Dudes, Getting Their Freak On.....

The OC stuck his head out the front door. I looked up from my book in the corner of the porch......

"Want to go for a walk?"

"Sure!" I said, delighted. He likes extreme exercise: golfing 'til he falls down from exhaustion; biking 'til he smashes his head; doing push-ups 'til I think I'll be calling an ambulance. None of which I enjoy. So a walk? You bet.

"OK. Off you go!" Cackle, cackle.

We found a hiking trail we hadn't been on before. Not a spot of great beauty, but typical Central Florida terrain; scattered long leaf pines, dense, scrubby brush, sugar sand underfoot, roughly parallel to the river.





Blue sky, fresh breeze, no other hikers in sight.

But what's this? You mean we're not alone out here?




"Raccoons," says the OC.


And this? What creature left such a delicately inscribed calling card?





A snake? No. Maybe a lizard? No. Here's the answer!




But we have no idea what it is. I think it looks as though a large bug is giving a piggyback ride to a smaller version of itself, most likely its offspring. The OC thinks that might be a caterpiller on its back.... Once we've seen one we start seeing them everywhere. And each one has a "passenger." Isn't nature marvelous! The OC just grunts. Not given to paroxysms of wonder and delight.




Hence the title Altus Curmudgeonus.


Back home I show my photos to The Bean to see if he can put a name on that interesting bug.

I zoom in on a couple of the pics so he can see the detail. I tell him how it seemed to me the mother bug was carrying her offspring........





"No, Mom. That's the mother alright, but that's not her offspring! That's the male...Dude's getting his freak on.....!"

Apparently, this is common in the insect world. Large women. Diminutive males. Intent on "getting their freak on." In broad daylight. In the middle of the afternoon.......Who knew?


Oh well. You could call this the first post I've written for the blog category I'm not in.

Oh Pioneers! Where's The Coffee?

For a Saturday, the alarm clock rang way too early.

Yawn!

Why was I in the shower before I'd even had a cup of coffee?

Why were we out of coffee? This morning, of all mornings? When I could have used the kick.

Why was N clanging on the doorbell, jangling on my raw, caffeine-deprived nerves, when she should have been at home sleeping?

Oh, yes. In a moment of insanity, we had volunteered to help with the quilting demonstration at Pioneer Days. Or rather, I volunteered us. I pointed out to N that she could have said no. But she has to be browbeaten into participating; she has a heart of gold and loves to help, but she dithers so much she makes me look decisive. So I have to bully her. She loves it.


She stands there wringing her hands, afraid she has woken the snoring ones.

"I tried knocking," she laments, "but you didn't answer! I was worried you might still be sleeping!" N worries a lot about stuff worrying isn't going to change.

"Shhhh! I'll be out in a jif!"

We wend our way across town, through the slowly waking world, to the nature center in the fields and woods where the Pioneer Days event is taking place.

We park and head towards the main clearing. Lots of modern pick-up trucks. But the people climbing out of them could be Amish, or stepping out of the past. There are bearded, aging hippies and women in long, calico dresses, Little House On The Prairie-style. The sun is climbing higher, and friendly "good mornings" ring out across the clearing.

We're wide awake now and glad we came. We join the other volunteers and prepare our display. We hang little quilts around our space and set out our little "quilt sandwiches" on our tables so children [and grownups] can try their hands at quilting. We thread a good supply of needles with colourful thread. We're ready when people start wandering in.

Children flock to the quilting demo.It's something they can take in their hands and DO. Even boys, some of whom are just as good, sometimes better than the girls! There are only six of us, so we're kept busy teaching, guiding, threading, untangling, rethreading, busy, busy. But we each get a chance to look around outside during a short lunch break.

These baskets are made by the lady in the picture:




Preparing apples for the apple cider press:





Weaving made from Spanish moss;




Some of Laura's friends:




Pine needle weaving:




Suzuki musicians......





Beeswax candles.....





Broom making........




Broom trimming......





Budding quilters......




Pioneer days shuttle.......






By four o'clock we were packing up, ready to leave.


N was moving slowly, tired and disoriented; in desperate need of a restorative cuppa. And worried now about how we'll find her car.

"Follow me," I command. And plunge into an opening in the bushes. She's tottering along, twenty feet behind me, not picking up speed.

"Oh Lord," she groans, "She's leading me into snake territory!"

"Have I ever been known to lead you into trouble, N?"

