The summer when I was 19 going on 20, I worked at a Po Folks restaurant near the interstate in Bowling Green, Kentucky. For those of you not familiar with Po Folks, it was sort of a down-market Cracker Barrel, serving the same type of fare and offering every type of sugary soft drink imaginable in a mason jar, before mason jars became appropriated by hipsters and Pinterest enthusiasts. In many ways, it was the hardest job I have ever had, lugging trays of country fried steaks to tables of ten, all of whom required constant Fanta orange refills, and all in exchange for a dollar bill tucked into a miniature Gideon Bible left as a tip. The night I made $40 in tips — and on an all-you-can-eat night, no less — I was practically a celebrity.

I am pretty sure I lived in a bubble when I was 19 going on 20, and although I never would have characterized myself this way then, it is fair to say that I was young and dumb. Several truths of the Po Folks job have revealed themselves to me only with the passage of time. The older man — the one who sat with his daughter in my section every Tuesday evening and thought that I was his wife — had dementia. The woman who came to hear live music every Friday — the one with Sharpie drawings for eyebrows and a terrible wig that rested midway on her forehead — had alopecia. The bad tattoos on some of the grizzled servers and kitchen staff may very well have come from prison, and when the kitchen staff found out that I was headed for law school and peppered me with questions on behalf of friends about increasingly bizarre “accidental” situations in which they found themselves, those questions were really about their own lives.

It was hard work, and often frustrating, and it’s the only job I’ve ever had where every night featured a stress dream, hungry people yelling while I sleep-rearranged fried chicken or fried steak on the covers pooled at the end of my bed. But I will say this for that job: It was probably the most important job that I have ever had for a number of reasons, ranging from an encyclopedic knowledge of every country music song from the summer of 1987 to the sheer gratitude that I feel every day for having the good fortune of making a living from my brain instead of my back. While I promptly burned the mauve calico apron and matching hair bow that was part of the official Po Folks uniform, the name tag has stayed with me for 30 years:

(Yes, it features my name burned on a wood chip.)

My son is 19 going on 20 this summer, and in February or so, he started thinking about a summer job. He ended up being hired by the Maine Conservation Corps, a group that falls under the umbrella of AmeriCorps. When he got the job, he had visions of walking alone along Maine trails, a hand saw tucked into his ultra-light backpack, and assisting wayward hikers while he had Zen moments in rapid succession. Reality hit when he received a supply list that included (in no particular order) steel-toed boots, work pants, three different types of work gloves, full rain gear, and basic camping equipment. The list led to questions like Dickies versus Carhartts, pants versus overalls, and high boots versus not as high boots. (In case you’re interested, the answers are Carhartts, both, and high boots.) And the list did not include hard hats and safety goggles, both of which would be supplied by the program. For whatever reason, he did not qualify for chain saw training, which would have necessitated other supplies.

You may be thinking, Even though he did not qualify for chain saw training, aren’t you worried about him, tramping around the back woods of Maine? There is only one correct answer: I am absolutely terrified. But to put this in perspective, I am absolutely terrified about my children’s safety any time when I cannot see them and occasionally even when I can. I can go down that rabbit hole when they drive 2.4 miles from home to Publix to pick up eggs — if you have ever seen Savannah drivers, you would totally understand — and when they assure me that they can safely climb an extension ladder to trim the creeping fig off the house in the rain. I cannot let it stop them or me, for that matter. It is just there.

So he flew last weekend from Savannah to LaGuardia to the tiny airport in Portland, Maine. He was smart enough to insist on Chick-Fil-A biscuits before he left, and kind enough to text his mother immediately upon arrival. He walked around Portland for a few hours, made his way to an Airbnb that I vetted and he booked, and while the description hinted of homemade bread and a free yoga class, it really resulted in his being loosed on the streets of Portland at 7 a.m. last Sunday. He walked around some more, dashed off a postcard that arrived a few days ago, and took a Greyhound bus to Augusta, Maine, a two hour trip with four stops over 45 miles.

And so began the adventure.

But first, it didn’t. Augusta is a town of 18,000 people — about the size of Moultrie, my hometown — and the third smallest state capital in the United States. This prompted only one question: What are the two smaller ones? And before he left, we spent one dinner looking into it. The smallest state capital is Montpelier, Vermont, with about 7,000 or 8,000 people. The next smallest is Pierre, South Dakota. I managed to wind up on Trip Advisor’s page about Pierre and perused the top ten attractions in the city. Several of them were restaurants and bars, one of them was a memorial statue, and my hands-down favorite was number four, the Trail of Governors, a short walking trail where one could stroll by bronze statues of (what else?) South Dakota governors.

