plot of peony shrubs planted boldly in the center of the yard. There was a teetering stone birdbath with a crack along the pedestal and a crunchy lawn of creeping thyme that led to a small vegetable garden, surrounded by little bushes of chives and herbs.

What I remember most today of that vanished place are the time-suspended snapshots of summer days that unfurled slowly, like the pages of an old scrapbook. I can see my grandfather’s wistful smile under his big straw hat, shadows playing across his noble face as he mowed the lawn. I can smell that yard with its honeysuckle and thyme and peony perfumes, the borders of lily-of-thevalley and the big row of lilacs never failing to intoxicate. And I can see my Nana, stout and elegant and proud, silhouetted behind the billowing sheets on the line or smiling at me from the kitchen window.

While my brother played with the neighborhood boys on jungle gyms in the adjacent park, I usually chose to help my grandmother at home, delighting in her English wit and wisdom and taking invisible impressions of her manner, her hospitality and her grace, knowing somehow that they would one day be of benefit. Summer lunches there were always casual but delicious: homemade slaws and salads, egg sandwiches or baked beans and almost always something freshly-picked from the vegetable plot. I would help my grandmother hang the morning laundry on the line, anticipating the moment when we would walk together to assess the crop – and perhaps to sample it. With the sun approaching its noonhour peak and the flowers drenching the air with their heady perfume, we would cross the yard together to the little corner that supplied so much goodness.

Although this place is truly gone – razed by new development and the passing of time - it is still here, behind my eyes and the upturned corners of my mouth each time I remember it. This garden that uncovered so much of my self is longed for and rediscovered in my daydreams, mostly because it was the outward expression of the woman who created it. Its essence cannot be contained and yet I want others to experience what I felt there. I can only take its value – the intangible value of any garden reared by love – to the ones I gather with today, where ever home may be.

I remember the zucchinis and carrots, the little cucumbers and especially the tomatoes, which we would pick straight from the vine and place directly into her big


Read more essays by Greta + check out her biography on our website


This is a story, a true story about our land, our hills, our rivers, our America. It seems in today’s world, we do not connect enough with the glorious land that our country is so blessed to call home. Often times, we all just need a little reminder to kick-start the deep love that sits nestled within our hearts for this bountiful land beneath our feet, providing food for our tables, and resources for our survival: this land we proudly salute as the United States of America.

The milling of a 150-year-old Douglas Fir (which had fallen in a 2008 fire) into new deck planks is how the restoration began. Two days of laborious work rebuilding a deck which overlooks crystal clear water filled with an abundance of fish. Water so pure, one can fill their cup and drink right there on the spot. Imagine the stars which blanket the sky from one horizon to the next, no artificial lights to outshine the magic of the night. Sleeping bags offer the best night’s sleep on the newly restored deck with an extended roof-line to shield from the occasional downpour that passes through from time to time. Sounds of tree frogs, a swooshing river below, and the freshest air offered only by a remote wilderness are the elements gathered to lull one into a deep slumber.

So imagine this, a cabin built by the hands of two settlers in the late 1930’s. A place which never found a marker upon a map, no address, no utilities, just a place to call home a few weeks out of the year, a place far from society, and any modern conveniences that were or ever would be available. Located in Northern California near the border of Oregon, this log cabin has been passed down from one generation to the next. A hobby of fishing turned into a legacy of preserving and remaining one with nature.

It is places like this that need to be cherished and remain untouched. In a time when many do not even know where their food or materials come from, it is reassuring to connect with stories, places and people who offer the link to what America used to be: a land that was cared for, nourished and maintained in every aspect, for there was a bond between man and land, a bond of respect for the resources provided and used. Nothing was wasted and every use was carefully planned and considered in regards to the end-result. A cause and effect for past, present and future inhabitants is a thought process which should still be upheld by one and all.

This story came about because a friend procured the help of another friend in restoring a deck. What seemed a simple request turned into a list of mustdo’s before actually arriving at the cabin. By foot, one must walk 6.5 miles over mountain passes and streams in order to reach the desired destination. Horses or mules are used to carry up to 150 pounds of food and supplies. Once there, one arrives at what some might consider nirvana: a place of solitude surrounded by pristine nature. A land mostly untouched still offering its magnificent gifts of sustainability in the purest form.

America is full of bountiful secrets, mountains, rivers, forests and valleys that are brimming with inspiration. These gems of nature are this country’s pride and joy, and as with any precious gift, it must be handled with the utmost respect and care. Let’s follow the lead of past generations, and learn to live as one with the land, for the roots of America is a true story worth fighting for. —






ssa woke in the early morning to fill the stove with wood and light it with a kerosene-soaked newspaper. She placed the eggs in an iron pot and listened for them to rattle as they began to boil. Soon, the little girl was awake and climbing to reach the cherry drop leaf table where Essa had placed six china cups. Essa watched as the girl carefully dropped tablets of dye into each cup. The girl was unaware that the table was older than Essa’s parents, who used it to begin housekeeping so many years ago. She didn’t realize that she was one of many little girls who had climbed to up to this very table to watch the magic of eggs changing color on Easter morning.

filled each cup with hot water. Heads pressed together, she and the girl watched as the dye tablets swirled and filled the china with brilliant blues, reds, and greens. She gave the girl a wire scoop and helped her turn the eggs gently until the colors were even across the shell. One by one they transformed the eggs into colorful canvases. Essa felt the resurrection of her own childhood wonder as the girl’s eyes widened with each work of art. When the eggs were ready, Essa and the girl placed them in a tattered basket filled with green paper grass. They rushed outside where the girl ducked by the front door, covering her eyes while Essa hid the eggs. Essa chose her hiding spots carefully. She placed the colorful eggs around the swing frame, along the fencerow, behind the cistern, near the rose bush growing over the trellis, and in the tufts of grass surrounding the house. Essa called for the girl and she came running, swinging her basket in the crook of her elbow. Her squeals filled the yard as she uncovered the eggs. When they were all found, she begged Essa to hide them again. Essa hid the eggs over and over, bending her old frame low to the ground to find new nooks and crannies to use as hiding spots. The girl did not tire of hunting them, even after they grew cracked and mushy.

Easter was Essa’s favorite holiday. She loved the Easter flowers growing in the front yard and the sounds of the church bells down the road. She loved to watch the families gather for picnics, sons and fathers in brightly colored ties and mothers and daughters in matching lace hats and gloves. Most of all, Essa loved the egg hunt. She was always the one who colored the eggs with the children and ran out to hide them through the yard as they covered their eyes and giggled from the house. No matter how old Essa got, everything felt new and young on Easter morning. Even now, coloring eggs with the little girl, a third cousin, sixty years her junior, Essa felt as excited as a child.

Just as Essa’s youth was restored each Easter, the joy in the girl’s eyes was reborn each time she spotted a flash of blue beneath the grass.

When the eggs were boiled and cooled, Essa




Two years as a child in Pennsylvania near Penns Creek have affected my vision ever since. We lived as a family of seven in a cinderblock hunting cabin five miles from Coburn on a dirt road, the last place on the hill, past the tunnel and truss bridge of a former rail line. While there was never a lack of movement at that age, the memories of light and space and sound from that time, in that forest, along those banks, have forever taught me to stand still. Wherever I have lived since, from Brooklyn to Philly to Wyoming, that lesson of realization in the present has allowed me find beauty everyday.

long felt that we are all just diamonds cutting away at one another, becoming ever more faceted as we slow down the light that surrounds us. For your refracted light and patience, I thank you all. It seems the words hardest to find are for those we love the most. Recently, I tried to find them in a letter written to my father. There were usually two chairs in our backyard where we sat in the fading light, listening to the final gestures of squirrels and catbirds, watching the stars rise. While I always wished for words then, I only recently came to realize how few there were that would plunge beneath the placid depths of his eyes and expression to the current below. It was his silence in these moments of unspoken understanding that taught me how to care. My mother understood this silence, but her sincerity (something I’m still trying to attain) would never allow her to keep it. She would always try to find words. She would always be willing to take time as I drove countless country lanes looking for the right combination of light and lines. She would always endure. She will always be loved.

