“Honey, remember when you wanted to be a chimney sweep?”

Patrick burst out laughing before he could put words to his answer. “How long ago was that—fifteen, maybe twenty years?”

“At least that”, I smiled back at him, this man who’s mind is a nearly nonstop churning factory of possibilities.

“How about that time when we wanted to build a curved footbridge over that narrow section of the creek about halfway through the meadow? Hadn’t been here a full eight seasons, didn’t know what a solid weekend of steady downpours could do to that creek…” he had a faraway look in his eyes, his brows raised in gratitude and relief that we never moved forward with that project. In one soggy November weekend, we saw what happens when the skies give the creek more than it can swallow in two days.

This brief exchange took place on Saturday afternoon, another busy morning at the farmers’ market now unpacked and set to rest in the mud room. We’d each settled into our own quiet time (two semi-introverts on full tilt for five hours, engaging happily with a steady stream of pleasantly chatty customers wanting to know all about the granola we make…it says a lot about a relationship when you find your respective corners and sink into that blessed solitude without judgment or pouting). Patrick was on the couch, meditating, and I chose to head into town to browse a favorite shop on it’s annual sale day (I was almost out of elderberry tincture). It’s a plant-based remedies apothecary with additional inventory that’s part global bazaar and part museum of natural history. With wellness and goodwill toward others at the heart of the owners’ intentions, it’s a good place to be reminded of what we humans can manage, given the opportunity and the right herbal blends. Plus, they have a gorgeous selection of handcrafted leather journals. I swear, I was mainly there for the tincture.

But resting flat on a round wooden tiered display stand in the center of the shop was a small journal with the phrase “half-assed ideas” stamped into its stiff leather cover. I chuckled to myself and moved on, making my way to the selection of teas in their tall silver canisters. We have far more tea at home than anyone could ever drink (make note, nieces and nephews—you’ll likely inherit most of it when we pass), but you never know if there’s a new one making its debut. A quick scan of the shelves’ offerings told me we were up to date on our home tea inventory and so I wandered back to the round display stand where that little blank journal blinked back at me, wondering what took me so long on the double-take. I scooped it up, and along with my tincture and a tiny free paper cut-out of a red-capped mushroom, stepped back out in the mid-Ohio sunshine, ready to put my weary bones on the couch next to Patrick for a bit.

As is our custom when either of us returns home from a solitary retail endeavor, we pull each treasure from the bag with a story (or explanation, or defense of spending) and a flourish; exclamations of approval or surprise are expected, or at least appreciated. Given the humble quantity of my purchases, I knew it wouldn’t take long, and the journal was an impulse acquisition. As I reached for it, the inspiration for the explanation came naturally.

“Honey, this is for us to use when we have an idea that needs a little more, um, development, and is too good to just toss into the ether, hoping it will stick to something. Don’t you wish we had one of these back when we first moved here?”

Another burst of pure laughter as we both began thumbing through our collective memories’ pages, landing on those moments that at the time seemed like brilliance but were, in fact, the essence and definition of lunacy. Thankfully, most took place or were discussed without witnesses and could sink back into the obscurity of the drawing board without the embarrassing wince of ridicule. But maybe those ideas were just ahead of their time—shouldn’t we revisit them to make sure we hadn’t overlooked some key variable of genius? It was Patrick who called it: “Let’s start jotting down Past Half-assed Ideas and see where that leads”. The title alone got us giggling and we spent the next hour reminiscing and guffawing, endorphins flowing like that November-flooded creek of years ago. If nothing else, our nieces and nephews would stumble across this collection someday and gain a deeper appreciation of their aunt and uncle’s active inner life, accompanied by a few cups of really old tea…

I know some folks who journal and then shred what they’ve written as a daily ritual. I’m sure such a practice can leave one feeling liberated and clean as a whistle inside. As a writer whose genre leans heavily toward memoir, I save every scrap of sentences that show up inconveniently while I’m behind the wheel or in the post-midnight hour demanding my attention. I sometimes forget which jotter or notebook on which nightstand or end table contained that train of thought that will certainly rocket me into the Memoirist Hall of Fame, but I’ll find it eventually. Having kept journals for the better part of forty years now, I also understand that unless there’s an all-consuming house fire, someone will come across the pages of my most vulnerable moments in life, see exactly what I was thinking at the moment, and where I decided to name names. As I get older, I grow less concerned about what others think of me and my meandering rationales or fleeting perspectives. A random list of half-assed ideas seems a goldmine for future generations to stumble upon after I’m dust.

Too bad I won’t be there to join in their laughter, especially if they find this current work-in-progress inspired by a shop owner’s artistry with leather and an alphabet stamping tool. An impulse buy, perhaps, but one with an infinite return on investment.

(Author’s note: The shop I describe here is Old Mr. Bailiwick’s, located in Mt. Vernon, OH. If you live in Ohio, it’s worth the trip, no matter your starting point. And if you’re not a resident of the Buckeye State, their website is the next best thing, though you’ll miss the charming ambiance of the place. Owners Josh and Becky are filled with talents both hidden and out there for everyone to enjoy, and really know their way around gathering, foraging, decocting, leather stamping and infusing. I hope you’ll find your way here someday and claim a few treasures for your own).