Problem ... and solution

NEW COMPANY TO AID NON-PROFIT GROUPS

Picture this: You are the executive director of a small, non-profit association. You have the education, the experience, the drive and the will to succeed in running a successful business whose only objective is to help your clients and their families.

Your budget is tight, but with a dedicated staff, you provide exceptional services for a diverse client base. Your efforts are appreciated by your association board, the families of your clients, and the state.

But, like most small non-profit associations, you could use more money to expand services.

That describes Mattie Smith Cummins to a T.

Cummins, a masters level social worker, is executive director of the Brain Injury Association of Arizona (BIAAZ) -- www.biaaz.org. Over the last several years, she has worked to return the association to fiscal viability, written and received grants, and had orchestrated successful fundraisers. She was looking for other ways to raise money, looking down new paths to bring needed dollars into the association.

Her father, longtime newspaper editor and publisher George S. Smith, sent her several miniature watercolors that a friend had done. Attached to the drawing was several poems Smith had written. The poems were in a style Smith called "lowku," a personalized offshoot of haiku poetry, but with words substituted for syllables. Each lowku has nine lines, 25 words.

Cummins and her father discussed the possibilities or how art and words could blend together to create something that could be used in a fundraising event.

Less than a month later, a new company had emerged, Whimsy Creations, LLC. Using the unique art of Steve Burnett of New York City, and poems written by Smith, the first project took was developing a limited edition poster and post cards for BIAAZ.

In this initial effort, Burnett and Smith realized something important. "Creating Whimsy products is a way of giving something tangible to worthwhile, small non-profit associations," Smith said. "With most association-targeted, fund-raising projects, about 40-50 percent of the proceeds go to the originating company. It sounds odd, I know, but Steve and I agree that this is not a money-making operation. We both have been blessed in so many ways and we feel a need to try and give something back to communities through worthwhile, local organizations."

Whimsy Creations charges 10 percent (or $1,000, whichever is less) from expected sales and the money received "is designated to a fund that will be used to help start-up associations have a free fundraiser."

Burnett said there's nothing "like Whimsys on the market. Each one is personalized to individual clients and the art and words are tailored to fit each situation in a unique way."

Cummins said, "The vivid image and description of the journey of survivors of brain injury tells the story at a glance. The uniqueness allows us to use it to raise needed funds, and also gives donors a once-in-a-lifetime memento of their contribution." Smith estimated the association will raise $8.000 to $10,000 from the posters and 1,000 large post cards. The association plans to sell 100 numbered posters, 25 of which will be signed by Burnett and Smith.

Whimsy Creations is targeting small, non-profit associations which fill a niche in serving special needs in communities. Inquiry letters can be sent to gsid143@gmail.com. Letters should include the association's mission statement, program or scope of work, and a short letter detailing how a unique Whimsy will be used to raise funds.

The art and poem set is not limited to posters and post cards. "Whatever anyone wants to print it on -- coffee mugs, plaques, t-shirts, banners ... it makes no difference. The exclusive reprint rights belong to that particular association, he said.

The new company has also entered into partnership with a printing company that gives discounts on printing to Whimsy clients.

When an association is approved, Burnett and Smith will work with clients to develop a complete marketing and promotion plan, including recommendations on how to maximize the amount of funds to be raised.

They say . . .

Have you ever stopped to realize that most of the history we know is because someone said something. You know, like in "They say . . . ."

I'm presently preoccupied with writing stories of growing up in Avery, Texas, population 332. It was, and is, a poke-and-plumb town: Poke your head out the window and you're plumb out of town.

There is not a better place on the planet in which to grow up. Especially if you were me and a certified idiot that needed an entire village to watch over you.

Here's a preview:

Earliest memories

I remember being cold. And hungry. And upset enough to cry. And, sometimes, as happy as an Alaskan malamute with a frozen halibut. And I definitely remember a large dog. Or it might have been a winter coat. That part's a bit unclear.
That’s about it.

