Men have hobbies:  fishing, running, collecting stamps, burning things (my brother’s hobby).

Mike makes tiny people. Tiny soldiers, mostly. I was going to say he paints them but that hardly shows the complete picture. His hobby is usually referred to as military miniatures but I’ve always called them little guys. Most are between two to four inches tall.

Mike has been doing this since his childhood. He spends countless hours hunched over a small crowded table wearing over-sized magnifying glasses while scraping, sawing, gluing, painting, and swearing. He chooses his subjects from paintings and not infrequently, our travels. His attention span and dedication to this is simply remarkable. The finished products are also pretty remarkable. He’s begun entering his figures in little guy shows and I’m probably more excited than he is when his work receives recognition.

The talent associated with this hobby is quite amazing, and I suspect, mostly unknown to the general public. (Admit it — did you know anything about punkin chunkin before I pointed it out? I’m broadening your horizons again. You’re welcome.) This is a mostly male-dominated undertaking, probably due to its military focus, but a “fantasy” category is nipping around military’s heels, and there are a few very talented women participants. There is even an award-winning husband and wife team (not Mike and I: my metier lies in making things from junk such as bottle caps or corks or soda cans). There are many military miniature and plastic modeling clubs throughout the U.S. where members meet to share techniques and work on their latest projects together. Some of these are also involved in historic or art preservation.

We recently attended a little guy show at the Valley Forge, PA casino that seems to be one of the premiere United States events, bringing sculptors and painters from Italy, Spain and Greece. In the U.S. at least, there are no cash prizes at these shows; only medals and certificates are awarded. For viewing, all figures are set on tables raised to be nearly at eye level — remember how small these figures are. Advil for acute backache would have to be issued at the door if the tables were left at their normal height. It’s fascinating to me to see these men revolving around the tables, leaning in carefully, peering and admiring and photographing, even using a magnifying glass. The shows are a circuit for many of them, and a goodly number are former military and well acquainted with each other.

Usually there is a separate vendor area (vendors are also on a show circuit) of detritus required for a well-rounded appreciation of this pastime, and this show’s room was full up with books, model kits, memorabilia, antique toys, (not always tasteful) clothing, DVDs, and other essentials and nice-to-haves.  Need a head? They come in a package of six, each one about the size of a fingernail. Accoutrements? Buy a bag of canteens, eyeglasses or rifles. Horses come in galloping and standing poses. If the  horse has to be otherwise positioned, such as in a fall or turning its head, the customization is up to the artist, who will either scratch-build (mold or sculpt) or cut and paste an existing piece. These methods apply to any of the figures, not just the horses. Each figure or prop (rocks, boxes, signposts, flags) is prepared individually and frequently assembled onto a base as a group piece, referred to as a diorama or vignette. Single figures are also mounted on bases for individual display. The effort, skill, and time involved here is simply astonishing. It is no small feat (pun unintentional) to achieve a correct skin tone or fabric draping or facial grimace.

I’ve said this is not a photography blog but words are not going to come close to conveying what I’ve seen at these shows. Below are photos we took at the Valley Forge show and photos I snagged from other sources. There are also links for some clubs and upcoming shows, as well as a favorite place or two we’ve frequented over the years. Have a look. (Please.) Go ahead. Be amazed.

Mike’s figure for the Valley Forge show:

Military miniatures, aka little guys, little guy enthusiasts and the vendor area at Valley Forge. Some photos were taken by Penny Meyer:

And some links for you to check out. Maybe you’d like to have a closer look at little guys coming to an area near you!

RVA Model Studio

Artist Preservation Group

International Plastic Modelers Society Richmond VA chapter

The Hussar, Tulsa OK

Southern California Area Historical Miniatures Society

I was tramping through Valley Forge National Historical Park, and this pattern stood out atop the green field that covers that land’s tragic history:

Neatly aligned artillery

Through the spokes.

Then, after dashing into a soldiers’ hut to wait out a rainstorm’s artillery barrage of the park, I looked up at the ceiling to see another pattern:

Astonishingly symmetrical wasps’ nests.

These are paper wasp nests, probably last year’s models, constructed by wasp queens. Since there was no activity, I must have been the only queen in the hut at the time. (Phew!)

