Sage Advice
Brian J. Sullivan
The intense heat felt near the edge of the fire pit drops off sharply several feet away. The once roaring fire has all but gone out with the last departing person. I alone remain. Now, only white ash and embers glows brightly in the crisp night air. Occasionally a pop, followed by a hissing sound, bursts forth, caused by the release of any remaining moisture within the wood fibers. Smoke, in wispy blue-grey patterns rises upward, then stretched out horizontally just below the tree tops, signifying another day has concluded. Above, the full moon shins brightly in the clear night sky. Mosquitoes and biting gnats buzz around me in an annoying persistence, trying to land at any opportunity.
I am about to retreat back to my camper, when out of the shadows steps what appears to be a rather thin old gentleman, hunched in the shoulders. He walks towards me, his hand extended, the other secured around a cane. A large chrome belt buckle holds up his worn blue jeans.
"Hello" he says in a slow southern drawl. "My name is Joe". His grip is shaky but firm.
We exchange pleasantries. He takes a seat next to me near the fire pit. In the dim light of the glowing ashes, Joe's weathered face reveals years of experience with each wrinkle. He appeared to be near ninety, but had a youthful twinkle in his eyes. His arms were dark brown and leather-like from years in the sun. Thick bushy silver hair covered his head. Snake skin cowboy boots covered his feet. He told me that his wife had died many years ago but he never remarried, preferring to do the art fair circuit by himself along with a little white dog he called "skip".
I made some comment about my frustration in doing the art shows, living on the road and not making any money. Through it all Joe just listened. When I had exhausted myself out he asked, "Would you rather be working a 9 to 5 job every day under constant supervision cooped up in some office somewhere? Or what about never being able to take off when you want? Don't you like to travel and see different parts of the United States, learn about its history and meet all kinds of interesting people? Or be outside breathing fresh air and sunshine . And what about the opportunity to follow your dreams, to create things which give you satisfaction? To see peoples faces as they purchase something that you have created? The sales rush. Or that you are your own boss. And what about meeting old friends year after year all across the country? Or seeing the newest artistic techniques and processes all under one tent? "
"Yes that’s all fine" I said, "but I still have to pay the bills."
Joe was an old time veteran of the art fairs with probably 40 years of experience. Despite his age he was fiercely independent and lucid. Slowly and deliberately he continued. "When I was younger, my daddy would always take me along when he went fishing. Some days we would sit all day in the boat and not catch a thing. But he never gave up. The next day we would be right back out there again, day after day in all kinds of weather. Over time he learned some valuable lessons. He would say to me, 'son, always go to where the fish are biting, use the bait that the fish like, and cast multiple lines out until you find what works'."
I was confused. Were we talking about the same art fair thing? With his watery eyes, Joe gave a slight wink followed by a thin smile of pearly whites as if to acknowledge my confusion. He continued, "Believe in your art, show the customer the benefits of owning it, show them how they can pay for it and finally, plant seeds for the future." With that Joe got up, said good night and wished me good luck with tomorrow sales, and walked back into the shadows of the campground. Just before he vanished between the campers, he turned and said, "Remember the cream always rises to the top". And with that he was gone.