Philadelphia reminds me of Ray. We used to drive around West Philly, listening to jazz, talking about life and good coffee. His laugh and smile are incredible. He once took me to his storage unit in the Northeast where he collected old furniture to later resell. It was his ‘side hustle’, as he described it, and it was there that I found a water-damaged Degas replica that has been watching over me ever since. He sold it to me for $20. Then there’s Norma, who, when she writes an email, italicizes the whole of it. She says it reminds her of cursive. She is a continuous moment of grace and wisdom. George will be the best man in my wedding. Despite knowing that I would one day leave, he took the time to share his soul and taught me how to fly fish. Then I left. Through the countless back roads and hours spent with him, I have forever learned what is real. It is with pride that I can say that these friends are in their 60’s and 70’s. It is friendships like these that I have always based my confidence on. I’ve

Within these recollections lies the hope for an explanation of where I am now, some 2,000 miles away from that backyard, those country lanes and those friends, trying to leave again. Recently, I wrote in that letter to my father, that the only things I had going for me was caring and wanting to understand. Those desires and these experiences affect the interpretation of the daily as I move to stand still somewhere anew, and have become a continual reminder to “see without a camera.” They help me to see the wisdom and joy of my friends in the faces of strangers. They help me to find the silence of my father and feel the sincerity of my mother in all that surrounds me. It is the beauty of the patient unknown…It is everyday.


THE ROAD OFTEN TRAVELED PONDERINGS Robert Frost said it best when he explained his reason for taking the road less traveled by. I admire his decision. He must have been a wise man since he did say he would keep the first road to travel another day. Like Frost, I too, took the road less traveled at a young age in hopes to someday find the elusive other.

“It’s been so long, I can’t remember the name, just her situation,” and we traveled on along the busy road towards home. I often think of that lady when I approach the bridge, and I catch myself looking for her. She’s probably not able to visit the bridge anymore. My, how time flies, I thought to myself. It seems just like yesterday I was barely old enough to drive, and now when I come across the bridge I don’t want to see all the changes that have happened in the last fifty years. I want to drive that road and have it like it was in the sixties. Is it terrible of me to want to remember things once in a while the way my road less traveled used to be? Momma would say it was alright to reminisce, as long as I was pacified. What do you think? Come travel with me, and I’ll share memories from along this thread of Kentucky blacktop.

It was on my last trip home from the town of Hartford when I passed under the stop light, the one closest to the bridge. The second light, since there’s only two lights downtown. I remembered an older woman who stood on the bridge each morning and evening drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. She always wore a wide brimmed straw hat and leaned way over the railing to watch as the water flowed by below. Mom and I drove past her once, just standing there looking at the water, and I asked Mom who she was. Mom, being careful to be respectful, told me what little she knew about the woman on the bridge. “ She’s a nice lady, but she’s troubled, she’s just not the same anymore I mean. She lost her sweetheart in the war. He promised to marry her when he came home, but he was killed and never made it back from overseas. She never got over it. She’s looked the same way ever since. She has never changed since the 40’s. It’s like the war isn’t over for her, and she’s still waiting for him to come home, but Shan, that’s alright if that’s what it takes to keep her pacified.”

Just over the Rough Creek bridge and down the river road to the left lived two families, the Campbells and Thienes’. And just north of these dwellings there were acres and acres of grass covered ground sprawled out under historic live oak trees along the river bottoms, the home of the best county fair ever. There’s never been anything in our county that brought entire families and groups of people together for fun and entertainment like the county fair. The fair, put on by the local chapter of Jaycees, was an annual event that everyone loved. There were horse shows, crop displays, food booths, prize giveaways, carnival rides, baby shows and beauty pageants. I remember one year in particular when Dr.John Snyder painted a portrait of a

“ I see her everyday, just standing there with that cup in her hand. Momma? What’s her name?”



Miss Ohio County, and it hung for awhile just over the entrance to the fairgrounds. Some people said I looked a lot like that girl, but when I studied it long enough, I thought she favored many of the young girls of Ohio County in those days.

My friend Cora lived across from there. Her momma died when we were twelve and it wasn’t long until they moved away. The “Y,” “The Corner” or the “Top Hat” restaurant building is an auto repair shop now. That’s where the road drops off onto 136 towards Knuckles, No Creek and Livermore. I think one Halloween a few of us went down 136 in Mike Johnson’s daddy’s flat bed truck, and we borrowed some melons from a local farmer. I don’t think we returned them to him as I recall.

As I ease around the curve onto the levy across the Mud College bottoms it’s like the world turns from black and white into technicolor, much like when Dorothy opens her farmhouse door in the Wizard of Oz. That part of the highway and its surroundings haven’t changed. On a telephone wire the solitary hawk still sits perched to pounce on its unsuspecting prey, and it is possible to believe, as one looks across those river bottoms that it is still 1965, give or take a few years.

Hoopie Hill Road is there on the right just past the Y. Hoopie Hill is a dangerously steep grade, and when folks used to drive over its crest or down the slope that follows someone often hollered,“HOOPIE” that’s how the road got its name.

The sunsets from that levy are like nowhere else along my road or any other road for that matter. The clouds come in a multitude of shapes and shades, and each afternoon is a different spectacular event. It seems that God Himself frames the evening sun in this glorious manner just for me as the golden orb sinks slowly toward the beckoning horizon. It’s as if along that piece of payment time stands still and one can, if they wish, be unaware of the day, month, year and the number that represents their age. Yes, I often forget my age when I travel...and it is a feeling I enjoy. It is one part of my road that hasn’t changed and I can be ….well, I can just be any age, in any car, going anywhere...quite the nice refreshing respite from reality. It brings me peace, a simple peace (though accompanied by the occasional school bus, tractor or combine traffic).

Steve Foster and his sisters lived just off the highway on that road. Steve was the first person I met when I began attending Hartford Jr. High. I sat next to him in Mrs. Barnhill’s history class my first day in school. On that first day Steve leaned forward and quietly whispered, “ Hi, I’m Stephen Foster.” Thinking he was being a jerk and aggravating the new girl, I smarted back, “Yeah, and I’m Jeanie with the light brown hair!” Turned out he really was Stephen Foster and my middle name really was Jean. So a lifelong friendship was forged that day, and it lasted through high school, college and still exists.

Of all the homes and farms along this road there may be only three families who still remain from the days of my youth in that four mile stretch of pavement. So, as the drive continues with windows rolled down and wind blowing through my hair – I see lots of people, places and things in my mind’s eye that no longer exist. I have to remind myself that in this life nothing stays the same.

The Parkers lived on the next hill to the left. Nancy and I spent lots of time at her house.. We pulled tobacco plants and set them each spring for her dad. Next door, we baby sat for Patsy and Stanley Whittaker, cleaned house for her mom, Pheobe, and experimented with the latest hair styles. She was the first girl in our class to get a driver’s license and a car. So we went to the Beaver Dam Freeze King whenever she could get permission to journey into town.

The Judge Bartlett southern estate still stands with its accompanying dairy barn and silo to the east. Porter’s Grocery is a perpetual yard sale site now.

Over at the bottom of McMurty Hill, close to the


Alexander Raod, lived my Great Aunt Nettie and Uncle Rosel Lake. I visited there with my grandparents. I was big enough to saddle their best mare, Ann. She was easy to ride and we would start out at a trot, then she’d break into a run. We’d be out of site of their house as she crossed a long stretch of flat ground. She’d lather up during these jaunts, and I’d always cool her down in the barn before turning her back out to pasture. I catch a glimpse of us runnin’ across that field once in awhile as I roll ever northward at blazing 55 miles per hour. On down a ways is another bridge in a valley across No Creek. That’s where my youngest brother and I were driving a 1953 Ford pickup when the hood latch popped loose and let the hood fly up and cover the windshield so I could scarcely see where I was driving. I knew the bridge was there so I peered carefully through the space above the dash and the bottom of the hood until I could find a safe place to pull over and tie down the hood. I might have been sixteen and brother Mark was three. I just made the quick fix and went on like it wasn’t any big deal. Right along in there is about where I stopped one fall morning on my way to teach school. My baby was with me and a momma cat with a litter of kittens were crossing the left side of the road. I didn’t see the hitch hiker on the right shoulder, and he thought I stopped for him. Imagine my shock when the car door opened and the strange man got in. I did carry him on to town with a warning that he’d better behave while riding in the car with the baby and me. In the straightaway up from the bridge, Pamela Bell’s parents, Grace and Forest, lived in a lovely Bedford stone home. Pam read Carl Sandburg’s Lincoln series, went to University of Kentucky and became an English and French teacher. We rode the same school bus during our high school days. Mr. Heifner made that bus run out our way. He’d been my mother’s bus driver years before, so he had logged many a mile on my favorite road too. The neighboring family who lived closest to us were