The morning’s mucking about was slow going and it was evident the game would soon be called by yet more rain. My $1.25/bag  soil was going to be  nickel-a-pound mud if I didn’t lay the traveling lambs’ ears lickety-split into the dirt to be held in place temporarily by the oval marble cutouts scavenged from somebody’s bathroom sink installation. I continued digging and pulling and wheeling back yard to front.

And humming. And singing.

Raindrops began falling around me. I saw their impressions on the pollen-glazed driveway more than felt them. There would be no stopping the transplant slog just yet, though. I’d been carting this garden around for weeks between rainstorms and traveling. At this pace, autumn would be here before I got this project done. After autumn, the world does end, nearly, for me.

Digging and wheeling, digging and wheeling. Singing. Punching the replay button on the MP3 player with ever dirtier gloves. More singing.

The rain continued upping the ante.

The Blazers queued up on my electronic Lucifer, playing their jaunty “Cumbia Del Sol.” I’d steadfastly cast tempters Ingrid and Sheryl and Pitbull and Haley behind me, but the Blazers held out the ultimate apple. “Cumbia” — a dance form; “del Sol” — the sun.

I looked at the substantial expanse of waiting dirt. Just another wheelbarrow or two would allay my procrastination guilt. At least two more days of rain were forecast. The trees stood near me aloof and dripping and mute amongst their brown leaf carpeting, the sole witnesses to my labors aside from an occasional road biker blazing past.

So, what really mattered here?

I bit the Blazer’s apple.

I poked the volume button. I dropped the shovel.  Stepping over the wine bottle garden edging, I proceeded to trample the nearby clover with my own cumbia, dancing alone and upright and madly in the front yard, dissing the dreary sky, seeing a cartoon-bright sun in my mind. I danced opposite the grubby me reflected in the house windows. I danced among the imaginary crowd on the backs of my eyelids. I danced with my back to every self-imposed Puritanical “should,” hoofing gleefully with the Lucifer of right here and right now. I danced because I could, and because I couldn’t not dance.

And there it is. Don’t wait. Drop your shovel or your phone or your loneliness or your disease and dance, with your eyes closed and your back to your Puritans if necessary.  Whatever’s in your garden, weeds or prize roses or just dirt, nothing’s going anywhere. Right now is all that really matters. Don’t let the chance to be happy, to have fun for just this moment, slip away. Never let that chance get away from you. There’s no replay button for it.

Listen to my temptations:

Ingrid Michaelson, “Be OK” 

Sheryl Crow, “All I Wanna Do” 

Pitbull, “Back in Time” 

Haley Bonar, “Bad Reputation” 

The Blazers, “Cumbia Del Sol” 

Today my heart is spread wide and open through my chest, and this day feels like a healing salve spread over its winter wounds. The terror of losing this blessed gift of sun and heat and light starts to make my head ache. But I’m pushing back against that dull pounding. No matter, I won’t let it matter. The sun is with me, my shadow too. I have this moment now, with the wind flying across the open truck window and the humming sound of traffic, the precious everydayness of people going somewhere, in this right-now time of winter gone. I am as a hostage released, and as I wrap spring’s fabric around me, I can smell every happy moment I’ve ever had in my entire life.

Okay, that’s b.ETTer . . .better. Mad Queen’s gone, Monkey here. ARe you out there, peeps/? Not much time, have things I got to tell you, things you need to no KNOW.

See, we been travellin lately, me and my Mad Queen. USED to be just me and Mad’s hub on the GO (she’d be pissed if she heard me calling her MAD, but she ain’t in the room, is she? Ha!) but now she quit that job thing mAD’s got her panties packed too. I’m finall y gettin out of that *()&^&(P backpack Mad’s hub kept me in and I’m seein it I tell ya –seein the FREAKIN world alrea.dy! Savannah bone connects to THE ATHENS Ga. boan connects to the Raleigh bone connects to the Porto Rico arriba!! bone!! Monkey rocks Tommy Bahama!!!

Typin with my toes

Now listen listen ,, Im goin to help you with yOUR travel. Help you save a little $cha-ching$ so’s you can buy more bananas. This ain’t no  monkEYS on typewriters scientifical theory stuff, this is the REAL THING. I no know what I’m talkin here.