I am not sure that I had the wherewithal to look up the top ten attractions of Augusta, Maine, because it is a very long slide indeed from the pinnacle of the Trail of Governors.

But he was there for a few days, with no phone coverage and with first aid and training courses to attend, and then he shipped out to the wilderness. We got a text from him saying that he was safe and a little cold and wet, and then we got a text asking how life was at our plush office jobs.

He finally got phone coverage yesterday — Saturday — while Chris and I were eating our own Chick-Fil-A biscuits. His crew of eight had been assigned to clear a trail at a summer camp, and in a rare bit of luxury, they stayed in cabins while they worked. As a veteran of many (previously cleared) trails, he was surprised and impressed by the sheer amount of work that it took to make a path. He talked about something that I thought was a Pic-matic, which sounded for all the world like a powered rock buster, but what was really a pick-mattock, which is a rock buster powered by my son. He was constantly hungry (which, like my fear about his safety, is nothing new), and he was often bone tired. He also sounded about happier than I had ever heard him: out in the woods, with freedom, making a little money, working hard, doing something entirely different. He planned to hike on his days off with his crew-mate Josh — who was impossibly from Bowling Green, Kentucky — and then drive up and down the Maine coast, seeing the same familiar ocean that lapped his home lapping an unfamiliar place. I am so happy for him, and only a little bit envious.

I tell my children constantly that you are old a lot longer than you are young. I try to stress to them to do things that they really want to do, for there is no time better than now. I warn them that one day they will wake up afraid, and that it may take them a while to clear their own trail through that particular forest. I am so proud of him right now, and I know that he will not forget this summer.

One of my favorite features on my phone is the weather app. I have five cities that immediately come up, in this order: Savannah, Athens, New York, Paris, and now Augusta. I can tell you that it is now 63 degrees and mostly sunny in Augusta, Maine, that sunset is at 8:12 p.m., that sunrise is 4:59 a.m. tomorrow, and that he may need that rain gear on Monday. I went to Maine the summer before my senior year of high school, and I can still remember its beauty. I can picture it enough in my mind’s eye so that I can place my son, no longer a child but still hungry and a little tired, waking up and pausing for a moment before grabbing the pick-mattock and heading into the woods. I can see the sun streaming in and I can feel the cool air and I can almost be overwhelmed by the blues and the greens and the browns of the wilderness. He is there, and he is happy, and 30 years from now, he will begin to understand all that he could not understand in the moment.

ALC

I work in a ten story office building — a skyscraper by Savannah standards — and thanks to never-ending elevator modernization projects, only one elevator works at a time. The one working car has become a building melting pot, giving the riders a glimpse of the famed fourth floor and its constantly partying occupants, the bank employees headed to their breakroom with their lunches, the architects with their hipster glasses, and the lawyers with their straightforward glasses. We have all become closer, if for no other reason than to swap stories about how the second elevator car recently failed inspection for the third time.

The elevator situation puts me on a car frequently with a woman who likes to comment on my appearance. Regular readers may remember that several weeks ago, she — like a small boat against a strong tide — encouraged me to “be a whole lot prettier” and quit wearing my glasses. Her commentary has segued into statements like “only you would wear that” and “what an unusual color” and “that’s a really different combination.” My fellow southerners will recognize all the makings of a backhanded compliment, but she lacks the accent of a cradle southerner. So I credit her with genuine efforts at being nice and thank her for her kind words. (All bets are off if she ever ends one of her observations with “bless your heart.”)

I have to admit that she really tested me on Thursday afternoon. I had court that morning, so I dressed sedately, as a lawyer should: A well-fitted black suit with 3/4 length sleeves and a straight skirt, an ivory lace blouse, snake print loafers with a gold bit and a matching handbag, and knotted at my throat, a enormous Windex-blue scarf with a cartoonish map, in pink and orange tones, of the garden at Versailles. Court had left me drained, and even as a wild extrovert, I wanted to speak to nobody. So as I boarded the elevator, I left on my sunglasses, with their big pinkish-purple frames. As I stood there in a slightly sour mood, the woman got on, looked me up and down, and said, “I always enjoy seeing what you have on. You have your own little sense of style.”