the Cardens. They had two sons and we went to church together. Jack Carden, my friend and classmate, went to school at the University of Kentucky and became a Doctor of Education. The elder Mr. Carden was a contractor and built a house for Momma and me when I was about 14 or so. The last drive before ours led up to the Martin Tichenor family’s house. Martin was sheriff for awhile, and so he and his wife both worked during the day. Helen ran a hardware store in Hartford and I worked there my freshman year in high school until a part time spot came open working for Mary Ranney in the County Court Clerk’s Office where my mom had worked for years. There used to be a drive in movie theater on their land before the house was built. My grandparents and I used to slip up on our hill and watch the cartoons before the movie played even though were couldn’t hear them. Our driveway appears on the right as I near the crest of the hill. It is still a tree covered lane, a canopy of sycamore, pine, cedar, dogwood, and red buds. I know you’ve seen pictures of it. Kentucky impressionist Paul Sawyier painted scenes much like this road less traveled, and it seems to me to be much like Robert Frost’s shady lane. Even John Denver once sang about our lane in his “Country Roads, take me home...” I stop and check the mailbox as I near the end of my journey. When I drive in I expect to see my Dad sitting in his chair looking out the window. I flash my lights at him so he can see I’ve arrived home safely once again. Then I’m free to drive slowly up our road less traveled and admire all the work we’ve put into this place we call home. I watch for wildlife and take inventory of each tree. The cats usually greet me as I near the house. I look forward to opening the car door and listening. I listen to the quiet, to the seasons, to the snow or leaves, and even try to listen to the grass grow. Lots of echoes from the past, lots of years of my life belong at the end of this road. And yes, dear Mr. Denver, it is “good to be back home again” And here I continue to be...forever pacified.



A visit with one of America’s most talented folk artists.


hen most people think of handmade Folk Art today they think of the reproduced and reproducible craft goods like wind chimes made from two liter bottles and tin cans, but there are still a few true artists out there today who are keeping the tradition of quality handmade goods alive. Carol Woodard has been keeping that handicraft alive from a very young age and today is one of my favorite true Folk Artists. Using found and new materials Carol creates works of fiber art with an authentic and antiquarian feel and appearance. Growing up with a love of antiques, American history, and sewing Carol learned to fuse her three passions after her older sister taught her to crochet as a child. “I loved to sew clothing when I was growing up and, after my sister taught me to crochet, I made my first garment—a vest,” she remembers. “The vest I crocheted ended up being twice as long as it needed to be because my sister never taught me how to finish a project. That was when I gained my fist nugget of wisdom from my mother, she said to me ‘A good seamstress always rips!’, and from then on I kept my passion for fiber arts close and honed my skills.” Carol’s mother was a talented seamstress herself and taught Carol that she could make anything she set her mind to. “My mother could sew anything from doll clothes to tailored suits and she told me early in life that I could do it too.” Carol allowed

her mother’s advice to fuel her passion and she has never let anything stop her. At 12 she received a book about macramé and started making macramé plant hangers with gourd bowls and sold them to her parents friend, the first time she had sold any of her creations. Today Carol combines her love of early American antiques and sewn handmade items with her passion for nature and women’s crafts into quality handmade notions like fabric fruit likenesses and simple-yet-beautiful birds. “I can’t draw at all, so sewing has always been the way that I express myself creatively,” Carol explains. “Anytime I get an idea of something I like, I turn into some kind of sewn item.” More than anything, Carol says that her passion for creating is to produce one-of-a-kind treasures she’d be happy to have in her own home. Using her love of American history and antiques she creates a collection of baubles that speak of a time gone by when Folk Artists and homemakers captured real-life things in an imaginative sense. “I have collections of old quilts, fabric, bed ticking and parts that I use in my items. When I use new reproduction fabric it is treated to look like it was in Grandma’s attic. One of my favorite items is my Granary Angel ornament that was inspired by a tombstone in the Granary Cemetery in Massachusetts.”





Reaching for the



have many fond memories of visiting the beach while growing up. When I close my eyes I can take myself back to the soft breeze and the smell of salt in the air. I can remember the warm sand between my toes and the cool water licking my feet with each roll of waves. When I was small I would build sand castles and hunt for shells. As I got older I would walk the shoreline contemplating my future and what was in store for me. In the evening I would sit outside my room and watch the tide roll in. The crashing of the surf was deafening and I would get nervous wondering if the surf would reach me. I was mesmerized by its raw beauty and power.

details we love and associate with the beach. I chose a color of pallet reminiscent of the ocean consisting of blues, white, and gray. I started with white linens for something crisp and fresh looking. I paired it with watercolor napkins folded in a pocket style where you can insert your silverware in or a menu card. From there I used a hollowed out log with succulents and air plants. The beauty of air plants are they do not have to be in soil to stay alive which makes them easy to design with while creating a lot of interest and impact. I finished off the table with seashells, rope covered candles, and sea glass. You can’t be on the beach without having S’mores, so I created individual S’more kits for the guests to use after the dinner.

I wanted to capture these memories in this table design. I wanted to create something easy and full of





IN LIKE A LION QUICHE FROM THE KITCHEN OF KATRINA OHSTROM Packed full of rosemary, garlic, arugula, eggs from heritage hens and goat’s milk and topped with goat’s cheddar and asparagus, this quiche is stuffed to the gills with strong, yet complementary flavors and is more than capable of holding it’s own at the brunch table. This quiche is not only a simple and forgiving to prepare dish, but also a healthy way to greet a much welcomed spring and begin all of the adventures it has in store” INGREDIENTS


1 1/2 cups goat’s milk 4 eggs (these were from heritage hens who graze on open pasture and sprouted grains which is why the yolks are so bright) 2 springs rosemary 1 1/2 cups goats cheddar 1/2 large onion 2 fistfulls arugula 1 bulb garlic 8 spears asparagus 1 tablespoon butter Salt + pepper 1 pie crust

Prep: preheat oven 375, chop rosemary, onion, garlic, grate cheddar. Roll out dough 1/4” thick, sprinkle 1/2 of the rosemary on top, gently roll into surface of dough. Place dough in pie plate, sprinkle 1/4 of the goat’s cheddar into the center, blind bake 5-10 minutes, this will prevent the bottom of the crust from getting soggy. While crust is blind baking, melt butter in skillet, saute onions and garlic, remove from skillet and saute asparagus and beat together eggs, goat’s milk salt and pepper. Remove crust from oven, add arugula, onions, garlic, pour in egg mixture and top with the remainder of the cheddar and rosemary Arrange asparagus on top. Bake until crust is golden brown and quiche is set in the middle, approx 40 minutes. Let stand at least an hour before serving. If preparing the night before, cool and refrigerate and then bring to room temp before serving. —



SWEET PAUL EAT & MAKE A BOOK EXCERPT We first met Paul Lowe over a cup of tea at local cafe in the back of ABC Carpet and Home in mid-town Man-

hattan. You probably know him by the name his great aunt gave him, Sweet Paul, and to be honest before I met him that was his full name to me, also. Over three pots of tea we got to know Paul, learn his backstory, learn what makes him tick—where he came from, where he was going—and we made a friend in him. It’s been an amazing journey in publishing and story-telling for all of us, and it’s been an amazing experience to watch Paul share the wealth of knowledge he holds for crafts and food. We’re excited to share our friend—Sweet Paul’s—new book SWEET PAUL EAT & MAKE and hope you’ll learn as much as we have through our own friendship with him.

AUNTIE GUNNVOR’S SKILLINGSBOLLER My great-aunt was quite a character. She was also an amazing baker and taught me many of her baking secrets. She says these buns helped her find a husband. I’m not sure if Uncle Gunnar was drawn to Auntie because of her buns, but I know this: They sure are tasty. Her secret was adding grated marzipan. When it melts into the dough, it’s just . . . well, try them yourself and see! — Paul Lowe ALMOND BUNS 2 3/4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour, plus more for kneading and rolling the dough 1/4 cup granulated sugar 1/2 teaspoon salt 1 large egg, at room temperature 1 tablespoon active dry yeast 1 cup whole milk, warmed 5 tablespoons cold butter, grated Vegetable oil for bowl

FILLING 6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) butter, softened 1/4 cup granulated sugar 1 tablespoon ground cinnamon 1½ cups (10 ounces) grated marzipan 1 cup slivered almonds, toasted 1 large egg, beaten with 1 tablespoon water To make the buns: In a stand mixer fitted with a dough hook or in a large bowl with a wooden spoon, combine the flour, sugar, salt, egg, yeast, and milk and mix well until the dough

comes together. Knead the dough for about 10 minutes in the mixer or turn it out onto a lightly floured work surface and knead for 15 minutes by hand. If it feels too sticky, add more flour, 1 tablespoon at a time. If necessary, turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface. Add the grated butter, little by little, kneading it into the dough until it is all incorporated and the dough is smooth and elastic. Place the dough in a large oiled bowl, cover with a towel, and place in a warm spot. Let rise until doubled, about 1 hour. On a lightly floured surface, roll the dough out with a rolling pin into a 12-x-16-inch rectangle, To make the filling: Spread the dough with the butter. Sprinkle the sugar, cinnamon, marzipan, and almonds evenly over the butter. Roll the dough up along the long side into a log and cut it into 12 equal pieces. Place the pieces on a baking sheet about 1/2 inch apart, cover with parchment paper, and let rise in a warm spot for 1 hour, or until doubled in size. About 20 minutes before you plan to bake, preheat the oven to 350°F, with a rack in the middle position. Brush the rolls with the egg wash and bake for 20 minutes, or until golden brown. Cool on a wire rack and serve.

