Ladyfingers NewsLetter Press: Email #5

September 10, 2026 1 Comment

My love affair with hot air

Two weeks into dating, Morgan offered to bring her hot air balloon to my birthday party. Now, I knew she had built one as it was a rather serendipitous (yet totally cringey, if you ask me) topic of conversation the day we met* but unlike her, I was definitely not prepared for what happened next.

We were headed to my friends' 19th century farmhouse in Connecticut outside of New Haven to celebrate a flurry of Libra birthdays. We called it “The Barn”, or just “Wallingford”, but in actuality it was a place that was just plain indescribable. My friend grew up there with her French Basque family which, among its 6 members included (but was not limited to): a groundbreaking physicist, a shaman, artists, musicians, a utopia-assembler who moved to Africa to teach kids how to make puppets... I mean, this family was like a clown car of unfathomable magic.

There was this giant oak tree that we'd all climb upon and dream, an old creaky house with so many hidden bedrooms I'm convinced that there's still people making out in some of them to this day, a huge red barn that served as a painting and music studio where friends from NYC and Providence would convene and make beautiful things until the sun came up... and a beautiful 5-ish-acre field that yearned for a hot air balloon to be inflated on it.

Now, you may be saying to yourself, "Hold up—hot air balloon? What in the what?"

**Left:** The Big Oak Tree with Morgan's balloon inflating in the background. **Right:** The Rumblers

If you know Morgan, you know she doesn't just dream big, she plans big, too. When she was getting her degree in printmaking at RISD, she convinced her department that for her senior project she would build a giant, white, 70ft tall, 55cu ft. hot air balloon and basically just use it like a blank canvas to make prints on. And because that totally makes sense, her proposal was approved and she paired up with Paul Stumpf to put a plan to that dream. (Like Morgan, Paul studied something completely not hot air balloon-related while at RISD - photography! - but got into ballooning so he could take epic aerial shots). She made a budget, fundraised all the money for the project by selling prints of her artwork, and spent her January before graduation in a frigid balloon loft above a sheep and goat stable in Vermont, learning from Paul and sewing her balloon on his industrial sewing machine. To this day I am still amazed at how incredibly cosmic it was that this whole project came together, but I should know by now that "cosmic miracle" is basically her middle name. OK it's actually Ashley but I think there's a better flow to "Morgan Cosmic Miracle Calderini".

**Left:** Morgan sewing her balloon **Right:** Talk about a “cold inflation!” Morgan tests her balloon in Vermont at Stumpf Balloons

There are so many stories to tell about Morgan and her balloon named Atlas, but for now let’s circle back to that weekend in Wallingford when we made a million savory pies, danced till dawn, and I witnessed for the first time (but certainly not the last) the beauty of her vision and the strength of her character…

We loaded her gear into Trucky, her rusty old pickup truck she bought for $400, and drove out onto the field. Our friends—a rag-tag crew of artists, writers, filmmakers, musicians, and Prime Rumblers**—awaited orders from Morgan and before we knew it, the envelope was laid out onto the grass like a long skinny pair of nylons, its ropes and lines all placed and manned strategically. With her crew in place, she fires up the fan and aims its air flow directly into the mouth of the balloon. The swishy rip-stop fabric starts unfurling and the envelope fills with cold air. Like every other scrappy young punk on the field that day (I was turning 26 and Morgan was 22) my jaw was on the ground. What a sight! But, oh yeah, don’t let go of this line in my hands! I did my best to balance my excitement and awe with responsibility and clear-headedness, but you know, that’s not exactly my forte.

Morgan inflating her balloon in Wallingford that day

With the balloon firmly tethered to her truck, she climbs into the basket and grapples with the propane burner like she’s wrestling an alligator. She gives the sign that she’s about to send a flaming blast of hot air into the gaping orifice of the balloon, and with a bursting roar the soft white globe starts to glow from within. I’m on the crown line, standing about 100 feet away and facing the top part of the balloon. The crown is fluorescent red and surrounded by a circle of white, and all I can think is that this is the biggest boob I’ve ever seen! I feel the mass of rising hot air tug on my line, begging to return to the atmosphere so I give it some slack and it starts to rise. As the balloon awakens, I hear Morgan give a few more blasts until suddenly, an unexpected gust of wind blows the side of her envelope directly into the fiery path of the burner, melting a giant hole in her balloon upon contact.

As you can imagine, I’m losing my shit. I’m witnessing, in real-time, the incineration of her dreams. But do I keep holding onto this line, or do I race over and try to console her? If I let go will the damage be worse to her ballon or her spirit? Did I mention I'm ABSOLUTELY losing my shit?! Luckily, I don’t have to decide because through the frenzy I hear a loud voice giving clear, calm directions to each crew member. The injured balloon is soon lowered, and instead of being freaked out from watching a hot air balloon just catch on fire, I am now freaked out that she’s NOT freaking out. What kind of psycho keeps their cool in an insane scenario like this? Certainly no one I’ve ever met before. But all that was about to change.

The balloon is now lying on the ground, still and unmoving like a wild tiger who has just been sedated. I try to collect myself as I approach her. Is she just not concerned at all about what just happened? Is this like, a normal thing? I crawl into the basket with her as she falls into my arms and erupts into tears. OK, phew. She's human. Just really responsible in a way that I wasn't expecting. I can move forward with this relationship now.