There's a derisive snort from behind. But she follows obediently . She knows that somebody knows where they're going, and it isn't her.

We emerge from the brush ten feet from her car.

Home James, and don't spare the horses!

Friday Foto

Taken by The Bean, whose hands are steadier.....

Please Stay On The Line

My Grandmother is an ALIEN!
Originally uploaded by Skott Chandler

My children always got a kick out of telling other kids that their mom was an alien. How many kids can make a claim like that? My green card expired recently so, to ensure that the U.S. government wouldn't kick me back to where I came from, I went online to renew it. Long story short, I got taken. To the tune of several hundred dollars. Now here's something new my kids can tell the other kids---their mom is a pigeon.

I'd been so proud of myself too for figuring it out. Pride does indeed come just before a fall.

It wasn't until I received the application in the mail telling me to submit my application fee, along with the completed forms, that I became suspicious. What application fee, I asked myself? Isn't that what I just sent these people? Since I wasn't getting any intelligent answers, I called them. I spoke to a supervisor; yes, I still had to pay the application fee to the government; and no, the fee I had paid was for their services. I told him that I thought his company was running a shady business; profiting from people who turn into pigeons in their anxiety to do it right. He became hostile and curtly told me that I could fax a refund request to this number. Then he hung up.

I duly faxed my refund request. I followed it up over the next week with several phone calls. There was all kinds of dissembling: the person in charge of refunds was out of the office, could I call back later; my name, phone number and the nature of my problem [I didn't tell them that my main problem was idiocy!]were taken and promises made to call me back in an hour. Which, no prizes for guessing, did not happen; something had been sent to me yesterday, she was not sure what. Nothing ever came in the mail........

Once again I called the correct Government office. Explained my tale of woe. He listened, asked some questions and gave me a number to call for reporting immigration fraud and abuse.

And that's when the fun began.

A cheerful, recorded female voice welcomed me.

"Thank you for calling! We value your call and the opportunity to serve you. Please hold and we will assist you in just a moment."

I waited patiently.

The moment turned into several minutes. Just as I was getting fidgety, the smiling voice returned.

"Thank you for calling! Your patience is appreciated. Please stay on the line and we
will be right with you.

Marginally mollified, I settled in to wait, again.

Ten minutes later, the patience that they appreciated so much was wearing thin. The soothing music piping into my agitated ear was failing to soothe me.

Possibly anticipating that I'm about to start hopping around in futile rage, a different voice came down the line. A deep and reassuring male voice.

"Thank you for calling. Your call and your business are very important to us. Please continue to hold. We will assist you in just a moment."

Having already dealt with thieves, I've now moved on to liars! If my call was so important to them they would have answered it already! I'm starting to understand why the government has a problem with terrorists. I have now been on hold for fifty minutes. That's enough to incite a person to murder and mayhem. Normally I wouldn't have the patience to hold for so long. Normally I'd have given up in disgust after fifteen minutes. But, if I do that now, I'll just have to endure the whole rigmarole again, later.

The music stops. "At last!" I think. I'll finally connect to a human being, rather than infuriatingly cheerful recordings telling me how important my call is. But, it is not to be. The pianist employed to placate me is merely taking a breather before embarking on a whole new musical selection. The cheerful female voice comes on again, assuring me that someone will assist me momentarily.

As I am sputtering and cursing under my breath, a live voice comes on the line. Temporarily disconcerted, I almost forget why I'm calling. A few pleasantries about the long wait, and my delight that it is over. Then I explain my problem to the gentleman on the other end. I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt in assuming he is a gentleman, even though a gentleman would not have kept me waiting for so long. Possibly, the long wait was not his fault.

He listens as I explain how I was taken. He is probably smirking. Probably sighing and thinking "There's one born every minute!" I wonder how many pigeons like me he hears from every day.

He tells me I need to speak to someone at such-and-such an office.

I pause; take a deep breath to steady the nerves and keep the voice level.

"They told me to call you," I say.

"Oh," he says.

We have come full circle

"Sigh." He will see what he can do.

I hang up with the distinct impression that I have just wasted the last few hours of my life and will never see that money again.

That was two months ago. The silence has been deafening.

But now the government has received my application [and the several hundred dollar fee] and is "processing" it. Since government bodies move slowly, I'm not holding my breath. But at least the FBI won't be on my doorstep tomorrow with deportation papers!

They Quilt In Ireland?