PHOTO © Alexandra Grablewski | Excerpted from SWEET PAUL EAT & MAKE, © 2014 by Paul Lowe Einlyng. Reproduced by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. All rights reserved.

MARMIE’S BLUEBERRY MUFFINS IN THE KITCHEN WITH AMELIA MARIE INGREDIENTS 1 cup flour 1 cup whole wheat flour 1/2 cup & 2 tablespoons sugar 1 tablespoon baking powder 1/2 teaspoon salt 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon 1/4 cup melted butter 1/2 cup milk 1/2 teaspoon vanilla 2 eggs 2 cups fresh or frozen blueberries


INSTRUCTIONS Mix ingredients in a large bowl, excluding the blueberries. Stir until batter is consistent, it will be thick and sticky. Fold blueberries into batter. Grease muffin tin and disburse batter into tin cavities, filling 3/4 full. Combine and mix crumb topping ingredients until crumbly. Generously top muffins, lightly patting crumbs into batter. Bake at 350 degrees for 10 minutes, reduce heat to 300 degrees and bake for ten additional minutes or until golden brown. Let stand five minutes once removed from oven.

1 cup rolled oats 4 Tablespoons soft butter 1/4 cup brown sugar



NEW ENGLAND CLAM CHOWDER Clam chowder has a history as rich as the sweet cream broth its made from in the New England area. Dating back to the earliest colonial settlers this creamy chowder has always, and must always include at least broth of some kind, potatoes, onions, and the main ingredient, clams—believed to be used primarily because of the ease of their harvest in the briny waters of the New England coast. Though sometimes ingredients such as parsley or carrots may be added for color, tomatoes are only found in its cousin Manhattan Clam Chowder.

in the Midwest because it is a staple in the New England metropolis—some states have even taken legal action to prevent any chowder containing them to be made or be called New England Clam Chowder. In 1939 Maine passed a bill making it illegal to put tomatoes in clam chowder. Needless to say, chowder is held in high regards in the New England states. New England Clam Chowder is often accompanied by oyster cracks, a kind of hardtack cracker originally used as a thickener in the soup as opposed to flour in other traditional chowders. It’s a common practice for restaurants to offer clam chowder on Fridays as an outdated tradition once upheld when the Vatican church forbade the consumption of meat on Fridays. However, New England Clam Chowder still graces many a menu on Friday for that reason, and allows people the world over to experience the flavors and traditions of New England. Warning—tomatoes not included.

Tomatoes are so despised in the original New England Clam Chowder—often called Boston Clam Chowder



2 cups chopped potatoes 1 cup diced celery 1 cup minced onion 2 jars clam juice 3 cans minced clams 3/4 cup butter 1 cup flour 1/2 quart half & half cream 1/2 quart heavy whipping cream 1 tablespoons red wine vinegar 1 1/2 teaspoons salt 6 sprigs fresh thyme

Add potatoes, carrots, onions, and half the thyme to a skillet over medium heat. Cover and cook until vegetables are tender. Meanwhile in a large stock pot melt butter over medium heat. Whisk in flour to create a smooth rue. While whisking, add cream and stir until thick and smooth. Add cooked vegetables and clam juice to your creamy rue. Add clams and vinegar, season with salt and pepper. Heat until warm throughout.



THANK GOD FOR LEMONS “My life is like a lemon drop I’m suckin’ on the bitter to get to the sweet part I know there are better days ahead”

— Pistol Annies | Lemon Drop

As the age-old saying goes, ‘When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.’ There must be some history behind the phrase, how did these acerbic fruits get such a bad rap? Who decided the sweet nectar of lemonade was better than a sour lemon... OK, I admit I can see how that won the popular vote. Sure, we love to think we make the best of our bad situations, but how do we do that?

oft to use his lemons in her lemonade stand in Via Mizner. Finding that squeezing so many lemons daily ruined her clothes, Lilly invented her own form of camouflage, shifts she designed out of bright and colorful cotton printed material that hid the frequent splatters. After receiving many compliments on her new wardrobe, Lilly began selling her custom creations from the stand alongside the lemonade for which their creation was attributed. One day, noticing she was making more money selling shifts than lemonade, Lilly closed the stand and started Lilly Pulitzer, Inc. After a few key placements in the media, including one very notable appearance on school-friend Jacqueline Lee, at that time First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy, in Life Magazine, Lilly’s shifts became a staple garment for the American public, preppy community, and high society. Lilly passed away last April; the Queen of her own wave of American style and prep, a legacy built on lemons.

Every day we are faced with an amalgam of situations placed in our path by that flighty wench called life, a series of challenges or obstacles meant to test us to see if, when faced with adversity, we are able to pick ourselves up by the bootstraps and turn the darkness into light. The world’s most influential people have learned this principle of life, but it is still one everyone has had to learn and continually has to put into action. One of the most famous cases of someone making lemonade from lemons to create a positive change in their life comes from a lady who took the phrase quite literally.

It’s important to never forget where we come from, and the steps in our lives that lead us from the lemons to the lemonade. It’s not the lemon’s fault it was created an acerbic, bitter fruit-in fact, some people love that about it, myself included. Let us not forget, you can make lemonade out of lemons, but you can’t make it without them. So this spring let’s not just celebrate with lemonade, but celebrate the lemons from which it was made.

In their southern Florida home in Palm Beach, Peter Pulitzer—grandson to the famous publisher, journalist, lawyer, philanthropist, and union soldier of the American Civil War, Joseph Pulitzer—and his wife Lilly Pulitzer—Queen of American Prep—owned several citrus orange groves, from which Lilly was




one cup at a time until desired taste. Use 3 cups for sweeter lemonade, or 4 for a more balanced, classic lemonade.

1 cup Water 他-1 cup Sugar (depending on desired sweetness)

Allow lemonade to chill in the refrigerator for 45 minutes to an hour in order for flavors to combine completely and give you lemonade a consistent texture and taste. Enjoy.

In a small saucepan, heat water with 他 cup to 1 cup sugar over medium heat until sugar is entirely dissolved, stirring occasionally.


1 cup Lemon juice (the juice of about 5-7 lemons) 3-4 cups cold Water

For a twist on traditional lemonade add uncommon ingredients like a tablespoon of rose water, often found at grocery chains like Whole Foods and Fresh Market, for a floral but sweet spring lemonade. Rose Lemonade is also delicious served in champagne flutes combined with 1 shot Vodka added to 1 part soda and 2 parts lemonade.

While waiting for simple syrup, juice 5-7 lemons for 1 cup lemon juice. If using Meyer lemons, use less sugar in simple syrup as it is a smaller, but sweeter lemon. When dissolved completely, add syrup to a glass pitcher, stirring in lemon juice and adding water




ON THE TREK WITH SIMON WEBSTER arrived in Patagonia on the back of four flights and one dazed minibus ride. My plan was to meet some friends of mine and spend about a week there, trekking and climbing, but that wasn’t to be. My friends were in the mountains when I reached el Chalten, so I took myself to a cafe to kill time. They’d be back that evening.

