For the past couple of years, we have done something really cool at Christmas time. We invite our friend Carl Blair over to paint with us. It’s like art class, except the art teacher is a serious business artist. And we all get around a table and paint the artwork for our Christmas mailings.

This year, we threw C.B. a curveball. We prepped the canvases with an under coat of silver and gold metallic. He seemed to think it was cool. He did the first painting by himself. Started with the sky. Worked his way down. Then, he used the ends of the brushes (the part without the bristles) to scratch through and reveal the metallic. It was so cool. So, among other things, Carl Blair can hit a curveball.

In other news, our friend Curtis came to visit from San Antonio. He is a former (and perhaps future) youth pastor, who is using his graphic design skills right now. He has a nice time meeting C.B. at our office. In fact, God seemed to like the two of them together, because the next day, while Anne, Curtis, and I were having coffee at Starbucks, who walks in but Carl and his friend Carol. They sat with us and chatted for a while.

Then, later that night, Curtis, Anne, and I went to Flight for dinner with…Carl Blair (and our best art dealer friend, Sandy).

Curtis had the sniffles, so he stayed at the house and snoozed and relaxed while Anne and I made a Saturday run to Asheville for breakfast with the sisters. Kind of overcast day. Curtis will have to come back when he feels better…and when Asheville feels better too.

Then, we ran around, got artisan bread, listened to Revival Hymn, made black beans and rice, and generally had fellowship with Curtis. And at 4:30 Sunday morning, we got up to take Curtis to the plane. But we wanted to adopt him.

It was three days of little unexpected treasures. Silver and gold. I love that song. Don’t you?

When my older brother was teaching at Cal State Northridge…back in the 20th century…he had an office mate who was famous for his Kentucky wisdom. One thing he said a lot was, “If you want someone to think you’re smart, tell them you think they’re smart.”

When I first heard it, I thought it was just an ism from a glad-hander. But over the years, I’ve seen it work. And work. And work.

And, there’s a flip side. If you know you’re going to have to come up with a plausible support for the claim that somebody is smart, you start looking for reasons why people are smart. Before you know it, you start to think highly of those around you, as you begin to observe all the smart things they say and do.

Now, I don’t know everyone who will read this post. But I do know that you’re smart. I can be sure of this based on your reading habits.

I’m off to Rock Hill tomorrow to visit a prospective client. I will be meeting Vivian at 7:20 in the morning here at the headquarters for the two-hour drive. So, one thing I can be thankful for is that the coffee maker will be up about five minutes before I am, and the coffee will be fresh and hot. I guess that’s two things. We’re praying for a great presentation, a good conversation, some new friends, and an agency | client relationship that will last a long time.

Last weekend, we saw three awesome bluegrass (well sort of) shows at The Peace Center Bluegrass Festival. I hope they keep having the festival, because it is an awesome place to hear good music, and because a little Bluegrass is a good foil for the high culture we usually find there.

Cherryholmes. There is a lot to like about this family group. The dad’s beard is a work of art. The mom is obviously an excellent musician, and should be hugged for home-schooling an entire bluegrass band. The older sister plays a pretty good banjo and is a solid singer. The two brothers are great on guitar, mandolin, and fiddle. But the real surprise is little Molly Kate on fiddle.

Now, this band started in 1999, so Molly Kate would have been six. I don’t suppose anyone had any clue how good she was going to turn out on the fiddle. And her stage presence is reflective of her “baby of the family” status. She fidgets with the tuning, cleans the frog of her bow with her shirt tail, paces around the stage, and tries to avoid talking. But man can she play. I mean SHE…CAN…PLAY! She must be surprising them every day with her development, because she seems to be sheltered from the main singing duties. So much more was the pleasant surprise when she took center mike for her one vocal lead. I’m talking Billie Holiday, Janice Joplin, and Alison Krause…in one little shy 16-year-old. Gave me chills. I can’t wait to see them again. Of course, by that time Molly Kate will have erupted into a full-blown vulcano of talent. So it might be hard to get tickets.

Also, as they were doing their final credits and thank-yous at the end of the show, they did something I’ve never seen anyone do. They thanked Megan Reigel, CEO of The Peace Center for having them.

To me, the coolest things about Cherryholmes is their story.

The next night we saw The Punch Brothers featuring Chris Thiele. He’s amazing. They’re amazing. It was amazing. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Then, on Sunday afternoon, it was Doyle Lawson and Quicksilver. This is the group that invented Bluegrass Gospel. It’s sort of half Bluegrass and half Southern Gospel. Neither genre really embraces Doyle. But it was a wonderful time. And he glorified the Lord. So I gotta give him that.

There’s just something about Bluegrass music and Bluegrass people. Everybody that listens also plays. And everybody that plays is also a fan. So old-time pickers can appreciate the chromaticism of Chris Thiele. And a bereft family can park among the buses at a festival and get the hugs and handshakes to encourage their hearts. It’s all summarized by one thing all three bands said as they finished their performances…

“We’ll be in the lobby after the show to ‘shake and howdy,’ and we look forward to meetin’ ya.”

Now I remember why I love Bluegrass. It’s the music. But it’s not just the music.