I swung by The Irish Shop the other day while out on my rounds.

"I'm on a tea run!" I sung out to Ellen, the little lady who owns it. Ellen is not going to get rich from my patronage of her store. I pay my respects regularly to the ring I love, but realistically, I'm probably never going to buy it. Still, she can depend on me to be in, once a month, for a box of Barry's tea. And with a little luck, I might be tempted by some other little trinket from The Ould Sod!

"I have something to show you," Ellen said, taking my arm and steering me to the front corner of the store, where she keeps her books, CDs, calenders and such. Like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, she brandished a large, shiny magazine under my astonished nose, beaming up at me from every inch of her five foot height. She knew she'd scored a coup!




I was delighted! I'd been looking for a copy, any copy, since I'd been home last spring. The first issue had sold out the week before I arrived. Back in the States, I continued to search. Every time I was in a bookstore, I checked. No luck. Every time I was in a quilt shop, I checked. No luck. I asked Ellen if there was any chance she'd be getting it in. She sounded doubtful. But now her suppliers had sent her a few copies. Of course I bought it, though I gagged at the price! Ellen was happy. I was happy.

That evening I curled up on the couch for a read. So, how is it, you want to know? My impression is that it is geared very much towards the beginning quilter. Nothing too strenuous. But all presented and packaged beautifully. The patterns all seemed easy and basic. Me, I like to be challenged! But they did look very appealing in the photos, made up in beautiful fabrics and photographed in my favourite country in the world. I fell in love with this sweet little red work pattern, by an Australian designer.




I'm sure I'll be stitching it soon.

Towards the back of the magazine was an article about quilting blogs. That got my attention. Especially when one of the blogs mentioned was Micki's.....




Micki comes by here once in a while! Small world.

And lastly, I have to send Rise on a mission. Your mission, Rise, should you decide to accept it, is to find the Limerick Quilting Center and report back to me! I'll be here, waiting, sipping away at my cup of Barry's. From my favourite mug, of course!

You Can Tell It's Mine: It's Got My Name On It

I wouldn't give you tuppence for those fancy handbags, and expensive knock-offs of fancy handbags, that are so popular these days. But one must needs have something to haul the crap around in. My sister-in-law, who is much more sophisticated and stylish than me, favours leather, grown-up-lady bags. Lily leans towards understated elegance. Rise lists towards Bohemian. Some quilting friends make their own, and have a different one for every day of the week. Which would never work for me. It's dangerous to transfer stuff, more than once a decade, from one receptacle to another. Something essential will drop through the cracks and put me in a panic.

There is one company whose handbags make me drool, but they cost considerably more than I deem reasonable for something the French call a sac. Some time ago, on the lookout for a new bag, because the one I had was disintegrating, I found one I loved at my favourite discount store, made by the company in question. For a pittance. Because it was last year's design. Well, I was designed back in the middle of the last century, and I still work just fine, so that didn't bother me. Call me an old fossil. I know what I like. Maybe it was my childhood calling to me, but this bag reminded me of schoolbags we carried our books to school in, or the messenger bag Paddy the Post delivered the letters in, back when the earth was young. It was soft and khaki-coloured. And roomy. Roomy is important, because of all the "stuff." This one even had room enough for my camera. How many times had I wished I had room in my purse to carry my camera! So I bought it. And carefully transferred all the bits and bobs to the many pockets and pouches of their new home.

Weeks passed. One day I came in from running errands, plonked my bag down on a stool in the kitchen, and put the kettle on for tea. Smelling the possibility of a cuppa, the OC wandered out from his office. Saw my purse lying on the stool, and without missing a beat said "Oh, I see you even have your name on this new bag of yours!"



He was a court jester in a former life.

A Funny Thing Happened On tHe Way To NaBloPoMo

Technology is not my forte. I love words. I love to write. I also like to drive. Cars and computers---wonderful inventions, but if nothing happens when I turn the key, or push the button, I have to get out my bicycle, or search for that bottle of ink I know is around here somewhere. I know nothing about the inner workings of Blogger. I write, I tweak, then I push the magic button. Period.

So when I signed up for NaBloPoMo this year, I was surprised at how easy it was. So easy it I made me uneasy, and I wondered if I'd actually succeeded. The next day I went to the site to see if I was on the blogroll. I started scrolling through the lists: crafts, humour, parenting, psychotic ranting[!!], politics, religion, etc.