It was love at first note in the cafe, Bob Marley floating across the warm, still air as I walked through the door. I sat down and drank a chico, and got talking to Fleur and Antonella, the cafe girls. They told me about ‘the community’—a little gathering of hippies and travellers who live in tents and caravans on the edge of town. I was invited to drink with them after work and to talk about which trails were the best. I went with them, and we all

sat around a table sharing pastries and bread and wine. I felt this connection with them all immediately, like I had fit into that place in a perfect dovetail. A few days later I went into the mountains with my friends. We spent two days summiting Cerro Solo, and before I knew it my week was nearly up. On one of my last days I laced up my sneakers, threw a water bottle and my camera in my backpack, and set out on one of the trails. I ran till I was too tired to keep running, then I turned around. I made it back to my hostel buzzing from what I’d seen. The last few days flew by, and soon enough I was saying teary goodbyes at the community. I flew up to one of the bigger cities as was my plan. I saw some sights, went on a wine tour, ate at a restaurant,



and missed Patagonia to the bone. I decided to head back as soon as I could. It was late December, so flights were booked up and expensive. Eventually, two flights and three buses later—the day before Christmas—I made it home. There was a great party that night at the community, with music and smoke pouring out of the small kitchen and thinning into the night air. The next morning we woke early and climbed up to a nearby lookout. Condors corkscrewed around me, riding the draughts of air that press up from the granite hills. Everywhere I looked were trails—I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were there. For the next four weeks my days simplified. I’d go sit in the cafe, drink a couple of coffees and read my book. Bob Marley would play, or Bob Dylan, or Leonard Cohen. Then I’d buy some peanut butter chocolate, wash out an empty water bottle, and make sure there was film in my camera. I’d run right out the door. I would be gone for hours, running across plains kept clear by smears of icy wind, or up granite ridges, underneath rich green forests, and in

the shadows of those towering mountains. If I got thirsty, I’d just dip my bottle in a stream of glacial melt. If it started snowing, I’d just run a little harder to keep warm. One day I ran for five hours singing ‘Don’t think twice, it’s alright’ to myself. Another day it was ‘One good thing about music, when it hits you feel no pain’...T hey say the only Zen that you can find on the tops of mountains is the Zen you bring with you. Starting my mornings in that cafe, with that music, and in the company of the girls from the community—that added a good dose of Zen to my backpack. Each night, after I got down from the mountains, I would go to the community and we’d spend hours in each other’s company. Singing songs, painting, making decorations or renovating caravans, and always sharing meals. I left with a heavy heart, but I know I’ll be back. I ate the calafate berry that grows on the lower reaches of the mountains, and I’m told on good authority that once you’ve done so, you’re bound to return time and time again. I’m not complaining.

IT WAS MAGNIFICENT WHEN AN L.A. GUY SEEKS SOLACE IN WYOMING In Los Angeles, the hustle and bustle is unavoidable. On every corner a blinking buzzing light telling each citizen it’s time to walk—or your chance to get run over. Sometimes the urban sprawl is overwhelming and when my father invited me up to his Wyoming ranch last winter, I jumped at the chance.

shifts your priorities by the minute. My first week, we battled ice shelf flash floods caused by unseasonably rapid snowmelt. My second week, we nursed sick horses, searched for a lost wire fox terrier, and listened to war stories of a surlymouthed rancher living next to a Bentonite plant— just so we could purchase his propane-powered irrigation pump. Every day on that property was alive with unknown possibility, and as a result, my gaze widened.

I spent three weeks living on my father’s ranch at the base of the Big Horn Mountains in Wyoming. Surrounded by wilderness, I worked to restore a 100-year-old log cabin as well as my soul. As I said, I’m based in Los Angeles—let your impulse thoughts of superficiality run free, folks—and few weeks in Wyoming seeking solace in my father’s way of life was just what I needed.

There’s a certain serenity that comes with manual labor. At the end of each day my hands and arms and shoulders throbbed, but I always walked—to the pastures to visit the horses, to feed Willie the Pig, or to simply breathe in the calming air of dusk. On the rare days off, I packed up the Ford “Exploder” and wandered highways and small towns, drinking in the foreign and the new.

Restoring the cabin was work—the kind of bluecollar labor that we city folk fetishize without understanding the physical toil it takes on the body. Hammering, drilling, lifting, and hauling. Rinse and repeat.

My trip, after all, was about so much more than just a house. How can one lay their hands upon a horse, feeling the immensity of its musculature, and not be moved? How can one witness the sun reflecting across frozen flood plains and not be in awe of nature’s power? I’m irrevocably changed by my time in Wyoming, and though I struggle to adjust to city life, I know—for certain—that I have found a second home in the Big Horn Basin.

And—hell yes—it was magnificent. I quickly learned that the day-to-day activities are never set in ranch life. You have to learn to improvise, because nature reigns supreme and




WANDERLUST — a strong desire for or impulse to wander or travel and explore the world


r in this case, our big, beautiful U S of A. My— now—husband Shawn and I have been talking about driving cross country for almost a decade. Last summer, his brother and his girlfriend made the trip and it finally made that little flame of adventure grow in me. We—me and Shawn—knew we had to get the wheels in motion. I felt the urge to explore once Spring came about; To shed all the hibernating tendencies Winter happens to bring and to bring and nurture something new and wild in myself. Shawn and I decided to take our time, breathe deep, and planned 2 weeks of exploring our

country to see what it has to offer. We were completely in awe. We took the northern route, drove 4,300 miles from NJ with 3 cameras in tow and a whole lot of stops. I was so incredibly enamored by the beauty we were lucky enough to see, and also by the peaceful country roads, comforting but desolate for hundreds of miles. We decided to take the trip because we had a date with one of my favorite photographers in a lemon grove in sunny California for some pretty fantastic engagement photos. I think the 4,300 miles were worth it. We embraced the changing climates as we entered each time zone, skipping out on quite a few


camping plans due to chilling temperatures and snow. We did get our opportunity to camp in Big Sur, where we had enough bourbon to make us forget about whatever rustling noises there were 10feet nearby our heads. We sang songs, we hiked, we stopped in some questionable diners, we got lost; And it was OK. As humans, we are in a constant rush for the next moment. When you have ample time to truly appreciate and view this life with such bliss, you gain such a greater understanding of it. Especially with the person you adore more on earth than anyone. One week prior to leaving, I decided to get ‘wanderlust’ tattooed on my forearm, because— well—that is who I have always been. An

adventurer. An explorer. I can’t imagine living life any other way. Here are our trip photos. Some film, some digital, but none of them do any kind of justice for the beauty of each place. For the beauty of Our Land. Locations: Chicago-Omaha-South Dakota-Jackson Hole-Wyoming-Lake Tahoe-Big Sur-LA P.S. Big Sur might be the one of the dreamiest places in this country. Woah.




ales is the mountainous western cousin of England, a Celtic link to the past with over 1,180 km—730 mi for us using the imperial system—of coastline, and 50 islands decorating it. Boasting three national parks and the Heritage Coast, Wales is an untapped land of adventure. Chris Buxton, a lifestyle photographer based in Wales in the United Kingdom, uses 35mm film for most of his practice. He relies on film to achieve a feeling that digital cameras can’t capture naturally. Living in Wales, he’d never really


travelled around the Welsh landscape and finally decided to explore it with his second set of eyes, his camera. “I was very shocked by how beautiful this country truly is,” says Chris, “it has shown me that everyone needs to explore their own homes to see where they’re truly from.” Chris tries to capture the natural and inner beauty of the landscape of his homeland and put it on the maps of like-minded soulsearchers and explorers hoping to find a new destination and a new adventure. ­— Instagram — buxtonc




Preserving the Lands & Heritage of the American West It is a scene out of time. A group of cowboys ride through the pre-dawn fog, pushing a herd of cattle to water. A rope is untied. A flick of the wrist and the first rope finds its mark, then another. The cow is roped, doctored, and released with a tender pat and a word of encouragement. Her calf, waiting patiently nearby, trots to her side as they rejoin the herd.

The 103,000 acre Medano Zapata Ranch (“Zapata” for short) in Mosca, Colorado is a prime example. Purchased by TNC in 1999 during an effort by the residents of the San Luis Valley and like-minded conservationists to keep their water resources from being pumped to nearby cities, the preservation of the ranch and the creation of the Great Sand Dunes National Park were considered a major win for environmentalists. But TNC suddenly found itself the owner of one of Colorado’s largest cattle ranches as well as a resident herd of bison, a 17-bedroom lodge, and a golf course.

It is a scene of serenity. A valley the size of Connecticut awaits the coming day. The valley floor, 7,000 feet above sea level, is surrounded by the 14,000 foot peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. The sun briefly highlights the peaks in glistening profile before breaking over top, spreading light to the farms, forests, and rangeland below. It is a scene from the past with an eye to the future. Joining the ranch crew this morning are guests—men and women, young and old—who have come to experience one of America’s great landscapes and learn from those entrusted with its care. But in a place where wild buffalo are gathered on horseback, cattle are managed as a tool to promote biodiversity, and the land is revered as a wellspring of life and livelihood, this scene is hardly out of the ordinary.