We had a great time at the furniture market. Lots of cool discoveries.

A few years ago, the furniture business was changing. Consumers were very happy to buy not-so-well-made furniture, since the trend was to treat furniture as disposable. Fashion was the only driver of furniture purchases. And so, if you’re looking for a sofa in this year’s color, you buy the cheapest one, right. Rooms to Go wins. High Point looses.

So, retailers were becoming very price sensitive, and not too quality sensitive. As a result, many of the furniture plants in and around High Point cut back or shut down. The manufacturing was outsourced to Asia, where labor was cheap and quality was … okay … ah … labor was cheap so the furniture was cheap, so if the quality wasn’t quite there, it was close enough.

To add insult to injury, a major furniture show started in Las Vegas. Now, Vegas is a convention | trade show kinda town. And High Point is not. In fact, High Point is a little out of the way—like, you can’t get there from here…it isn’t on the way to anything, if you get my drift. So, it was lookin’ like High Point was about to become a part of the quaint history of the furniture industry. But…

A small industry grew up, repairing | finishing furniture made in Asia that was below spec or damaged in transit. This added cost to those cheap pieces coming over by the container load.

Then, since the better brands remained sort of picky about materials, wood had to be shipped to Asia, from which to make the furniture. This added to the expense of the “cheap” furniture.

Then, fuel prices went up, wages started climbing in Asian countries that did the manufacturing, and the dollar started dropping. Suddenly, those old boys in North Carolina, making furniture by hand, with pride and craftsmanship, started looking downright competitive.

Then, a major trend started among, of all people, upscale Asian consumers. They wanted furniture that was not just an American brand, but that was actually, demonstrably, made in the U.S.A. Once manufacturer told us that they had to create a special, over-sized “Made in U.S.A” label, specifically for their Asian customers.

Then, something happened in Las Vegas. Turns out that Vegas loves a party, whereas High Point loves furniture. So, at 6:00, the Vegas show closes, in order to get everyone out to the strip. In High Point, around 6:00, appetizers are served in preparation for dinner at many of the showrooms. Customers, reps, and designers sit down to dine at (and among) some of the finest furniture in the world. And the dinner conversation is … what else … furniture.

At the worst of the furniture downturn, one sad story was told of an entire town that was wiped out. The manufacturer closed the mill, people put their houses up for sale (but they didn’t sell), and left town to find work. Suddenly, that manufacturer is scrambling to get those workers back. As Scooby Do would say, rots-o-ruck.

Tomorrow, Anne and I have been invited to High Point, North Carolina for the fall furniture market. Our friend, and once-and-future client Eddie Merrell shot us an email a couple weeks back and asked us to come and spend the day, as his guests. I’m really looking forward to it. If you’ve never had the opportunity to go to one of these markets, let me tell you about it.

This, along with the spring market, has been the cornerstone of the American furniture industry for decades. The industry has been driven by designers and craftsmen for most of its history. The way it has always worked is this. Designers for every furniture manufacturer work for about six months on the fall (or spring) collection. Drexel Heritage, Henrydon, Harden, Baker, Hickory White, Hickory Chair, Ferguson Copeland, Stickley…every major and most minor manufacturer is represented.

The collections are hand-built into prototypes—some of these things are one-of-a-kind works of art. And then all the furniture retailers swarm to High Point for a week-long show. Each manufacturer has a “showroom.” Some of these showrooms are actually permanent structures, with elaborate reception areas, significant architecture, meeting spaces…one has a patio overlooking a golf course. And the retailers are greeted with old-fashion Southern hospitality (since the industry has historically resided primarily in the Southern highlands).

The retailers walk through the showrooms and place their store orders based on the prototypes. It’s like selecting from a 3D catalog, in which you walk around. Many (maybe most) of the prototypes never receive orders. And only those with enough orders for practical mass manufacturing ever go into production. There is, in fact, a subset of the furniture industry built around buying up and distributing “non-performing” prototypes. Chairs with arms that are too curly. Tables with too much gold leaf on the race-track borders. Furniture with legs that are too heavy or too spindly. Wardrobes with too much “distressing” on the doors. Things that are too delicate, to masculine, too shiny, too dull, too … last decade, too … next year.

A couple of things we love about market, that you just don’t find anywhere else:
• the genteel hospitality, even as they do hard-ball business deals
• the realization that furniture goes in and out of style…every six months
• the sense of how BIG the furniture industry is
• the sense of stepping back in time, to the way all business used to be conducted
• the feast of master craftsmanship and incredible design
• the chance to see spectacular furniture, you may never see again
• the opportunity to spend a day with our old friend, Eddie.

We had the afternoon off last Friday. Time was, we would have packed up our SUV and headed to a top-secret escape location in Chattanooga, Saluda, Blowing Rock, Atlanta, or elsewhere. But times are different. So we reverted to the habits of simpler times. Jumped in the Prius and headed for Skytop Orchard to pick apples in Flat Rock.