To my surprise, there was a category for "s*x." Only two people listed there. Which was no surprise.....You'd have to be nuts! One of the two was "Molly." Hmmm. So, I'm not the only Molly in Blogland. Fancy categorizing your blog thusly! She must be some hot mama! I continued scrolling and came to "general." And found "Molly," and clicked, and sure enough, it was me. So, it really was that simple. Idiot proof.

But curiosity made me go back to investigate that other Molly. Imagine my horror when I clicked and up popped my blog!! I was aghast! How in holy hell did that happen?

In a panic, I shot off an e-mail to the NaBloPoMo person, Eden, explaining my problem and begging her to get me out of there! And then I e-mailed Rise, because I knew she'd get a kick out of something like that..... As long as it was happening to me and not her! But Rise has her nose to the grindstone, plotting 29 more posts, so I got no reply. After all, she is up to her eyes in psychotic dogs, helpless offspring and needy in-laws. And, as icing on life's cake, she now has to come up with twenty nine more things to blog about, none of which are likely to be about s*x! That'll larn her! She probably thought "If Molly wants to specialize, that's her affair. I've got problems of my own."

I'm not getting my knickers in a twist about twenty nine more posts. I'm hearing Rose, my applique teacher, reminding us that the only thing we have to worry about is the very next stitch! So, I'm only going to worry about the very next post. There may be a lot of gibberish, but even gibberish counts, right? As long as I push that "publish" button before midnight.

Meanwhile, I was very anxious to be removed from that "s*x" category! Sure it would increase the number of visitors to my blog, but they would not be the kind I'd welcome! Besides, imagine clicking, and anticipating, then the let down when you find it's only a daft, white haired Irishwoman, waxing poetical about quilting and cats and flowers! They'd probably complain to the authorities about false advertising.....So, this daft, white haired Irish woman doesn't need them.

What if Eden shrugged her shoulders and couldn't change it? After all, there are thousands of bloggers signed up this year. It could be very un-funny. What if there really is an after-life? If The Mag and all the holy nuns are pulling the clouds aside, jostling each other to have a look? Whispering to each other "Oh my! You never can tell! We thought she was such an upstanding character! But, if you remember, there was that unpleasantness with the Penny Dreadful....That might have been an omem!"

Fingers crossed, I waited a while, then checked the blogroll again. Whew! God bless that Eden. No more sign of a Molly in the s*x category. As Rise would say---Amen! Loudly and with feeling!

If The Dunce Hat Fits --- Wear It!

Attention Rise! And others allergic to quilt blather: Lots of quilt blather ahead...you have been warned!




Some people are high maintenance. They have to be going on cruises, or hiking through rain forests, or climbing Mt. Everest, or going to fancy dinners, or U-2 concerts, to feel like they're really living. Not me. Every month this year I've waited like an excited child for the latest basket block from Bunny Hill Designs. I'm easily amused. Then I'd work on it so it'd be finished in time to let the anticipation build for the next one. As I said, low maintenance....or, pathetic.

The year we moved to Florida, I signed up for a year-long applique class. I had selected a "safe," unexciting, off-white background fabric. Before the first class, however, I attended a quilters' colour seminar with Patricia Campbell, of Jacobean applique fame. Ms.Campbell is a larger-than-life character, brash, blonde and breezy. Listening to her, and hearing tales of her fuschia kitchen cabinets, and other shockers, a door opened in my brain and blew a gale force wind into all the cobwebby corners, sending all my preconceived ideas about colour packing. According to this stitching diva, the only valid guideline for any project was to start with fabric you loved! Which put a whole 'nother spin on the ball. I wasn't about to go home and paint my kitchen fuschia, but when the seminar was over, I couldn't wait to go and pick new fabric for the class. One that I loved, rather than the insipid, "safe" one I had chosen earlier. I finally settled on a beautiful, lavender Fossil Fern. Because I loved it.

Mousy Miss Molly. Lavender. Yes Ma'am! Some of the other members of the class raised skeptical eyebrows. They were the ones obsessing about matching their applique blocks to their living room curtains. Yawn. My "decor," if you want to dignify it with such a word, is eclectic. I wasn't worrying about matching anything. And so I choose lavender, even though there wasn't another blessed thing in my house that was lavender.

But I still had to learn how to applique. Needle turn, no less. Our instructor, Rose, knew her stuff and was an excellent teacher. But it soon became apparent that I was the class dunce.