TNC turned to Ranchlands Founder and CEO Duke Phillips— manager of the nearby Chico Basin Ranch on behalf of the Colorado State Land Board—for assistance managing the massive property. Ranchlands was initially engaged as manager of the agricultural side—the bison herd on the north side of the ranch and the cattle herd to the south— but was soon tasked with running the hospitality operation as well. The relationship grew, allowing Ranchlands to build its own cattle and guest business on the ranch, while maintaining TNC’s ability to use the ranch as a showcase for its conservation activities. The ink turned from red to black, and the targeted grazing programs aimed at increasing the land’s biodiversity seemed to be taking effect. One of the nations’ most fragile landscapes was beginning to heal.

This is Zapata Ranch, owned by The Nature Conservancy (TNC) and managed by Ranchlands, a group of conservation ranchers dedicated to preserving the lands and heritage of the American West. If an environmental organization and a ranching company seem strange bedfellows, it’s because until recently, they were. For decades, ranchers and conservationists seemed perpetually at odds, and a zerosum game of containment spread throughout the West. Recent years, however, have seen a détente that has proven beneficial for both sides.

“If you can bear…to watch the things you gave your life to broken, and stoop and build ‘em up with worn out tools…”

­— Rudyard Kipling, “If”


// 85 //


Then drought hit. Much of Colorado—and the West—had been in a prolonged dry spell for a decade. But 2011 saw the spigot turn off. By some measures, the drought grew worse than the Dust Bowl. Spring came and went with little moisture. Grass dried up and went dormant. The late summer monsoon clouds boiled tantalizingly close, but no rains fell. Their only calling card, a stiff westerly wind that swept the cracked, thirsty ground, carrying the topsoil away, leaving behind more bare ground. In this country, rain is a rancher’s lifeblood. In most cases, it’s too expensive to feed hay or irrigate pasture for grazing. If the land won’t grow enough grass to support the cattle, the cattle have to be sold. And so they were. And as more cattle hit the market, the value of herds that had taken years to build plummeted in a matter of months. There was nothing to do but wait. And hope. And pray. By the fall of 2011, the entire Zapata ranch had been destocked of cattle. There was no rain, no grass, and now no herd. The next year, the Chico—the sister ranch—seemed poised to suffer a similar fate. Plans were made for that herd to be sold as well, years of work auctioned off in a matter of seconds. Years of rebuilding lay ahead. The drought dealt a serious blow to Ranchlands and Zapata Ranch, but the organization’s DNA had prepared it for survival. Duke has always embraced diversification as an integral part of conservation. “When the weather turns sour, we have other businesses that we can rely on so we don’t have to overtax our grassland resource,” he explains. The Zapata’s thriving hospitality program played a large role in Ranchlands’ ability to manage through the drought. Guests of the ranch can enjoy horseback rides through Great Sand Dunes National Park; tours of the bison herd on horseback or by vehicle; ranch work including cattle moves, brandings, and infrastructure projects; nature hikes through the surrounding foothills; painting, photography, and cooking workshops; and massages, quality food, and evening entertainment. But a major component of the experience is the informal education that comes with it, as guests live the environmental ethic that imbues Ranchlands and Zapata. This sort of “outreach through education” is a common facet across Ranchlands’ properties, where educational opportunities range from hours-long field trips for elementary schoolers and college students, to week-long stays for ranch guests, to years-long apprenticeships for young people interested in pursuing ranching as a career. “An important part of our job as ranchers is telling the story of what we do

to care for the land,” says Duke. Case-in-point, the recently launched Ranchlands Review, a soi-disant “Journal About Ranching,” half showcase and half meeting place for those interested in ranching’s past, present, and future. But the foundation of everything is always a professional livestock operation. “We’re ranchers through and through,” Duke notes. “Everything we do comes from ranching, comes from the land. And knowing that our livelihoods are tied to the land, that creates a strong incentive to be responsible stewards of its future.”

“The toughness I was learning was not a martyred doggedness, a dumb heroism, but the art of accommodation. I thought: to be tough is to be fragile; to be tender is to be truly fierce.”

—Gretel Ehrlich, The Solace of Open Spaces

In the summer of 2012, it rained at Zapata. The rains returned just in time for the ranch receive cattle shipments from the Chico, acting as a lifeboat as the drought neared catastrophic proportions there. And then, in the summer of 2013, it rained on the Chico. Not much, but enough to awaken the dormant grasses and provide winter forage for the remaining herd. Quite literally, life had returned to the range. But the ongoing drought, and the lessons it brought, are always at the forefront of Ranchlands’ management decisions. This past summer, a Ranchlands Mercantile store was erected at the Zapata Lodge, creating a marketplace for goods used and produced on Ranchlands’ ranches. Plans are underway to expand use of the guest facilities throughout the year. And new initiatives are under consideration to expand Ranchlands’ portfolio to increase diversification and decrease susceptibility to regional droughts. To adapt is to survive. Not just to drought, but to all of the issues facing the American ranching community. Changing weather patterns. Rising land prices. Increasing environmental consciousness. An aging population of ranchers. Tackling each will require adaptation, innovation, and hard work. And Ranchlands is enlisting a novel ally in that struggle. “I want to build bridges,” says Duke, “between our community and people in town,” hopeful, as ever, that an invitation to see, to experience, and to learn will lead to the solutions that will save his land and his livelihood for future generations. —

“Go West, young man, go West. There is health in the country, and room away from our crowds…” — Horace Greely



I grew up in Maryland, a sort of grounded daydreamer. I have always been creative, so I decided that I would study interior design. In school I learned a lot about the foundations of design, processes, and shaping space. I have always drawn inspiration from the seasons, natural light, textures—and their contrast. I love linens and silks, birch bark, flower petals, worn cobblestones...anything I can find pattern and texture in inspires me.

take the time to notice. I use these details like puzzle pieces in my design, each one an important element in the final product. My husband, our bulldog Kane, and I recently relocated to Minneapolis. We’re thrilled about the adventure, and although the winters are a lot to bear, there is a vibrancy to the culture here. I’ve made some great friends in the creative community, and am energized by the ‘maker spirit’. I started a series on my blog about Minnesota makers—with trades like glassblowing, leather-working, woodworking, and painting. There are many fantastic goods that are made right here in our community, and I love sharing their stories.

I started a blog five years ago as a creative outlet for my design and began experimenting more with photography. I spent time developing my technical and composition skills and finding my own style. Today I specialize in food, still life, and travel photography.

In addition to having a deep passion for travel, I have a great yearning for the calm life at home. Slow mornings with coffee and a good book or sunny afternoons with an open bottle of wine. I love throwing on Frank Sinatra and creating a meal with my husband...these are the moments that make up our lives, and I think being intentional about how we spend our moments is truly important.

I’ve always been filled with a global curiosity, and I feel most alive when traveling and exploring the world. I’m fascinated by foreign cultures and traditions and how people live. The details and textures that can be found while traveling are amazingly intricate, if you




Just after the American revolution, but before the Civil War, the Great Depression, two world wars, and the Cold war, rural north-central Pennsylvania was little more than a largely spread out collection of family farms that collectively formed small communities. The United States was a small nation of only 24 states, only slightly developed, and surround by wilderness completely. It was in one of these small communities that one of America’s oldest heritage companies planted its roots. When John Rich II boarded a ship in Liverpool early in the nineteenth century, it’s doubtful he could’ve ever imagined that his voyage to the land of opportunity and entrepreneurship would allow him to build such a lasting legacy but today the family tradition and the mill still stand, a testament to the 183 year-old and oldest-running woolen mill in the U.S. In 1830, When John Rich II moved from a small community near Philadelphia to the north-central community of Little Plum Run, Pennsylvania, the area was little more than the typical landscape of family farms and lumbering communities. The son of a wool carder – the process by

which wool fibers are straightened – Rich had migrated to the U.S. years earlier with a great depth of knowledge about the wool industry. It was using this knowledge that he first began his career in operating woolen mills in Mill Hall before moving to Little Plum Run to join his business partner Daniel McCormick where they would begin the legacy that is Woolrich. Little Plum Run acted as the perfect beginning for the young upstart, so much so in fact that by the fourth year they had outgrown the small community. With a growing production demand, the limited access to water power for their growing factory operation forced Rich and McCormick to relocate the mill to a nearby community called Chatham Run in 1834. The Pine Creek Township began development first with the establishment of a sawmill that would build three log homes for the Rich family and their mill employees, along with a three-story brick woolen mill factory measuring thirty-five feet by fifty-five feet. In 1843 Rich bought McCormick’s interest in the company, becoming the sole proprietor and going on to turn the township into Woolrich, PA, the home to eight generations of the Rich family who still own and operate the company today. From that point, the community around Woolrich sprang to life, with several generations of Rich’s starting community housing, the Woolrich Community United Methodist church in 1868, and the iconic mile-long drive into town lined with 50-foot pines planted by members of that church after the unfortunate passing of M. B. Rich in 1930. The Woolrich community is one that seems untouched