First, get that air-o-line plastic. 30,000 free miles gets you there — all you gotta buy is a package of TicTacs and pay the bill on time — bam, free flight, get it?? Probly get you on the aerojet at the HEAd of the line, too, stead of squeezin in like a *()*)& sausage waaaaaay back in Zone 10 and havin to smash your personAL travelin monkey under some sweaty guy’s coat in the o-verhead, know what I mean?? Might get you and yours each a free che cked bag, too. Each, hear me? It’s not all about you. And don’t make me tell u you to join the airline frequent flier programs. You ain’t that stupid that you havn’t done it yet. You ain’t. , ,. Tell me you ain’t. Some of em give you comeplanyen commpaneon companion certificates to fly your favorite monkey along. Can’t lose I’m tellin ya. Can’t[

Same with those hotel/motel/Holiday Inn sing it with me now! credit cards. Don't cost you no.thin to join them hotel point programs, then get their plastic. Add those pOInts up and bam! --you could be sleepin pretty in no time. Just pay the bill and you get the points. Simple (Monkey knows. dON'T believe? Go here (jerk)). Adds up. Transfer points for airplane rides too -- go farther -- zoom zoom!!

So, Mad's all hand-wringy about soap and shampoo. You no know, those little soaps and shampoos in the hotel/motel/Holiday Inn. Take em? Leave em? She's feelin all guilty about taking em, . Not Hub. He's takin' em. Monkey's with Hub on this. Mad ain't had to buy soap in 3 years. 3, I'm tellin ya. (And I know they're usin soap I seen em. And I ain't no peepin Tom so don't get all het up about it.) That brand soap or shampoo make your pretty nose all twitchy? Donate it. Not every Body's nose is as picky as yours.; Lotsa peeps and monkeys two be glad to .use it,.

Same thing with those head-phones on the airPlanes -- they're offerin, take em even if you don't waTCLH the Movie. They fit all kinds of electronics. Monkey's collecting the whole set!

Somewhere between Port-o-RIco and Hotlanta, Mad got into some Thing that sent her royal gut into overdrive. Maybe the rum cAke at the Bacardi factory? The s;alad at the  HOtel? That giant German beer down-town?? Wherever, Mad was a Smart Queen and had her pink Pepto along for the ride. Coulda been a looong night didn't she have it. Don't leave home without it.)( Not a bad idea to tote some pro-biotics too;; keep that happy bacteria hummin.

Some,times Mad and her Hub got to go where Unca Sam's got his mitts in everything. E--vry--thing. Can't even get a drink without doin double dutch jump rope for some gov's  sake. Those little airline liquor bottles work just fine refilled. Heck, they even go through TSA's carry-on poke & prod routine (and u you think I'm a peEping Tom??). Pack your own 90 proof.

Last hotel Mad & hub bunked at wanted $13 a day to peek into the WOrld Wide Weeb. $13 -- a day -- *)(%$& --!!!! How's a monkey gonna make $$ to buy Dole stock at that rate??&& Mad sledded into the 3Ws using the hotel lobby net-work and her netbook -- free as a Big BIrd. Just take your little comPUter into the lobby, sniff up the available wire-less nEtworks, and jumnp on!! $13 bucks, Geez. Must think I'm a monkey's uncle

Save! You! Money!

Pack a headlamp. Tell me you no know they’re the new sexy. Great for midnight pacing or reading, and saves Monkey’s eyes from blindING bathroom light.

ud98ew%^&$…/++ecjf Gotta swing    Mad’s comin dont tell her i was

What really generated some discussion between Mike and I, though, was the paragraph about stranded motorist Joseph Calle, who paid a total of $100 to two strangers with shovels to help dig his car out of the snow. This wasn’t a matter of Mr. Calle offering the money; the going rate for the first shovel-bearer was $40 and $60 for the second. My knee-jerk reaction was disgust that there were people profiting from the misfortune of others during essentially life-threatening circumstances. This was not like knocking on the doors of warm houses with driveways that need to be shoveled to earn some extra cash. It seems more like a guerilla emerging from the jungle offering to free only those hostages being held who could pay upfront for the privilege.