After the class I went home, full of good intentions, determined to get my homework done, but I just could not get the hang of turning under those few threads! At the next class, and the one after that, the rest of the class proudly displayed their homework, to "oohs" and "aahs" of admiration, while I slid ever lower in my chair and hoped the teacher would forget to call on me. I really thought I should just quit. I wasn't getting anywhere. But since I had already paid for the year, I kept beating the dead horse.

And then, three or four months into the year, a miracle happened.

Something clicked. I think it may have been Rose's insistence that you didn't have to worry about anything beyond the next stitch.....

So now, I'm a convert. She who dreaded the A word is an addict.
Which isn't to say that those twelve blocks have been put together into a quilt yet.

Some of them are finished; some still need a few more bits; some need to be redone.....



It will be another while before they turn into a quilt. These things can't be rushed. Getting the whole project finished, in the same decade in which it was started, is over-rated, if you ask me. Setting possibilities have to be mulled over; borders considered; quilting designs pondered. These things take time. They have to percolate in the deeper recesses of my brain. Don't rush me.

"Cute" doesn't usually do it for me, but there's something very appealing about the Bunny Hill designs. After the January block I was hooked. I have finished "my homework" every month so far! Yes, I think I should take a bow! This month is giving me some trouble though. Who knew Sunbonnet Sue was such a clothes horse? I've cut out four different dresses for her, and as many witch hats, but she has turned up her cute little button nose at all of them. So now we have settled on a turquoise-blue dress. Just to be sure she didn't wiggle out of it, I used a little dab of fabric glue. Try getting out of that Suzy Q! And, in a mad rampage of stash organization, I found some black fabric with moons and stars, which she likes much better for her witch hat than the other half dozen we tried. I used a dab of glue on that too. There's such a thing as taking "It's a woman's prerogative to change her mind" too far!

It looked a little empty around the bottom of the basket, so I thought I'd put a few pumpkins there. But every "pumpkin" I cut out looked like a strange, orange lump. Until Fate stepped in, at our quilt show last w.e. One of the vendors had the perfect fabric! All I had to do was cut the pumpkins out and applique them on. [The vendor was less than overjoyed when I asked for an eighth of a yard!] It turned out nicely, and I haven't heard a peep of complaint from Suzy. At least she hasn't tripped over one of the pumpkins yet.....




I love it when I get a week where my m,ost vexing problem is choosing the colour for Sunbonnet Sue's! It makes a pleasant change from other weeks when life's little zingers have me tearing my hair out!

Warm-Up Exercise

"Okay. Let's!"

That's how it ended, my conversation with Rise last week.

After much hemming and hawing and yeah-buts.

The simple word "Let's!"

Complete with exclamation point.

Which carries with it a certain air of enthusiasm.

Which I was not feeling.

But what else could I say?

She wanted to sign up for NaBloPoMo.

No problem, you say.

But--With Me.

Problem.

Since I've been feeling completely uninspired.

Since I think I may have forgotten how to string words together coherently.

Since there's so much gobbledy-gook going on in my head it's like noisy snow on the television in a hurricane.

But I have to humour the Little Blister.

That's what big sisters are supposed to do. Especially when they've been harassing the Little One to write more; calling her the un-blogger; nagging; cajoling; bullying.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Sooooo. All together now:

Yes We Can Na-Blo-Po-Mo!

That's my desperate measure.

It's not as though there's been nothing to write about around here.

I have been tending to the wounded.

What with Beans falling off bicycles and dislocating elbows;




And cats finding the one and only piece of framing glass, hidden, one thought, in the sewing room, and slicing thereon a poor little paw;




And OCs getting exercise, at speed, helmetless, on more bicycles, tumbling off, requiring the services of all the king's horses and all the king's men to staple Humpty Dumpty together again.




Oy. And Oy. And Oy.





It has not been dull around here.

One finds oneself wishing for dull.

So, if one is to NaBloBlahBlah every day for an entire month one must needs flex those blahblah muscles.

This is the first of the warm up exercises.

Do not be alarmed.

They might get better.

And the bonus is you'll get to read the writings of Rise!

You're very welcome.

I live only to serve.


Note: The top and bottom pictures, sandwiching the more pathetic photos in the middle, are of Poinciana in bloom at the top, and Tarragon at the bottom.....both in the garden right now.

All three patients are healing nicely.....