by modern industry, still made up of the families who have worked the mills for generations, along with Rich and Brayton families. The Rich family has always controlled the company in one way or another and the current president, Nick Brayton, and vice president Joshua Rich, are no exceptions as they represent the seventh and eighth generations of the Rich family. Nick’s father Roswell Brayton, Jr. was a sixth generation Rich whose parents, Roswell Brayton, Sr. and Catherine Rich, moved from Rhode Island back to Woolrich, PA. in 1953. Robert F. Rich, great-grandson to founder John Rich, had asked that his daughter Catherine move to Woolrich with twoyear-old Brayton, Jr. so that Brayton, Sr. could help run the woolen mill and modernize the factory. Brayton, Jr. grew up in the community of Woolrich and recalled in his opening letter to Woolrich: 175 Years of Excellence that his childhood was filled with memories of sneaking into the woolen mill with his cousin John William Rich and jumping from one 500-pound bale of wool to another while sneaking by the factory watchman. Brayton, Jr. passed unexpectedly in 2007, leaving the Woolrich legacy in the hands of his son and the 7th generation of the Rich family, Nick Brayton. In 2010, Nick and his cousin and 8th generation Rich, Joshua Rich, started to take up ownership of the Woolrich, Inc. company together. “Throughout my college career I never planned to be the President of Woolrich,” Nick admits. “I grew up in the factory like my father, but I remember how late he had to work and how frustrated it made him sometimes. I had boiled it down to just that thought, and like most kids in my situation I guess I thought that wasn’t what I wanted.” However, when Nick was asked to take up the position, he knew it was the right decision for him and for Woolrich.

Since taking up control of Woolrich, Nick and his cousin Josh have started the transition into bringing some of Woolrich’s most popular items back to domestic manufacturers. “We’ve always woven our own wool here at the mill,” Josh says, “but in the late 80s and early 90s we had to start manufacturing some of our most popular items abroad to keep up with market demands. Now, we’re working to bring back some of those most classic items back, like the Woolrich Buffalo Plaid Shirt Jac.” Josh and Nick enlisted the help of their popular Italian branch and Executive Vice President Patrick Nebiolo to help bring back to light that iconic American heritage past the company is known for. The last couple of years have seen tremendous growth for the company in finding a new younger audience in heritage-minded Generation Y. “We started taking our shirts and blankets to Penn State tailgating events and realized we had a whole new audience that was aware of our company history and standards, they’re now some of our best clients,” says Leah Dole, Woolrich’s marketing and advertising director. Leah has started collecting swatches of the company’s past through archiving customer’s antique and vintage Hunting Shirt Jacs. “We want to keep the stories of everyone’s history with Woolrich alive. Those stories are so much a part of our community here,” Nick explains, “we have families that have worked here for generations. That’s the great thing about our products too, not only can a grandson have the same style Shirt Jac that his grandfather wore hunting, but he can inherit it.” The Woolrich family and company are still very much alive in Woolrich, PA. With its iconic pine-tree-lined mile-drive into town and 1830s mill, the town stands as a gleaming example of American industry and its lasting quality. —



o matter how many great photographs we see, we really never give much thought to who the person behind the lens is. Some pictures look as if they are seen through wise eyes, but not all of those wise eyes are old. For photographer Rikki Snyder that is definitely the case. This Generation Y photographer is wise beyond her 21 years and her images show that maturity in their complex and telling essence. Rikki is one of those great American storytellers that shares the stories of creative people and places with an artist’s mark just as creative as a master painter. Using her camera she captures the hard working and rewarding lives of makers in her country hometown, and travels into the city to capture the fast-paced and inspirational talents of designers.


Rikki grew up in Poughkeepsie, NY the daughter of two creative parents who fostered in her from an early age an appreciation and talent for the arts. “I was always into all things art related,” says Rikki. “Painting was a huge thing for me.” Growing up she fell in love with Claude Monet’s work and Impressionism since the first time she studied it in elementary art class. It’s no surprise looking at Rikki’s colorful and immense landscape photography that she was drawn in by Monet’s usage of color and his water lilies series in her later photography. Before photography, though, Rikki turned to arts and crafts to express her creativity. “Every holiday and new season I would create some sort of banner or drawing to hang on my bedroom door and I still get inspired by each new season or holiday with my photography and cooking,” she explains. That love of cooking is what shows most evidently in her work today. With an Italian father who graduated from the Culinary Institute of America and a Greek mother who taught her many family recipes it comes as no surprise that food runs in the family. “According to my mom I was also always in the kitchen at a young age. Even when I could hardly see over the countertop I was curious about what my mom was baking.” Rikki jokes that she had the most important job in the kitchen, licking the spoons or beaters.

Rikki picked up her love of baking from her mother and says they always had something delicious hanging around thanks to her. “Christmas time is the best. We have a huge list of our favorite cookies that we make every year. My job has since grown from simply adding the sprinkles to making dozens of batches,” she says. “Plus, my dad is a phenomenal chef and we are so lucky to have him cook at holidays.” Rikki says she has spent many a day in the kitchen with them baking and cooking and learning as much as she can. She laughs and says that she is always running straight to her parents with food related questions. However, Rikki has also taught herself many cooking techniques through the years by reading through her father’s massive textbooks from Culinary school. “In order to be a successful food stylist you have to understand all things about cooking. It’s very technical and chemical,” Rikki explains. “I really feel that my learning in the kitchen is never done. I’m always excited to bake something new and try different techniques.” Cooking isn’t her only passion, though, her photography is the medium by which she shares her love of cooking and travel. She first experimented with photography as a young child with basic disposable cameras until her parents bought her first 4-megapixel digital camera

for Christmas in middle school. “I started pursuing photography early on and after I traded my first digital camera in for a red Olympus—affectionately named Big Red—in high school I started to practice it every day,” she says. “Whether I was taking pictures of myself, friends, or my dog I remember taking that camera everywhere.” In high school, Rikki took several photography courses including film photography which taught her the basics of photography and camera use. In her junior year of high school she heard about a local photography school from a friend called Hallmark Institute of Photography, the school she ultimately ended up attending after graduating high school. “Being a straight-A student my parents were a little bit surprised when I told them that I wanted to do something photography related, but they quickly became supportive.” For 10 months, from 8 A.M. to 5 P.M., Rikki attended Hallmark to learn everything about photography as an art and a profession. Her education spanned from technical aspects of lighting to how to create a successful portraiture business. “When I began my time at Hallmark, I had the idea that I would graduate with a portrait oriented portfolio and would open my own


portrait studio someday.” That dream quickly changed when Rikki was introduced to the commercial studio where she shot products and still life. The first food photograph Rikki ever shot is still one of her favorites and will always be used in her portfolio. Despite her initial love of portraiture, Rikki ended up graduating with a food and still life portfolio that wowed the judges enough to help her win one of the top awards at graduation that year. After graduation, she dove into the food blogging world and created my her personal food blog to showcase her love of food and photography. “I never stopped shooting and that little blog of mine helped me get many clients that I now have today,” she laughs. Rikki realizes that she has had many influences in her life that show in her work but she just recently discovered that the artists and flavors of her local Hudson Valley have inspired her the most. “The Hudson Valley is such a beautiful area and it’s really hitting me lately that all the gorgeous landscapes, farms and outdoorsy atmosphere that I was accustomed to as a child has had such an everlasting effect on me and my photography. I’ve grown to really love the area and appreciate it and the people

I’ve met here.” She says that all the people she gets to meet, the places she travels to, and the beautiful things she sees on a daily basis are what make her love her job. Collaborating with artists, painters, floral designers, potters, knitters, and wood workers in her area gives Rikki a unique way to share the stories of the makers and creators of the Hudson Valley. A collector by nature, Rikki has started collections of many things through her photography. Whether it is beautiful and interesting pieces of antique furniture used as props or an impressive and humorous dead bug collection used for staging, Rikki is sure that the best collection she has amassed has been that of the stories of the individual artists and artisans she has met in her travels. She is also happy that she has been able to capture the love of food that she grew up with in her food-centric culture and heritage. Though she says it is impossible to pick just one favorite family recipe— probably Chickarina soup by her maternal grandmother or her paternal grandfather’s tomato sauce—she is happy that she has found a way to document all the wonderful recipes that have handed down to her generation. —