I thought up until that point that the mere fact she had built a balloon in the first place was the most impressive thing, but as she's continued to demonstrate through every blip and dip we've experienced since, her uncanny ability to figure things out so fiercely—no matter how big or uncertain or scary things are—is truly a cosmic miracle.

ANYWAY why the heck did I bring this story up in the first place? Oh yeah, because we went to the Labor Day Lift-Off this past weekend and it reminded me that you all might enjoy this story! While we didn't take the balloon out (Morgan doesn't do festivals), everybody had a great time and as far as I could tell, no balloons were harmed in the production of the event.

As you may know, so many of our designs are made from a real-life lived experiences. And although we've discontinued one of my favorite hot air balloon cards that said AIM HIGH AND BRING SNACKS***, I'm glad this one has stood the test of time:

True Love Is The Greatest Adventure Greeting Card

Note: We don’t take Atlas out as much as we’d like to, but once in awhile we do a cold inflation (no burners!) so if you’re local and would like to help crew (or just stand around and stare at the giant singular boob!) let us know and we’ll add you to our crew list.

Reaching the Summit of Awesomeness (in Sports)

Speaking of this past weekend’s events, we finally made it to a Denver Summit game! The Summit, if you’re not aware, is Colorado’s first professional team that competes in the National Women’s Soccer League. And holy smokes you guys, if you ever wanted to know what the world would be like if women were centered/celebrated/in charge of everything, go watch some women's sports.There’s clear communication! Helpful guides that prepare you for your visit to the stadium! A feeling of safety that doesn’t involve a swarm of heavily armed police hovering over you! I also wondered while I was there if they ever have singles night because I’m pretty sure every queer person in Colorado was in that stadium.

(Shade and misting stations, though! If I could make one suggestion: they could use some shade and misting stations. The mid-day heat was too much for my sun-hating body, and while I know the current spot is temporary while their new 14,500-seat stadium is being built closer to downtown, a few designated places to cool off would ~~be nice~~ help me feel like I am not being baked alive. From now on you'll find us at night games!)

(Ain't that nice to see for once…)

FOOTNOTES:

OK I need to set the scene to give some context: It’s the summer of 2007 and I’m living my best life—but also feeling rather unfulfilled by my failed attempts at finding true love. I decide to make a conscious effort to shift it into the next gear. I start hanging out at gay bars again (which I hadn’t really done since living in NY)! I buy a ticket to go see the gay cover band Lez Zeppelin play in Boston! I re-discover sit-ups! I post a personal ad on Craigslist, in which I describe myself a little bit and then ask for a picture of the reader's ear lobes and hiking boots! Don’t mind me, just your average weirdo begging to be loved!

The arts organization I worked for at the time was renovating a building into affordable artist studios and I was giving tours the day Morgan and her friend Brittwere riding their bikes past and stopped when they saw my *beauteous and attractive* hand-lettered sign. They were both about to graduate with BFAs and Morgan had just learned that she was not awarded the Watson Fellowship which she had hoped would send her to France so she could fly her balloon at the birthplace of hot air aviation. So why not check out some artist studios and see what’s going on downtown? Little did she know she was stepping right into my love-starved claws!

I remember standing in the same studio that she later moved into when she asked what the application process was like. What happened next changed the trajectory of our lives forever.

(Now, please don’t judge me too harshly; I am aware of how cringey this is and I am not proud of what came out of my mouth next, but somehow it lead to where we are today, so maybe it couldn’t have been that bad?)

I try - and fail - to be chill, and instead I mutter, “You just fill it out, tie it to a hot air balloon and send it our way!” (Ugh, blech, yuck—honestly Arley, what were you thinking!?)

Britt’s arm flies in front of Morgan as if she’s driving a car and stopping abruptly. “Wait, did you KNOW that she built a hot air balloon?” I stare at her and I swear my eyes made audible “Blink! Blink blink!” cartoon sounds without moving the rest of my face.

Long story short, she moves into the studio which is two floors above my office. When she comes downstairs to pay the rent, she brings freshly baked blueberry muffins. I start to notice her around town and always greet her with a big hug (although Morgan now recalls that she had absolutely no idea who I was). Through a series of (what seemed like to me!) highly intelligent and effortless decisions, she assembled the funding, equipment and support to create a community printshop down the hall from my office. The rest is history!

**Left:** Setting up the community printshop in 2007 **Right:** “Never date your co-workers,” they say…

(I realize this post quickly became a love letter, so whoops. Our 15 year wedding anniversary—and 19 years of being together!—is coming up on September 24. Happy anniversary Morgan I love you!)

** Oh, the Rumblers! While no two Rumblers are exactly alike, Rumblers in general share similar traits and behaviors. You too may qualify for Rumblerhood if you:

Follow your heart no matter where in the world it takes you.
Work tirelessly in the pursuit of your dreams.
Are not afraid to be weird, different or silly.
Love with every cell in your body and devote yourself to the study and practice of being proficient in the act of loving.
Can do the Rumbler Dance (think Charlie Chaplin meets The Ministry of Silly Walks).

The goal of rumbling is to rumble so hard that you achieve Prime Rumbler status. Music is essential to rumbling. Bonus points for laughing so hard you cry.

In case you need further clarification about what Rumblerism is all about, you can listen to a song I wrote called The Rumbler Song which I recorded with my band before transitioning into the absolute hunk you all currently know me as today, so be warned! I sound like a hamster on this recording!

*** Too many people thought it said "I AM HIGH BRING SNACKS"

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