So, What Makes You Feel Like Dancing?

Can you remember the last time you gave into the urge to dance in the middle of a crowded street? Hmmm. Me neither.

I was drifting pleasantly in that half-dream state, just before waking, knowing that, as soon as I opened my eyes, the door would slam shut on the lovely landscape of sleep, when a new fragment floated to the surface of my almost-consciousness. Concerning a pair of young idealists I'd heard about on the news. It had occurred to them that every day, in expensive hotels the world over, once-used, miniature bars of soap were dumped in the garbage. Because us westerners are very picky, because of, you know, cooties! At the same time they were aware that in Haiti, one of the poorest nations on earth, disease, much of it caused by filth and lack of the means of achieving basic hygiene,is rampant.

Light bulb moment!

What if they could somehow collect all those little discarded bars of soap, sanitize and recycle them and distribute them to the poor of Haiti? They made it happen! Which is why they were on the news. So nice to hear a smidgen of good news once in a while! The news clip showed crowds of Haitian children enthusiastically washing their hands with the recycled soap, and having it impressed upon them that doing this regularly will help to keep them healthy. It is reportedly already having a beneficial effect. Which is great, but not the main point of this post....

The main point is that while they were reporting and the cameras were rolling, showing the eager children scrubbing their hands so vigorously, and the gutters filled with stinking garbage all around, a young girl got caught on camera. She was obviously happy, smiling exuberantly, white teeth flashing in her mahogany face, whirling and dancing in the street for the sheer joy it. And then the camera moved on. But her face stayed with me and followed me into my dreams.

How is it that some of us are elated to be alive, even if we have to live in abject poverty, filth, and disease-ridden misery? Even when our government is so corrupt and unconcerned with providing decent living conditions for its citizens; and others of us, whose governments provide all kinds of services, from sanitation to law and order, from education to justice, to safe living conditions, all we can do is fight and bicker and fail to appreciate our good fortune? How is that, that the haves are so discontented with their abundance, and the have-nots can step over the garbage and dance?

That girl's dazzling smile and joyful dancing will stay in my head for a long time. Maybe it will make me bite my tongue, muffle my petty complaints before they turn into words, or even fully formed thoughts, and make me appreciate the comparative splendor in which I have the good fortune to live!

So, when was the last time you had an irrepressible urge to dance in the street, just for the joy of being alive?

Hostage Situation

A friend e-mailed me recently, a pithy one liner:

"Are you being held hostage by your sewing machine?" Nine words. Nothing more.

Actually I am. Which is why I haven't been here.

I've been in the sewing room, or in the garden, sloshing about with watering cans, for a few weeks now, with only brief visits to the bathroom, the kitchen and the bed.

The guild is having our second annual quilt show at the botanical gardens at the end of October. This year we're having a boutique of hand made items to raise money for various charities. Each member is asked to contribute a few items.

A few items.

I think I got carried away. I'm back to feeling as I did one summer, long ago, when I was sent off out the country, to my grandmother's, for a few weeks, probably to give my overworked, overstressed mother a break.

My grandmother's farm was one of my favourite places in the world to go. Usually we just went out to visit on the occasional Sunday afternoon, so to be there for a few weeks was heaven. I loved poking around in the farmyard; peering in at the big, fat, scruffy, snuffling pigs; letting the little calves suck on my hand; wishing the uncles would let me ride the old, blind-in-one-eye mare, even though I'd have been scared to death to be that far off the ground on something so large and unpredictable. I loved to climb up into a loft in one of the barns where lots of old photos were stored from when the old house burned down. I'd sit up there, in the half light, for hours, looking at all those serene, stern, sepia toned faces, some of them long dead, awe struck that they all had some connection to me! I loved to go exploring up the heathery hillside behind the house. I was as happy as the day was long, wandering around in those fields, climbing over the gates, picking the wild flowers, dodging the cows, and keeping an especially wary eye out for the bull. And higher up were the piney paths through the forestry lands. Utter peacefulness, with only the larks and the bees for company. To this day I think my children were cheated not to have grown up there....

I loved the big, warm, farm kitchen, from which all the action radiated, and where the water was always close to a boil, for tea. My grandmother made the most delicious cabbage which she boiled with a slab of bacon, ummm! And always the smell of soda bread baking. I loved the homely looking chairs with the woven seats, for which my uncle, to my amazement, was able to weave new seats when the old ones got worn and frayed.

