Entertaining The Brother, Who Can Be Quite Entertaining. If You Have The Stamina!

I've almost forgotten how to do this! Blame it on my brother's visit. Blame it on the gardening course. Blame it on my airport taxi service. Blame it on Quilt Camp......Or, just blame it on life!

The volcano in Iceland nearly scuttled his plans, but my brother arrived, nothing daunted, a week late. He stayed for a month and went home two weeks ago with a great tan, and enough sunshine stored in his bones to see him well into old age. The Bean was delighted to have his uncle's help in the garden, and between them they got it shipshape.




I even had the grace to feel a little guilty. But I needn't have. Even though it's way too hot for my liking, outside in the middle of the day, he gloried in it! He'd be out there at noon, sweating and smiling, working away and marveling at how much nicer this weather is than the steady diet of piddling rain he left back home.




He spent hours swimming at the "Y", perfecting his stroke, our humble home pool being inadequate for his Olympic aspirations! Since he is in excellent physical shape for his age, I'm sure he caused some hearts to flutter among the elderly ladies as he ploughed through the water in his tangerine Speedos!






It almost made me hanker for the days when race walking was his obsession. Have you ever seen race walking? For him it was serious sport, and for a while he was one of the best race walkers in Ireland. But, for me, it was serious comedy! All those locked knees, pumping elbows and get-out-of-my-way determination! When he was visiting us, he'd train for his walking every day. He'd take off out the door and be gone for hours. Low maintenance. We lived in Belgium back in those days, in a suburb of Brussels, and one time he went out walking and didn't come back.

And didn't come back.

And darkness fell.

And the temperature dropped.

And it started to drizzle.

And still no sign of the bould brother. Or his walking companion, our black lab, Maggie. I was on my knees, weeping and pleading with the Blessed Virgin [who probably had forgotten who I was, it'd been so long!] begging her to keep him safe and to please not let my deceased mother's ghost find out what a terrible big sister I had turned out to be by carelessly misplacing the apple of her eye!

This was before cell phones took over the world. And the workings of the Belgian public telephone system were shrouded in mystery, not to mention foreign languages, neither of which he spoke. And his English was delivered with a very thick Irish accent....

I was pacing the floors in the wee, dark hours of the next morning, wringing my hands and letting my imagination run away with me, when lo! A knock at the door!

And there he stood, barely, exhausted and bedraggled, with a half-dead pooch at his side, who immediately betook herself to a quiet corner where she collapsed, and from where she did not stir for several days. You can bet she ran [or limped] for deep cover the next time she saw him preparing to go walking! Not quite the "walkies" she was accustomed to! I would give a lot of money to be able to hear the exchange between him and the Belgian police who gave him a lift from Waterloo back to our house!

A few years ago, Rise gave him a present of a course of swimming lessons, so, since he was getting older, and swimming is easier on the joints, he gave up the walking and fastened his focus on the water! Unfortunately the "Y" is on the other side of town, and since he couldn't drive here, I was constantly driving him there or picking him up. High maintenance. When we went to the beach he wanted to start out early, cook his bones all day long on the sand and in the water, basting himself occasionally with the magic creams that were his insurance policy against skin cancer.... After a couple of hours I would wilt in the heat and glaring sunshine, in spite of sun hats, sunscreen, beach umbrellas and towel tents. But heaven forbid I should suggest heading home before sundown! By the end of our beach sojourn there was The Brother, hale and hearty, full of fresh air and glowing bronzely, while a grease spot on the beach blanket marked what used to be me.....

He's a great guy, and he didn't stink after three days, but after thirty I was tired of having to have an agenda every day. I hankered to have my life back. And my blog! If he saw me on the computer he'd roll his eyes and say

"Don't tell me you're wasting time again on that yoke, and the sun splitting the rocks outside!"

I hope they'll have a nice summer in Ireland this year. He's much happier when the sun shines. He works hard, restoring antique furniture, for which he is much in demand, even in these economically lean times. Give me a year or so and I'll be ready to take him on again. Meanwhile, I'm hoping I earned some brownie points......I sent him home safe and sound, Mum! Give me a little credit!

So, there you have it: one reason you haven't seen much of me in these parts of late.....


Note: You can read another post about my brother here.

Wordless, More or Less, Wednesday

I have not died,



or been sold into slavery.



The Brother has been visiting,



We've been living in the garden,



Chasing dragonflies.

A Wondrous Thing Happened This Wednesday

Look what the wind blew in this afternoon!




A mid week trip home because he couldn't wait 'til the weekend to see his birthday present......And no classes 'til the afternoon tomorrow.





El PussyGato was extremely pleased to see him ......




.....but didn't seem to notice anything different.

I did.

I'm still smiling.....

Because this is how he looked last month!





The OC is wondering what we've done with his "daughter!"