Or does it? Maybe this is more like selling cold bottled water during a hot summer festival. The patron should have brought his own water but for whatever reason didn’t, thereby creating a need fulfilled by that much-admired American entity, the spur-of-the-moment entrepreneur. A thirst is quenched, a little cash is made, and both parties are happy. Are the shovel-bearing strangers simply entrepreneurs? They seem much more like opportunists to me. I know that many people endure financial hardship daily but does that entitle anyone to benefit from another’s misfortune?

I also thought that if Mr. Calle had offered the money for the assistance, rather than having it extracted (or extorted) from him, the transaction would be more acceptable. Any number of us have done a stranger a favor, or had a stranger help us in some way, where a grateful offer of cash was made at its conclusion. Perhaps the cash was taken, perhaps not — either way, there was a choice of its exchange, not a demand.

I don’t know why Mr. Calle, or many others stuck on the Long Island Expressway, chose to drive into harm’s way. I don’t need to know why. I do know, though, that there are far more helpful and generous people than there are heartless and mean-spirited, which is what the shovel-toting guerillas seem to me to be.

Alas, as with our recent trips to Athens and Savannah, Georgia and Mt. Laurel, New Jersey, the weather was disinclined to cooperate with my wishes. Those three destinations were mostly cloudy, cold and rainy. The sun accompanied me to the Raleigh art museum but was mercilessly pummeled into a background role by a cruelly cold wind. Deciding lunch would be my best fortification against nature bullying me around the sculpture field, I found my way into the museum’s newer west building to its restaurant, Iris. And a lovely, civilized place it was — a totally open floor design, comfortable molded chairs, a tasty and imaginative menu, and thank Bacchus, wine to prepare me for a chilly jaunt. Flanked by an oversized bird’s nest sculpture, I sipped my malbec, inhaled the aroma of a Middle-Eastern inspired soup, closed my eyes and let the warmth of the diners’ conversations flow over and around me. Miserable January be damned.

My sculpture park goal was further hijacked by the free permanent collection beginning just outside the restaurant. Enormous male figures in seated positions hung suspended from the walls and ceiling, naturally illuminated by the ceiling coffers and full length windows wrapping much of the building. Through the sheer window coverings I could see courtyards with sculpture and long dark pools of water. Beside the information desk stood a Nick Cave Sound Suit, covered in thousands of identical fish eye buttons. The museum even had the good sense to offer free lockers to store pesky winter coats and cumbersome purses. I opted to see the indoor exhibition first.

The galleries contained the usual assortment of Dutch masters framed in dark wood, unhappy religious masterpieces, and oils of doughy-visaged royalty with bug-eyed lap dogs, all of which the museum is justifiably proud. My eyes glaze over at those wonderworks after having seen many similar pieces in other museums.  Incredibly, the North Carolina Museum of Art allows photography of its permanent collection, the ability to go into the courtyards to see the sculpture there and then re-enter the building, and the chance to literally get nose-to-nose with a roomful of Rodins. I lingered among those 40 or so black moldings, further marveled over the intricate detail of an exploded Egyptian sarcophagus, and imagined what it would be like to don the piranha-like African headdress. Barricades and glowering staff were non existent. This was quite literally the closest I’ve ever been to priceless and precious artwork. More than one grandparent was there, leading their young charges down the artful path.

The afternoon slipped away and I finally bundled myself out to walk the few miles through the sculpture park. Heavy equipment trundled by as I headed down the path past a contractor’s company sign. To my dismay, nearly every sculpture was surrounded by orange construction fencing as new paths and exhibit upgrades were being installed. What better time, after all, than the middle of winter to accomplish those tasks? Only the handful of people braving the cold would be deprived of an unobstructed view of quirky gargantuan wheels and collapsed giants. I walked the path regardless and photographed the few sculptures that I could; the rest can be seen here.

The museum has rotating exhibits in its original east building. Currently Edvard Munch is featured. I wore myself out tramping around the sculpture park and walking around the west building’s bright, hospitable galleries, and ran out of time before I could get to that exhibition. But, it is January after all, and Mr. Munch’s art is, well, somewhat depressing: “The Scream;” “The Vampire;” “Anxiety.” Another time, maybe, when the summer sun melts that winter wind into a pleasant breeze. And until you can get to Raleigh to see the museum, here’s a preview for you:

I decided beforehand that I would try to better hold up my end of the conversational give and take during this salon visit and  present more of my true self conversationally rather than just acknowledging the usual facts of yes married, no kids, and yes the weather’s been pretty nice. I brought the photo from the New York Times of my current haircut, the same photo as last time, to refresh my stylist’s memory.