I loved the uncles' big blue and white striped mugs. My Uncle Denis had a unique technique for cooling his tea. Adding more milk would dilute the tea taste too much, so he would tip his big blue and white stripey mug over, to let some of the tea spill into the saucer, where, the saucer being shallower, the tea would cool rapidly. Then he'd pour it back into the mug, making the tea just cool enough to sip without scalding his tongue. Catching my eye, he would wink at me and grin. We both knew it would be inadvisable for me to try his technique back home! His older sister would not be impressed.

I loved the Ovaltine my daft Auntie Bid would make for me before bed each night.Daft because she'd been jilted by the man she wanted to marry and never got over it. More than almost anything else, I loved to hear her stories of when they were young. The best one was how she and my mother would sneak out through the window, after they were supposed to be in bed, and go off to the village to go dancing. There were no flies on my grandmother though, and when they came home, sneaking back in, under cover of darkness, she'd be waiting for them with an ash plant!

I loved taking sandwiches and steaming cans of hot, sweet tea out to the fields to the uncles when they were saving the hay. If the sun was shining they couldn't waste precious time coming back to the house to eat, as you never knew, it being Ireland after all, when the rain clouds would come rolling in.

And when they did, I was given a bag of old fabric scraps, and some needles and thread with which to amuse myself. And this I loved most of all. They didn't know it at the time but they were creating a monster! I was absorbed, for hours at a stretch, making tiny little dolls, and fashioning tiny clothes for them. I have no idea what became of those little dolls, but one of my favourite things to do, to this day, is to take a bag of scraps and making something beautiful from them.

So, back to the job at hand! The first item I made was this shopping bag, from scraps I'd ceased to love;




Then I made this smaller bag from the same family of reject scraps;





Then this, smaller still, passport bag.




While digging in the closet for batting for one of the bags, my hand emerged, clutching some half-made pot holders from a few Christmases ago, which I had conveniently forgotten. I think, at the time, I made so many of them I thought I'd die from doing the same thing over and over. Easily bored I am! But it only took a little while to finish them off for the boutique.




A friend and I saw a pattern for a child's apron at a quilt shop recently. It was cute, but they wanted $9 for the pattern! It looked so simple. Who buys these patterns?? I stashed the idea away in my head. A few days later, in our local fabric shop for a spool of thread [ha! I rarely get out of there with only the thing I came in for!] I found a child's apron pattern among their free leaflets. Bob's your uncle, I was off to harvest childrens' fabrics from the stash rejects. Here are the results:




Visiting a friend the other day, she showed me a pattern for that little bird at the top there. We both agreed they'd be cute for the boutique. So we made one, then and there. I left her sewing on her wings, and came home and made one myself.


But I think he's going to stay and live with me! I may make one or two for the boutique, but certainly not a whole flock of them. I think I'm getting burned out. Besides, I have my little pumpkin stitchery to finish;




And then there's the October Bunny Hill Block of the Month calling to me from the design wall,




and every time I go on blogger I find more cute patterns on more quilting sites, and California girl has a birthday coming, and Ohio girl is asking me am I waiting 'til the snow flies to come and see my grandsons, and Britboy and Beloved and Precious Bundle are coming for Christmas......

Something's got to give.

Step away from the sewing machine.

Unplug the infernal thing.

Go do a load of laundry, make supper, look smart about it!

E-mail the friend---the situation has been defused; the rogue machine has been taken into custody;

I am unharmed, but boy, did I have fun!

Listening To The Grass Grow.....

It's been raining, raining, raining. Then raining some more. And cloudy, gray, and still. It's steady, not like a hurricane, for which we are grateful. We like it, because we need it, but we don't quite know what to do with ourselves. Not like in Ireland, where my poor sister despairs of ever seeing the sun again. Wettest summer in recorded history, she moaned to me last week. But life goes on. If they were to be discombobbled by a little rain [or a lot] the entire country would cease to function. Here, it's different. It feels as if we're in a state of suspended animation, as though the earth is holding its breath and standing on its tippy toes.

I went out, one recent morning, into the gray and breathless stillness. The air was warm and sultry, plump with moisture, and it wasn't raining. Yet. Even the birds were silent. But wait! What was that faint, indescribable sound? Not raindrops. They would sink soundlessly into the pine needles. It was the sound of life, I do believe. Green, pulsating life, energized by the generous soaking, pushing itself up through the dirt, reaching for the light. Since The Bean is back in college and we only see him on weekends, I'm in charge of keeping his "babies" alive! On any normal [dry and sunny] day, I can be seen staggering around the garden, a sloshing, heavy watering can in each quivering hand. I've been happy to let Mother Nature take over!