Lessons In Green Thumb-ery

crossvine (ツリガネカズラ) #7394
Originally uploaded by Nemo's great uncle

I went on the internet the night before for directions, so I wouldn't be all in a dither the morning of the first class. Do the people at Mapquest subscribe to the notion that we are descended from apes? Their instructions are idiotically detailed! They map every quarter inch of the way, which serves to confuse rather than clarify.....But, if I take their fifty lines of instructions for getting from A to B, and eliminate 47 of them, I am left with the three that matter. Which I did, and arrived early for the first day of the master gardener course, which is being held, on alternate Fridays, in our county and the county south of us. Necessitating driving to an unknown location early in the morning before the coffee had it's full impact.

The trip was about 35 miles, through lovely rolling hills [a rare treat in flat Florida,] idyllic pastures with cattle grazing contentedly under spreading oaks, white-fenced horse farms, orange groves, and fields of blueberries. There was wisteria tumbling over walls, and blazing bushes of azaleas in full flower. From recent rains and warmer temperatures, trees and fields alike had burst out in green. Lakes sparkled through the hedgerows, and stands of wild flowers, in unexpected ditches, took my breath away......

And me without my camera!

My simplified directions brought me to my destination with fifteen minutes to spare only because I'd forgotten the camera.

Filing in, registering, pinning on name tags, everyone was quiet and nervous like the first day at a new school. Each one of us had to say a few words about who we were, where we were from, and why we were there. Then we played People Bingo, just to check that we hadn't been snoozing during the intros! After that the room started to hum.

The nicest surprise of the day was that there was such a great group of people taking the course; people from all over the U.S. and a few from overseas; people who love plants and trees and flowers; who care about the environment and conserving natural resources; people interested in growing their own vegetables and saving water and energy; people who want to educate children about where our food comes from. That apples, for instance, don't grow on the supermarket shelf....The children I know are aware of these things but, from what I hear, many children today have no idea.

There were a few farmers there; people who've raised cattle and chickens, rabbits and roses, horses and children; an entomologist; a dietitian; a retired teacher or two; a burly, bearded fellow whose hobby is fixing old tractors, a director of a wildlife preserve......and these are just the ones I remember. And of course there's me, and the Bean, who was late due to the pesky requirement that he attend his only Friday class first!

The course is run by the Extension Service of the State University. Each county has an extension office to provide scientifically sound information to residents on how to grow things in Florida, how to can and preserve the things you have managed to grow, how to raise chickens or cows or goats or pigs or pigeons; how to landscape your property with drought tolerant plants; not,for instance, growing acres of thirsty grass when water is scarce.

Master Gardeners help to get gardening info out by volunteering in demo gardens; in the Extension offices, answering phones; manning booths at plant shows, etc. Aiiiieeee! There goes my quilting time! I guess I'll just have to get up earlier.


That was last week. And already, today, it was time for class #2! Fortunately closer to home. My head is spinning with lists of invasive species, diseases that attack plants in this place and this climate, and plant taxonomy---fancy Latin names for plants and all the parts thereof. Amo,amas,amat was a very long time ago and did not prepare me for this! And quizzes too.... And homework....... We need to slow the days down so Fridays don't come hurtling at me quite so fast!

The instructors are friendly and knowledgeable, with fully functioning senses of humour; the material is interesting to anyone with a pulse: and taking the class would be worthwhile if for no other reason than to meet such a diverse group of people.

Meanwhile, quilt projects languish; laundry piles up; as fast as vegetables grow, weeds grow faster; Penelope Lively is calling to me from the night table, even though my eyelids are drooping---maybe just one wee chapter, to see what happens---and before I know it, it will be next Friday.......and my brother should be here, Icelandic volcanoes permitting......but that's a whole 'nother post!


Note: That picture at the top is of Cross Vine. It was growing in an arbor at the demo garden at the first class. Since I didn't have my camera, tyhis photo is courtesy of the internet!

Standing At The Kitchen Sink, Dreaming

Long ago, in the last century, when I was up to my oxthers in raising children, I used to stand at the kitchen sink and dream. My hands were busy, scrubbing pots and pans, or peeling carrots, but my thoughts were off in the clouds. Blogs were not even a twinkle in the eye of the genius who invented them, but I was writing, in my head. I wrote in notebooks too, of which I still have a motley and highly disorganized collection. Some day, when I'm whiling the hours away, and dozing in my rocking chair, I'll pile them up by my side and try to make sense of them.

The trouble is, that by the time the rug rats were tucked into bed, and I had a few minutes to write, I was only semi conscious. But standing at the kitchen sink? That's where I "wrote" the blockbusters, in my head. As anyone knows who writes, or tries to, ideas are like quicksilver; if you don't grab them and nail them into a notebook with a pencil, they flutter out the window and are gone, never to be recaptured with the clarity and perfection of the original thought.