She looked at the picture and said, “Oh, that’s Jamie Lee Curtis’ cut.” When she showed me her magazine photo of Curtis, I agreed that the actress’ cut was indeed similar though significantly shorter. I sat in the chair and she began cutting. And talking. Given the time of year, her first question was, “Are you ready for Christmas?” Fixing my expression into the open and honest position and looking to meet her eyes in the mirror, I replied that I didn’t really do Christmas anymore, that I didn’t shop or decorate. I recommended the same to her, saying that it was actually quite freeing.

Without so much as a pause or an acknowledgement that I had spoken, she told me she was a Christmas fanatic and went on to describe coaxing her husband to bring their five Chrismas trees out of the basement, then about her thwarted quest for a particular make-up kit for the salon’s gift exchange. She continued with the usual and customary holiday report until I experienced a brief, thrilling surge of hope when she said she had bought her grandson some books so he could know the true story of Christmas — I thought she was referring to the church’s choice of December 25 to coincide with the date of pagan celebrations to confuse the whole picture and gain more converts — but that wasn’t the story she meant. She was talking about a manger, three kings, and one god. I released my tenuous hold on the edge of the conversational cliff from which I dangled and landed in a heap like virtual  Christmas cookie dough at its bottom, where I sat listening as she waxed on about holiday preparations and shopping and gifting while scissoring through my hair. When she was finished, I didn’t have the haircut from the photo I’d brought. Jamie Lee Curtis sat atop my head, placed there by the stylist absentmindedly between statements of retail outrage and faithful fervor; her very own Christmas gift to me.

I’m good with it, though. Really. People give you gifts, and people give you gifts. Some are delicious and welcome, like that 2 pound box of chocolate creams or a mixed 6-pack of craft beer. Some are quirky and fun, like racing nun dolls or a toy catapult that can be mounted on a helmet. Some are simply useful — a gift card or a calendar.

And then, some gifts are liberating. Quietly, unexpectedly, surprisingly liberating. My experience with the stylist was just that. My hair was far too short, but it will grow back. I lost something besides my hair, though; I lost anger, frustration, and sadness.

When my stylist launched into her Christmas spiel, I wanted to counter with my own experience of the last dozen years, a saga of lost faith and Christmas traditions once held bold and confident and dear but now pulverized into rubble. I wanted her to understand and acknowledge the hijacking of seasonal celebrations by both religious and secular raiders. I wanted to relieve her of the pressure of Christmas spending and shopping so special to the Scrooge-ish hearts of every retailer while prying through her nose with hooks, ancient Egyptian-like, her adherence to the story of a god’s birth published, “hark ye, unholy multitudes,” in the world’s best selling book. I wanted her to put just one toe into the murky doldrums of Christmas once loved and  now lost and feel the crushing emptiness of being trapped there.

Instead, she quite suddenly cut all my hair very short in just a few motions while she babbled about Christmas. I saw the shearing begin to happen, and might have been able to stop her, but I didn’t try. I let go the vision I had for my haircut even as my hair hit the floor around me. I decided it didn’t matter. It just didn’t matter. The hair would grow in again. And she would have her Christmas with its five decorated trees and her mission to keep a very suspect story alive in her grandson, no matter how I might try to convince her otherwise. Why should she not have that? Why shouldn’t each of us have, or not have, our version of Christmas? She had unknowingly given me the gift of letting go of the frustration and futility of trying to justify my lost Christmas Past, and my angry desire to push back against the hype and secular vs. religious dueling of Christmas Present. She gave me the gift of being able to observe the holiday frenzy and  moral proselytizing without leaping into the fray to argue my case, and she gave me the experience of contentment being with Mike while opening little offerings from each other without thinking about the existence of a god or the holiday profit margins of a corporation. I can’t prove either of those, so who am I to try to convince someone else? I am the recipient of a very great gift this year, the gift of personal liberation and wider acceptance, and I am quite humbly grateful for it.