Shake hands and smile
Some townies don't know each other -- and don't want to. Also, a tour of Miniature Art.
by Sally Cragin
Residents of Tritown seldom have the opportunity to meet someone new, because
nearly everyone is related, if not by blood then by employment history or a
shared school past. Hollis the Mountain Man is the least sociable denizen of
Tritown, yet he's frequently persuaded by his father and mother to appear at
local gatherings. "To swell the headcount," says his mother, a political maven
on both town and state levels.
One afternoon, when the sun is warm, he sits on the porch facing the lake with
Delia Ellis Bell the Partial Yankee (there was a questionable
great-great-grandmother). Hollis tells her his mother recently commanded him to
appear at a dinner to benefit a local river clean-up. He only agreed to attend
because flannel shirt and dungarees were an acceptable costume for an
environmental event. Delia wanted to hear gossip, but all Hollis could talk
about were his father's well-meaning but awkward attempts to acquaint him with
various attendees.
(The `Townie Introduction' is a specialized formality, usually containing a
dissertation's worth of background information, extraneous genealogy, and
footnoted asides.)
Hollis begins, "My Dad actually introduced me to an old geezer with this
phrase: `Hollis, you remember Mr. Fogarty, who used to go hunting with your
Uncle Wilton? Well, his daughter is the step-cousin of Mr. Flinty here, whose
wife used to work at the handcrafts table at the Hospital Fair with your
mother.' Then Mr. Fogarty -- or Mr. Flinty, I was really confused by this time
-- held out his hand and smiled and said, `Hollis, I knew your brother, Mason,
better than you, because he used to come cut the grass at my sister Frances's
place. But then, of course, I used to see your Dad at the Honorable Brotherhood
of Moose barbecue in the summer.'"
"Your eyes must have glazed over," Delia says. "So who was the old
geezer, anyway?"
"Dunno," Hollis shrugs. "I just shook hands and smiled, like Ma told me to.
But that wasn't the worst of it."
"Oh really," says Delia. "Do tell . . . "
"Well," Hollis begins haltingly. "There was this kind-of attractive woman
there -- unfortunately, completely, obviously married," he supplies.
"Howdja know?" asks Delia.
"Well, a big clunker on the relevant finger," he continues. "Plus, when she
heard my name, she said, `Oh, my husband went to school with your
brother, Mason, and my cousin Muffin has a summer-house on The Point where your
uncle Webster and aunt Winnie live.'"
Hollis fiddles with his fraying shirtcuff. Formal socializing tends to leave
him with an emotional hangover, and he has small capacity for meeting new
faces, even appealing female ones.
"Oh, well," Delia says. "Maybe if she becomes available, you'll at least know
how to track her down." Then the other shoe drops. "`Muffin'?!" she cackles. "I
didn't know Webster and Winnie, the consummate Granite State pair, actually
crossed paths with preppy swells . . . "
"They don't!" he insists. "Webster and Winnie live near the same bass-crammed
lake in New Hampshire they've lived near for 40 years. It's the preppy swells
who cross paths with them!"
"Well, you don't have to yell!" she barks irritably. For a moment, all
is silent at the Mountain Lair. Delia and Hollis sit on the front porch,
watching a breeze ripple the newly melted pond.
Most of the snow has melted, but patches remain in the shady areas. Overhead,
birds twitter companionably, and the spring sun warms the earth, prompting a
rich aroma of humus to waft about the Mountain Lair. Hollis speaks first. "I
hate parties," he grumbles. "The people you already know, you met already, and
the other people you're never going to see again, so what's the point?"
"Hollis," Delia says, with an edge in her voice. "Your mother manages to
persuade you into the social arena about twice a year, which is a tiny
percentage of your time, really."
He thinks for a moment, and then exhales loudly. "Yeah, that's true. No matter
how social she gets, there's a limit. And, eventually, Mason and Sunshine's
Tots will grow up, and she can get them to go to parties."
"A perfect plan," says Delia, and then snickers softly. "`Muffin' and the
Mountain Clan -- what a pairing." Hollis shoots her a poisonous look, and she
diplomatically changes the subject. "Uh, Hollis? Didn't I see a tray of goodies
from that party in your fridge? Ham salad "bunwiches," three-bean salad, and
coconut tea-cake? Feel like having a snack?"
"Might as well," he says, bounding to his feet. "I got so nervous at that
party, I just kept stashing food for later."
"And you call yourself an amateur partygoer," chides Delia good- naturedly,
leading him back to the kitchen.
Small is beautiful for the recipients of Upton-based artist Marcella Stasa's
unique "Miniature Art of the Month Club." For the past dozen years, she has
constructed, packaged, and mailed charming -- and tiny -- works of art to
subscribers. One month recipients might get a dried leaf, inked and waxed,
that's been crocheted around the edges. Another month might bring an
"installation" constructed of wire, shells, chamois cloth, and ink no bigger
than a matchbox.
At the end of a year, one has an exhibit of tiny masterpieces, all linked
thematically or by material. "I'll create something that is a miniature
`space,' so that if you were a mouse, you could enjoy it," says the artist.
"Part of what I want to convey is a sense of intimacy and magic -- even
ethereal."
Stasa's work has been exhibited at a variety of galleries, studios, and
museums, and she is the recipient of numerous state and foundation grants. She
is one of the rare artists who supports her art -- with other art.
For the past 13 years, Stasa has been running Miniature Art as an adjunct to
her principal occupation as a ceramicist (her whimsical clay animals are on
sale in Cambridge (Cambridge Artist's Coop, and Suzie's Gallery), Rockport, and
in studios in San Francisco, Chicago, and elsewhere. She mails Miniature Art of
the Month all over the country.
"I want my hand in every one," she says. "Telling people why art is important
is hard, because it may not be as important as feeding your kids, but feeding
your mind is important. I feel that's what I teach people to do -- open up
their minds."
For more information, send an SASE to: Miniature Art, 211 North Street,
Upton 01568.
Physicists used to say, "Matter cannot be created or destroyed," but the
harvest of snow from the April Fool's blizzard suggests otherwise. Most
residents of Tritown have their own driveways, but those unfortunates who must
park on a congested street have devised methods of establishing ownership of a
parking space which they've invested hours of shovelling to earn. If you take a
tour of the more urban neighborhoods of Tritown, the objects left between
snowdrifts prompt a fascinating game: "Look at the object and try and guess
what kind of person driving what kind of car left it to mark his or her space."
Delia calls this an exercise in "observational skills."
Felix the Urban Naturalist, who lives among more asphalt than good earth,
usually wins this game. His most recent victory included the following
observations: A brightly striped canvas and metal beach chair is the token of
the young career woman who drives a Saab; the three-legged kitchen chair, too
splintered to repair, marks the spot of a thrifty geriatric. The young man with
a truck, too big for urban living, needs two plastic milk cartons ("borrowed"
from the Tritown Dairy last year) to mark his place. And, finally, the niece of
a longtime civil servant uses an attractive orange plastic pylon coated with
expensive reflective tape. (This token is also marked with initials,
"TG&E," subtly identifying it as the former property of the Tritown Gas
& Electric Board.
Tritownies will help shovel each other out, but god help anyone who
messes with a parking spot after a snowstorm, and it's a good thing
Massachusetts has firm policies regarding firearms.
Sally Cragin directs the Creative Writing Program at Fitchburg Art Museum.