There have been enormous black butterflies about lately, so, ever the optimist,I had my camera along. But, unconcerned with my agenda, they refused to co-operate, fluttering away, staying, always, just out of reach.
I wandered around, plucked a weed here, a weed there. No shortage of weeds, rain or drought!

And then I came to this yellow clump.




Weeds for sure, but very pretty. Besides that growing sound, I could now hear the faint whirring of hundreds of insect wings. It didn't seem so quiet and still anymore! An airborne army of these beautiful black, white, red and blue winged creatures was industriously collecting whatever it is black, white, red and blue winged creatures collect from wild flowers.




They were also very partial to these scraggly daisies.






As was this unassuming fellow:




He was not so glamorous as they in his understated brown suit, but he was a much more co-operative subject. He sat quietly sipping from the flowers through his little sippy straw, while those dashing black fellows staggered and flitted from flower to flower like frat boys at a beer fest. I'd get the perfect shot lined up and, just as I clicked, they'd buzz off to another flower!

And then my nemesis* came to join the party.




Since he seemed less interested in stinging me than in burying his nose in the flowers, I stepped gingerly in and got a few shots of him.....


Today, at last, the sun is back. I'll be sloshing around with my buckets again soon. It's been a pleasant reprieve. And rainy weather is the best for sewing.... But that's another post entirely.



* Just to be sure I was using the right word, I checked with Merriam-Webster. I was given these two choices:

a.One that inflicts retribution and vengeance;

b.A formidable and usually victorious rival or opponent.

Obviously I nailed it.....

We Should Have Called Him Rajah.....

A Whisper In The Dark Changed The World....

Seven years ago today the phone rang, early in the morning, when it was still dark. I fumbled blindly 'til my hand found the phone on the night stand.

"Mom," whispered oldest son in reverential tones, "it's a girl....and she's beautiful!"

After your children are grown, you think you can stop worrying and fretting about them. And then grandchildren come along, and suddenly you have not less to fret about, but more. Not that I'm really a worrier....But sometimes things happen that you can do nothing about. And if people don't call, or pick up when you call, because they don't want to worry you, you just worry more. Tonight I'll sleep peacefully because, after a long silence, we finally talked. And all is well.

I don't need material things to make me happy. I just need to know that all is well.

Happy seventh birthday, beautiful girl.

While Robert Earle Peacefully Slumbers........

We used to fall down laughing at the idea that "Yanks" who came to visit Ireland and "did" the whole country in five days, actually believed they'd "seen" the country, rather than the inside of a tour bus! If I moved back there and lived to be two hundred, I'd still die with 75 percent of the country "unseen" to my satisfaction! I even envy people who live in parts of Ireland that I'm unfamiliar with, and wonder what being Irish means to them, and if it is a whole different experience than being from my small corner.

The touring Yanks we saw were cliches. The ladies were all slightly stooped, had blue hair, and softly powdered cheeks. The men were gigantically tall, with huge, shiny, wing tip shoes, white socks, gray hair, pendulous lower lips and languid drawls. Both genders wore navy or gray raincoats and carried umbrellas---"Ya gotta remember what they told us about the weather, Wally!"

At least that's how they seemed to the ten or twelve year old me.

Of course that was back in the last century.........Travelers have changed since those far off days, I realize. And my perceptions of things, quite possibly, have changed too. But I stuck with tradition on my five days, give or take a few, in England recently. Traditionally, tourists visit churches.

I visited a church. It was within sight of my lovely trio's front door.

We went for a walk one day, up a nearby hill.




This was the view of the church as we came back down.




Such a solid, square, British looking church! I had to go inside and have a look.

Some lovely stained glass windows.......




.....and several ancient inscriptions to worthies long deceased, such as this one to Robert Earle Esquire.




Times, as noted earlier, have changed. Churches these days are not always used as their builders intended. But those soaring ceilings are not going to waste. At least not in this particular church. After reading about Robert Earle, if you slowly turn a half circle round....

this....



....is what you'll see.

Since church attendance has fallen off, the building is being used as a climbing center!

I wonder what Robert Earle Esquire and the Yanks of my youth would think of that?