They say . . .

They say that when I was born, my mother was sick for a spell, and had bad milk, making nursing out of the question.

As was the custom in the mid-40s more than anyone will admit today, I was stuck lips-to-nipple with a Negro wet nurse named Mattie. When told the story years later, it seemed odd to me that I was wet-nursed by a woman named Mattie, since that was my grandmother’s name, and the name of my oldest daughter.

Mattie, the one not my grandmother or my daughter, had a new baby, and they say I would nurse on one tit while the black woman’s son mewled at the other. I don't remember anyone ever saying it was a cute picture, this Oreo Sampler, but it surely must have been.

Being it was the 40’s and all, I assumed for years that it was a pleasure for black Mattie to say to all her friends that she kept the cutest white baby in the world alive. I never thought to ask about whether she was paid, but I hope so since I was an early teether and had the biting power of an alligator.

At some point not long after my birth, some doctor in Hope prescribed a special formula for milk substitute, which, if my Aunt Betty Ann is to be believed, “took a bunch of folks a long time to make.” She said it took something like “eighty drops of lactic acid” in milk with ample stirring after each drop. I have taken it for granted for decades now, but suppose I should be thankful I came from a family that could count higher than twenty, that being the number of fingers and toes on most people.

They say I was born Julia Chester Hospital on No. 4 Highway South. In the same hospital that on the morning of Aug. 19, 1946 – ten months and sixteen days after my birth -- a baby was born under a clear sky after a violent summer storm to a widowed mother. The baby was William Jefferson Blythe III. At least that’s what Bill Clinton wrote in his autobiography. “Clear sky after a violent summer storm.” They say no one ever knew Clinton had a poetic streak, or even that he knew a ghostwriter who did.

Looking back, the fact that Bill Clinton and I were born in the same hospital was no big deal, since it was the only hospital within thirty-five miles. My sister was born in the same hospital six years and two days after I was born. And, again, that was a smaller deal than Clinton's birth.

The hospital was later was converted into a nursing home. That building housed diaper-changing shifts for more than 700 consecutive months before it was torn down.

I don't care what they say: That there is real history and the stuff about which history books are written.

An apt ending point

A
once-empty
page stares from
the computer screen as
words tumble in a waterfall
of gushing verbiage. Only
way to quell
the flow . . .
quit.

Time not great healer

Time
may not
heal all wounds.
Some remain open, bloody
despite all the best efforts
to erase the hurt
and the pain
that love
causes.

Adventures are where you find them

Exploring
winding trails
through Nature's land
designed for adventure is
full of surprises. Unexpected thrills
pop up around every
corner as host
emphatically states:
Welcome!

Second novel about ready to launch

"Reveille: A story of survival, war, family" is in final editing stages. It has been a labor of love . . . and a daunting task. How does one tell a story about a member of the family, when little is known? With scant records, hand-me-down stories, and a love of history, "Reveille" started out as a minor research project and turned into an historical fiction novel.

Hopefully, it will be published by July 1. If not, that's okay. It will be at some point in time. It started out as an idea, grew into a research demon with no apparent end, and came out the other side an interesting tale.

Charles Andre was born with one name, was stuck in an orphanage with another, and with that name, served in the Civil War as a Union drummer. Almost two years after the war, he settled in South Arkansas and made a name for himself as Charles Montgomery Andres.

He was my great-grandfather and his story is something of which I will always be proud. Taking time to research his life and mesh tales with history was an act of love.

Here's the draft cover and back cover for "Reveille." It is still undergoing revisions. It is the product of Chase Perryman, one of the most creative and talented people I know and whom I consider a friend.

Too many birds, too little time

If you can't got to Costa Rica, no reason to fret! Photos by Gayle Smith are as good as being there. Almost. Not quite. Naw, not even close. But these photos will make you smile!!!!

Remember: Bosque de Paz. It's Googleable.