A Folk Art Archive and Darkness
Dear Readers,
Three years ago, I became a keeper of an archive: the records of the annual Fifteenth Avenue Poetry Contest, which ran from 1977 to 1992 in Phoenix, but all that remains from 1992 is the name on a plaque that commemorates winners. My sister sent the plaque and poems to me in Virginia: two binders of handwritten and typed poems glued in photo albums with yellowing pages. In between bouts of chemotherapy back in 2020, I created the archive, arranging the poems in order by year and placing them in acid-free clear sleeves.
The first time the contest convened, I was the only child present. Significantly younger than my three siblings, I was used to being the only kid at parties and having to sit on the floor. We had a total of four entrants that first year. Three of us were related—Dad, Uncle Joe, and me—and the outlier, Ginger, lived in the house in between us. My mom read each poem in her soothing teacher voice, not telling us who wrote what to promote fair voting. The theme that first year (and for most of the following years) was “Christmas.” Uncle Joe won. I typed my submission myself, and the nine-line poem has six words xxxed out. Mine was deemed notable for being the only poem to mention Jesus. (Christ was misspelled “Crist” the first time and xxxed out.) Right before Jesus I also mentioned a bottle of whiskey (primarily to rhyme with “tree”), but the word “whiskey” also tells you something about how my family celebrated holidays. Around this time, one of my favorite games to play when my friends came over was “bar.” Once my parents overheard me asking my underaged customer, “Can I see your fake ID, please?” When I think of Christmas, I don’t think of whiskey: I think of the smell of Dad’s homemade sangria. I didn’t get to drink it when I was a child, but the smell of fresh-squeezed orange juice with cheap red wine was always a part of any holiday party and still smells like Christmas to me.
While reading through these poems now through the lens of a BA and MFA in writing, I think of them as folk art. One definition of folk art is art that comes from untrained people, but sometimes folk artists are trained. Folk art often refers to art from a particular location or subculture. Our contest had a very specific location until we opened it to people who did not live on our street its second year because Uncle Joe was hosting holiday guests from Maine. Their Christmas poems mentioned snow and holly berries instead of saguaros and tequila. They did not win.
This weekend is the wildly popular Folk Festival here in Richmond, Virginia, which I’m not attending because I need to stay healthy before my surgery on Thursday. (I have faith in the skill of the surgeon but my faith in hospital records has taken a hit after realizing during my pre-op appointment that they had erroneously recorded that my left breast was removed last January instead of my left lung.) But more than the Folk Fest, I think the Fifteenth Avenue Poetry Contest has invaded my thoughts today because of one poem from 1990 by my Uncle Joe that I had not remembered but struck me and stuck with me after I created the archive. Many of the poems were amusing or satirical, but this one (which did not win) was about seasonal depression. Uncle Joe wrote that he would become depressed on June 21 but elated on December 22 as the days lengthened.
I don’t notice the darker days until this time of year, and I’ve come to love the dark mornings. My dog gets up later, so I have more time to write in the early morning. I love the cooler weather and sometimes seeing constellations of stars when I take her out. But I’m aware that many people struggle this time of year, and I’m surprised that my uncle actually wrote a rhyming poem about it. While my MFA side cringes a little reading the verse, I’m deeply grateful for this archive, which provides insight into many loved ones now gone, and also for the way this contest shaped me as a writer and a preacher.
I’d love to hear from you. Were you shaped by any “folk art” growing up? Do your moods change depending on the season? Leave a comment!
Blessings, Elizabeth
What I’m Writing:
Sermons:
October 8 I was excited to branch out by actually preaching about a heresy, only to have a parishioner tell me afterwards that this sermon meant there was one heresy he doesn’t commit. Apparently, I will never be a scary preacher.
And of course, check out Unexpected Abundance (Eerdmans has a slick new website) as well as the free discussion guide. I was thrilled to learn that the Daughters of the King at Old Donation Episcopal Church in Virginia Beach are reading the book together and using the discussion guide! It’s developed for use in a group or for individual reflection. Thank you so much, ODEC Daughters of the King!!
What I’m Reading:
All That Is Mine I Carry With Me
(Mostly library books, but I did buy the memoir.)
Where You Can See/Hear Me:
Manakin Episcopal Church, 985 Huguenot Trail, Midlothian, Wednesday October 17, 5:30 PM
Writing for Your Life: YouTube Interview
I had two podcast interviews the past week and thoroughly enjoyed both. I’ll share links when they post, probably in the next couple of months.
If you’ve read UNEXPECTED ABUNDANCE, I’d be grateful for a rating/review on Goodreads and Amazon. Apparently 50 reviews help books get noticed on those sites, and I’m stuck at 20 on Goodreads and 15 on Amazon. A review can be a few words, such as “What kind of Christian writes things like this” or “I’m distressed that she dissed the Pope.” Thanks for considering, and deep thanks to those of you who have reviewed!
1. Love your book and will get right on a review. 2. My father was a great story-teller and many of his stories from his own life he hand wrote in yellow legal tablets. I've been typing them into the computer for his grandchildren and their kids. We didn't play bar, we just polished off the cocktails last nights guests didn't finish. ;-) 3. Love you, kiddo - what's this surgery? XOXO MARNI+
I love this…all of this… especially the image of you playing “bar” as a kid. 😂😍