It was the “little” that got me, for I would like to think that I have at least a medium sense of style with a trending will to bigness. But a ride of two more floors did not give me time to launch into these niceties. Oh no. I just kept my musings to myself, said thank you, exited the elevator, and this weekend, as I sewed a dress for gardening and painting, I thought, There’s nothing little about this, lady.

I realize that the sane reader may be thinking, You sewed a dress for gardening and painting? Let me offer a two-fold explanation. First, a bad photograph is a potent catalyst. I have lost weight, changed hairstyles, discarded clothes, worked on my posture, and begun wearing sunscreen all due to bad photographs of myself. Your own eye is such a flattering beast, apprising you in the mirror and concluding that you, in fact, look just fine. A photograph does not extend that kindness, exposing — sometimes cruelly — what a liar your own eye can be. So it was with a photograph my friend Julie snapped of me a few weekends ago while I was painting a picture of her house. I thought I looked fine — somewhat sporty, even — in track pants, a tank top, and a large straw hat. I acknowledge now that mistakes were made, and that that assessment was off.

Second, there is a fundamental misapprehension clouding the mind of each and every sewer. (By the way, I would prefer that you pronounce that word as sow-er, as opposed to sue-er.) This misapprehension is that at some point, there will be a terrible tragedy in the world and you, as a sewer, will be single-handedly responsible for providing fabric to every remaining member of the species. How else can I describe the stacks, bolts, and remnants of material on which I could lay my hands in a 90 second walk through my house?

I dove into that stockpile and selected a fabric with a wild hydrangea print. But what to do with it? I did not know exactly what painters looked like. I thought of Van Gogh — he had red hair (nailed it!), he was missing an ear (nope), he let his brother handle all his money (I love mine very much, but not in this lifetime) — and then I thought of Melinda, a friend who paints and from whom I took five out of six painting lessons three years ago, only to conclude that it was not for me. I talked to Melinda recently; she had returned to Savannah briefly from Italy, where she now lives and paints. We talked about painting, and I told her about my change of heart. She asked, to my surprise, if I had been unhappy when I took lessons from her. Yes, I had been. It was perhaps one of the unhappiest periods of my entire life. Melinda thought that that was the explanation, for painting is all about joy. I think she’s right.

Melinda always wore a spattered white smock in the studio, and in her honor, I sewed myself a dress that looked a bit like a smock. Since I didn’t have enough fabric for the trim (this is of course a lie), I dodged into a new high-end upholstery fabric store, dug through a remnant pile, made two new best friends who feel the same way about fabric, and ended up sewing myself this dress:

I wore it all weekend to garden and paint, and I have to say that I enjoyed looking the part (or at least my concept of the part). The dress is colorful and tough and fanciful and girlish at all once, which is a description I would gladly bear on my tombstone. It is a uniform, yes, but one I happily wear.

Gardening and painting lend themselves to thought, with their study drumbeat of questions like What else can I make? What else can I do? I have thought about these particular questions in all sorts of situations, from writing a check to Buddy’s dog sitter to selling my first painting to talking with someone about freelance writing. I have thought about these particular questions, too, in letting lapse application deadlines for jobs that I really used to want, that after 25 years of work, I might actually have a shot at getting. They are jobs that would bring prestige, status, and security, to be sure, but they are jobs that would frown on blogging, not understand the need to paint on a beautiful Tuesday afternoon, require the consumption of only a single cocktail at otherwise raucous parties, and demand clothing  that did not reflect my own little (or medium, with at trending will to bigness) sense of style.

I want to give none of that up. None of it.

On a book-buying mission to the local Goodwill this weekend, I spied a textbook: The Practical Handbook for the Emerging Artist. It had been donated by a person identified on the book flap as “Mitts,” with a Miami University (Ohio) email address and a phone number with a 513 area code. What had become of Mitts?, I wondered, and I had a happy thought of her at art school in Savannah, honing her emerging artist self to a marketable creation. I thought of me, and my very own Practical Handbook for the Emerging Artist, whose Chapter 1 was undoubtedly “Become an Attorney.”

I am unsure if I am now on Chapter 2, Chapter 22, or Chapter 42. I don’t think it matters. I do my job; I wait for the elevator; I pay the bills; I find a great deal of satisfaction in my work. I close the door; I turn off the lights; I walk into my house. I have a family, a dog, a small garden, a bright pink studio. I have too much fabric, a rainbow of oil paints, a riot of color outside. I have friends who are a short walk away. I have clothing for all pursuits. I live my life, and it is an interesting one, and I am very grateful for that.

And really, what could be more practical?

ALC