While every woman may be created equal, the same isn’t so for every woman’s clothing. No, I’m not talking about the feud between couture versus off-the-rack. I’m talking about having a wardrobe that makes you feel simultaneously feminine but empowered. Every woman has worn a boyfriend’s shirt, whether for the scent or the comfort, but for Sadie Roberts the days of those well-tailored shirts being reserved for the boyfriend are over. Sadie Roberts grew up in Rhode Island, a tomboy at heart and a doer of all things craft. She grew up always being a maker of things. “Cross-stitching, tie-dying, block-printing, and jewelry making,” Sadie says, “You name the craft and I’ve probably gotten into it.” Growing up all of her gifts were always hand-made or up-cycled. “In my heart I carry a respect and love for the craftsman tradition,” she says. Sadie went to art school in Rhode Island with an attention to textile design. “I also have an associate degree in woodworking,” she adds, “My work experience has covered building custom staircases to designing clothing and fabrics.” After school, Sadie and her—now—husband Jeremy worked full-time desk jobs. Those days were the begging of her journey toward turning her passion into her dream career. “Our story was inspired by what was missing when I shopped for myself,” Sadie explains. “I always found myself drifting towards the menswear section and thinking, ‘I wish they made this for me.’ After spending years tailoring men’s shirts and settling for women’s versions that never felt good, I began sewing and testing my own shirt.” Sadie started

sewing her own womenswear version of menswear shirts. She wanted to focus on the things she felt made menswear great with an attention to the fit, details, and quality often reserved for custom men’s tailoring. “Me and my husband stopped dining out, going to the movies, and out for drinks,” she laughs, “All of our extra money and time went to initiating our passion project.” Nights and weekends were full of planning, designing, and sourcing and in the end the hard work and long hours manifested themselves into Tradlands. A heritagestyle women’s line of menswear shirts, a classic tailored collection for the tomboy at heart who still wants to feel feminine. After an exhausting and rewarding journey, the website launched on February 5th, 2013. “My goal is to make great essentials for women,” she explains, “clothing that a mother can pass down to her daughter…or that her daughter will borrow from her closet.” Sadie and Jeremy decided very early on to keep production stateside. By manufacturing locally they are on hand during production runs, working closely with sewers, and inspecting each shirt that goes into their customer’s closet. “It allows us to create products we are proud of and guarantee,” she says. Now Sadie wakes up every morning to a job she loves and a job she gets to do with the person she loves, her husband. “I’ve had the chance to create a very inspired life, and I’ve had many inspirations for doing so,” says Sadie. Growing up, her parents always encouraged her to be creative, follow her dreams, and believe in herself. “They indulged all of my varied interests and projects,” she laughs. “The environment and encouragement they surrounded me with made anything and everything possible. It still does.”


Sadie’s interests are as varied as any true explorer of life. She and her husband have driven cross-country multiple times and she says these adventures are one thing that inspire her designs. Having been raised in Rhode Island, living in the Bay Area, and now living in Maine and visiting her husband’s family in the Midwest she draws a lot of the imagery of the lifestyle of her brand through travel. Aside from travel, she has a wide variety of interest she hopes she shares with the women who follow her brand. She’s never afraid to try something new and has recently been into skateboarding. “It’s a culture I’ve always loved,” she explains, “and I have wanted to learn to ride for a long time. I finally got my own board and learned to simply coast last year. No tricks yet. I’m excited for a summer full of thrashin’!” Sadie credits a lot of her inspiration for Tradlands to the places she’s been and the people she’s met. The people she surrounds herself with, including her husband Jeremy and her brother Alex inspire her and her designs most. “My brother, Alex, is a sort of modern Renaissance man,” she laughs. “He’s helped us redesign our website, and is opening his own dry goods store here in Maine, Pemaquid. I just finished using a few denim remnants to sew aprons for it.” “Jeremy keeps me motivated through the twists and turns of the business,” she says thoughtfully. “Most importantly, he gives me the space to be creative while gently nudging me to think of the big picture.” When the work day is long and stressful, he’s there to remind Sadie that all the hard work is worth putting in to live the life they’ve built together. “At the end of the day, I still want to make my Mom and Dad proud,” she says. “So I think of them often too.” Sadie sees her customer wearing a buttondown to sail off the coast of Maine, trek to Yosemite Falls, or join friends for a beer in Hayes Valley, San Francisco. She’s a tomboy at heart - but there is a confidence and ease that makes her decidedly feminine. The Tradlands woman probably prefers sun-kissed cheeks to blush, or worn in boots to stilettos. “For the world traveler or the green thumb or girl-about-town,” Sadie says, “I want to empower our customers with products that are both classic and comfortable, wherever their adventures take them.” — —

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Hi, I’m Scarlett Scales-Tingas with Scarlett Scales SCARLETT SCALES ANTIQUES Antiques. I’ve been in business for a little over ten years now. My old store was in one of Franklin’s only existing shotgun houses and now we’ve expanded to a much larger space right around the corner, which is in an old Sears and Roebuck house that they ordered from the Sears and Roebuck catalog. My family was A Fine Art Museum featuringamong threethe community gallery spaces. first to settle Williamson County a long time ago. In fact I grew up in my family’s ancestral plantation home and I’ve always been Collection includes 21 works by Winslow Homer, as well as surrounded by It’sand always been aWyeth. part of my life. My parents George Inness, Georgiaantiques. O’Keefe, Andrew liked to go antiquing as a hobby when I was young. At first I kind of got dragged along with them and didn’t really want to have to go. Then I became more Web: | Phone: (518) 673-2314 interested in it and developed a passion for antiques FIND YOURSELF IN OUR STORY. and a love of old pieces and finding them new homes. I decided to open an antique business and make my VISITFRANKLIN.COM passion my living right here in Franklin. S C A R L E T T S C A L E S -T I N G A S , O W N E R

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hen people dream of living in the country, I imagine they don’t give much thought to the flies, pollen, grain chaff, and heat; the smell, wind, or dust. Growing up, the fivehundred head of livestock we owned consumed several tons of grain, hay, and corn each day; Let’s just say not all of our dust was made of dirt. I don’t know how the West was won, but I can imagine it probably conquered a few indomitable wills along the way.

amaze me how a colt in full sprint can reach back and bite his rider’s shin without ever breaking stride.

I worked with these cattle in these conditions and I couldn’t fathom that this land—this plain—was someone’s romanticized dream of country life. I hated the work most. You couldn’t escape the filthy combination of dust and grime, of animal and earth. When Grandpa said to be at the barn by seven, he didn’t mean 0700, you were expected be there at 6:45 A.M. The cows wouldn’t milk themselves at four in the morning, nor would the grain irrigate itself. The calves had to be fed, and the horses caught, all before nine if we were going to get to horse breaking.

After several hours of riding, in these watercolor landscapes—usually right about the time the pain from the saddle fell numb—we’d return to the truck and, in reverse order, undo all the work of saddling the horses, repack, cram our butts back into the truck, and return home. Only this time, we’d stop by the first gas station we met where Dad would buy us whatever treat we wanted. At the end of our drive we’d drop the cousins and uncles off at their homes, leaving the work of unpacking to my brother, father, and me. Only when we had unpacked the horse trailer could we waddle home with our saddle-sore thighs and crawl into bed; Just to repeat it all the next day.

I will admit the chore of breaking mostly fell to my Grandpa and father, but my brother and I had the privilege of holding the ropes as the colts kicked up the aforementioned ‘dust.’ After several days of this repetition, the time came for my brother and me to run the horses like we were being chased by hellfire. It will never fail to

I won’t say it didn’t have its rewards. We had our fair share of trips to the Palisades and Grand Tetons. Even if the trips required a wake-up call at five in the morning to catch horses, pack saddles, and load trailers. Six butts crammed into an extended cab ‘88 Chevy Dually for a two-hour drive, it wasn’t ideal but it was all about the destination.

When people dream of living in the country, I don’t imagine them giving much thought to the work and sweat that goes with a true country life, but that’s just what I’ll never forget.


“Life is meant to be lived without fear, without regret, and with an attitude that you can truly accomplish anything, and go anywhere. To do this, one must live free and must be willing to WANDER.�

FOLK | No. 15 | Wander.  

We journey around the world in search of authentic stories and authentic people.

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