After more than 10 years in our beautiful, leafy Evanston condo…

Lake Michigan’s waves crashing in the distance,
bits of brick crumbling from the old neighborhood buildings,
backyard BBQ’s wafting in on a summer evening,
the muffled echoes of a rambunctious dog on the next block over,

.. we’ve decided to move on. We put the place on the market back in July (photos here), and the right couple finally walked through the front door a few weeks ago. They’re head over heels in love, and we’re satisfied with the price. After quietly waiting out the obligatory “attorney review” and “lender appraisal” periods… poof – this coming April 2nd, we’ll be happily homeless.

At that point, we’ll be free to stretch our legs a bit; first heading to California, most likely, for a family wedding at summer’s end. Then perhaps up the coast to see friends in the Bay Area and Pacific Northwest.

Who knows, we may even drive out to New England this fall – we’ve always wanted to watch the trees engulfed in their yearly blaze of color as the Atlantic provides a chilly, gray backdrop.

All these things will most likely take place in or near our trusty new Airstream, which is due to be overhauled this summer. In the meantime, we’ll continue to call my mother-in-law’s house our home for the next several months.

That decision alone, dear Abridgers, may occasionally be worthy of the “adventure” genre all by itself, I’d bet.

I don’t know about you, but when I find myself with some leftover piece from a project or treasured belonging, I often have a hard time letting it go.

And while that’s the same basic rationale behind hoarding: cataloging dusty socks… stockpiling 10 year old hamburger wrappers… I’d like to think there’s room in our lives for a bit of old, useless stuff now and then.

Such is the case with this 60 year old stamped brass badge, removed from the canoe I gave Melissa for our 10 year anniversary.

Having parted with two of its three anchor points during decades of exposure to the salty Tacoma, Washington air where it’d spent its entire life, it could no longer be trusted to sit on its mahogany perch where it’d been since ‘49.

Heck, I doubt it’d survive a gentle scrubbing.

But this scrap – though no longer functional – still has beauty, history, and therefore some value left in it. From the knowledge that it was carefully placed on a curved plank by Floyd Willits in he and his brother’s little shop overlooking the Puget Sound… to the effects of a corrosion that I can only describe as exquisitely thorough… I just couldn’t imagine throwing this little scrap, barely larger than a quarter and half as thick, away.

Instead I found a little square frame of end grain bamboo. With a tiny dab of rubber cement, and a bit of cream-colored laid paper (the warmth of which complements the greens of the oxidized metal) I’ve attempted to elevate it to something greater than merely detritus.

Now it can be enjoyed on our desk, reminding me of the effort it took to restore Melissa’s boat, the fun of keeping it a secret for so many months, and the transient, ever-changing nature of all material things, regardless of how much – or how little – we care for them.

I’ll reiterate something I’ve admitted before here as we enter 2011, Abridgers.

It’s been hard to stay faithful to this blog.

As a result, most of my posts lately have been shorter, and more likely to appear on Facebook than this long format blog. Perhaps this is a subconscious draw to post where the audience is, but it’s also felt similar to the slow, melancholy march from record album art, to “long box” cds, to MP3s.

So on this – the 2nd day of 2011 – I wanted to once again show some respect to my digital journal as it enters it’s sixth year.

So let’s see, what’s been happening lately? Most notably in the last couple months of 2010, I tackled an ambitious large scale mural project out in Chicago’s western suburbs. The fact that it was printed – and could thus be printed at any size – might lead you to believe it was no more difficult to create than a Christmas card. But because the scale would be so big, and viewers would be able to step right up to it… I had to include far more detail and sharpness than I would’ve otherwise.

The finished 16 by 8 foot piece looks great, and I attended the private unveiling ceremony last month, where they also showed off the Richardson antique canoe I’d refinished and sold to the Park District, and where they named the whole building after a nice local woman who’d contributed much of the funds involved, I’m guessing. I signed poster versions of the mural and happily answered questions, including several to which the answer was, “Nope, I know it looks like I painted it, but it’s all digital.”

We also had a medical issue in the family, which necessitated my housesitting in Cleveland for a week not long ago. I took my work along, sat in a blizzard, and took our trusty GS150 in for service at a respected Cleveland shop.

Back home, I’m now catching up on another mural “audition” for a large building on the west coast (more soon), an “Airstreaming 101″ type booklet to be included with sales of all future Airstreams, and a few smaller projects.

I’m hoping to pick up the torch in 2011 on several personal projects that have long been dormant; the Milk Bandits clothing line, the Alphadog children’s alphabet book, and a new idea for a series of books about certain crafts that have become all but extinct: wooden boatbuilding, blacksmithing, letterpress printmaking, instrument construction, and others. The only place to learn about much of this accumulated knowledge these days is in a museum, but there are several people left – from Brokow’s “Greatest Generation” and even younger – who keep stoking the fires of these traditional jobs, despite the obstacles.

There’s deep, soul-satisfying value in these pursuits – an immense pride in working with your hands to create something unique… special. And while it may seem strange to hear those virtues celebrated by someone who just finished talking about his digital mural a few paragraphs north of here… I’d like to think I can simultaneously celebrate at least two centuries’ worth of technology, and maintain my adamant stance that sometimes we need to keep all of something, rather than continually replacing.

The mural.

As it appears installed.

The Vespa, fixed up and running on a frozen sidestreet of northeast Ohio.

A shot, and the set of our New Year’s Day paddle on the Chicago River.