Skytop is the coolest place. It’s on the top of a mountain, off the side of a side road. One of those old-fashioned, nothin’ fancy places you used to find in the mountains of Western North Carolina—before we were overrun with Yankees and McMansions. At the top of the mountain is a wooden shed, where you can get caramel apples, mulled cider, apple donuts, and other cool apple-related stuff. Then, cascading down the hillside, are the orchards.

This really nice young woman, with a sweet smile and very little makeup, tells you the deal. You can either get this size basket (a bushel) for this amount, or you can get this size basket (a peck) for this amount. Then, you get to take a walk down the side of a gently sloping hillside…autumn leaves crunching under foot, down walkways between rows of apple trees. The whole place smells like cider.

We wanted Granny Smith. So we had to go down past the Fujis, between the Mutsu, across the gravel road, and there they were. We picked our peck. Then we walked, hand-in-hand, back up the hill. We took the long way, past the sheep and the ducks.

There is plenty not to like about these strange times. But one thing we’ve been missing for a long time, that I’m kinda glad we have back is …

apple picking.

This is not the place to talk politics. And I am going to try not to. But is anyone else really tired of the meaningless slap fight that is trying to pass for a presidential campaign?

We’re going to have round three this evening, and it will be another hour or two of…well he’s not much of an American…oh, yeah, well he’s not really for change, except for the loose change in your pockets…oh, yeah, well he hangs out with bad people…oh, yeah, well he hangs out with the bad president…oh, yeah, well he has the bad former president campaigning for him…oh yeah…

Just knock it off already.

John McCain is a dedicated, honest American, who has made gigantic sacrifices to serve this country in the way he thought was best. You may agree or disagree with his positions on issues or some of his decisions, but please. Stop with the personal slap fight.

For the forty-eleventh time, Barack Obama is NOT a Muslim. He is NOT a terrorist. He is a courteous, well-spoken, well-educated man, who loves his country and wants what is best for it. You might disagree with his opinion of what is best for America. But it is just no-class to be defaming the guy’s character.

Somebody is going to win this election. My Bible says that God will use that somebody to achieve His purposes. Some people seem to like the fact that this is a very divided country. They want to do what ever they can to drive the wedge deep. But this is a serious time. This is not the time for slap fights. So please…

Just stop it!

Over the weekend we went with our friends Nancy and Glen to see Irvin Mayfield and the New Orleans Jazz Orchestra. It was some sweet jazz, I gotta tell ya.

Now, there are a lot of ways to appreciate Jazz.

Back in 1975, I went to see the Thad Jones/Mel Louis big band at Ohio State. They were like this tight, smooth jazz machine. Pepper Adams played this groaty old Selmer bari sax, with lacquer peeling off of it. But he made the thing hummmmm. And they had a second trumpet player named Cecil Bridgewater. I have often wondered what happened to him, and here he is. He played what looked like a gold finished benge or maybe a schilke. I had never heard anything like it. Just pure sweet tone, mostly middle register, and blistering speed. And the sax section sounded like Basie. Well, I missed hearing Basie live. But it sounded like Basie on wax.

I thought I would never get excited about a big band performance again. Then, last year, Megan treated us to Jazz at Lincoln Center…Wynton Marsalis and this virtuoso, all star New York jazz band. A soloist on every chair. These are the kind of cats that could sight read the phone book. They did some seriously amazing things with rhythm and edgy harmonies. And the solos made you cry.

I’ve heard some awesome small ensembles. Dizzy. Charlie Byrd. Herb Ellis. The best evening of music I ever experienced was Oscar Peterson…all…by…himself. He didn’t just play the thing, he picked it up and walked around. He stirred the keys. It was hypnotic. Sarah Vaughn opened for him. I think she was awesome, but I honestly don’ remember. Tony Bennet was cool a couple of times.

And I will never forget the time I saw Bobby McFerrin open for the Wynton Marsalis Quintet at the Ohio Theater. Back then, Branford was still playing with Wynton. I thought it would be a jazz night to remember—like history in the making. Got there and Bobby McF. just owned the audience. Then, they took a break, and out came the quartet. After Bobby, it was like having some professors lecture on jazz. So Wynton says, “Bobby McFerrin is back here, and he has some serious ears. I’m going to ask him to come out and sing with us.” So Bobby came out and sang a sax part with the quartet. I was without socks.

So. I’m jaded. And Friday night, we have dinner, and mosey over to…yawn… hear some jazz band from New Orleans.

These guys were awesome. Almost two hours with no intermission. They loved us. They loved the music. They loved each other. They played tambourines. They sang through their axes. The perfessor bit his reed and made ethereal sounds come out of the tenor. Little dude made me like the clarinet—after 50 years of hating the thing. They raised the roof. Weren’t as tight as Thad. Weren’t as virtuosic as Wynton. Weren’t as cool as Bobby. But the word is…what is it…joy. Yeah. That’s it. Joy.

I just counted. That’s eleven zeros. Eleven. Eeeee-leven!

$700,000,000,000 is $50,000 each to the next 14,000,000 (that would be one million x 14) people who become unemployed because of this mess. $2,000 for every American. What if we do … less … more … nothing?

I don’t know the answer. I’m gonna have to ask.

Of course, the one thing I’m sure we’ve done too little of regarding this crisis … is pray.