Today the youngest of my rug rats has a birthday. Yesterday I made Irish Stew [by special request!] for his birthday dinner tonight,and right now I have Lily's Apple Cake, his favourite, in the oven. Which means that, in the last twenty four hours, I've spent a lot of time at the kitchen sink, peeling potatoes, chopping carrots, onions and celery, breaking eggs, slicing apples....and dreaming.

Dreaming of the long ago, when the house was full of energetic children, and barking, dancing dogs, furry chinchillas and scaly lizards; when, as far as the children were concerned, I knew everything; when I was the best reader and weaver of stories the world had ever known, and a champion maker of cookies to boot; when extra sandwiches I'd made [because growing boys have hollow legs and entrepreneurial ways] were auctioned off at the school lunch table to the highest bidder; when there wasn't a problem in their world that I couldn't solve with a hug and a smooch, and maybe a back rub; when the days flew by in a happy, busy blur and I thought it would always be so.

Occasionally, I would long for quiet; for less frenetic comings and goings; for time alone; but, for the most part, I loved my life and was content. Time is a sneak though. While I wasn't looking, the rug rats grew up, and, ever so slowly, so I hardly even noticed, drifted off to their own lives. Which is the way of things,I know. And I'm fine with that.

I really am. But, if I had it to do again, I would sit in the sand box more often and make "cakes" with them [no apple]; I'd read that "one more story" before turning out the light; I would go and bring "one more drink of water" to reluctant sleepers without a sigh of exasperation; I'd get a sitter for the baby and go help in the classroom; I'd get on an airplane and go hold her hand when life was overwhelming and she was all alone and lonely; I'd get in the car and drive to the other side of the country when the bottom fell out of his world.

Can you make up with the youngest for your shortfalls with the others?

My eyes were stinging at the kitchen sink today. And it wasn't all because of the onions.

There Was A Little Girl With A Curl In Her Hair.......

Seven year old grand daughter, the Divine Miss S, has been taking music lessons. They are coming to an end soon, and there is to be a recital, which is generating a lot of excitement under those golden curls, and, naturally, necessitating a new dress. I volunteered to make it. It's been a while since I last made her a dress. It gets complicated, what with her being a few thousand miles away, and growing constantly, not to mention that young ladies of seven, these days, have very specific opinions on the subject of dresses. The grown-ups and the Divine Miss S do not necessarily have the same taste, so I decided it was wisest to get suggestions from Herself.

She picked four patterns.

Dress # 1: her favourite, had a skirt made of tiered flounces, which initially made me flinch. On closer inspection, I saw that it was classified as "Easy." If I decided on dress #1 she would like it, if possible, in ocean blue with a dark lavender ribbon around the waist and a bow/flower of the same colour.

Dress #2:If dress #1 made me flinch, dress #2 made me cower in terror. It was a frothy little number that looked like a miniature wedding dress! It had short sleeves and ruffles, and Miss S fancied it in pink and green polka dots, if possible.

Dress #3: To my delight, this was a dress I would have chosen for her if left to my own devices! It was a classic shape, with short sleeves and a gathered skirt, a sash around the waist with an optional flower pinned to the bow. If I chose this option Miss S would like it to be white with red polka dots, a dark pink ribbon at the waist. And a red rose. She would like the length of this dress to be mid-calf.

Dress #4: A simple sundress style with spaghetti straps and a long skirt. If I decided on this one she would like it in yellow with an orange belt...

I hied me to the fabric store.

The pattern for dress #2 was out of stock. Whew! Sigh of relief. Likewise for dress #4. Patterns for #1 and #3 were available. Now for the fabric. As much as Miss S seemed enamored of polka dots, there were none in evidence, so I crossed my fingers and bought white cotton with little red cherries.

The Divine Miss S is very particular and knows what she likes. But she assured me on the telephone that she would understand if I couldn't find exactly these fabrics. I just hope visions of frothy wedding gowns are not dancing in her cute, curly head. I mailed it yesterday. She should have it tomorrow, several days before the big day. Time enough to rush to the after-Easter sales if it's not up to expectations. But, with luck, it won't come to that!

Now if I could devise a method of wiggling my nose and magically arriving at that recital.....

A Person Of Suspicion.....

This picture has nothing to do with this post. But the azaleas are beautiful right now!


Hidden in among the bank statements and umpteenth notices for magazine subscription renewals we're no longer interested in, [have you noticed how, even after your "last chance" notice, they just keep on coming?] was something official-looking.....for me.

At long last! My shiny new Alien Registration Card, along with a leaflet welcoming me to the United States.

"Well," I said to the world at large, "Isn't that special."

I've only lived here since 1970 and now they want to welcome me? These would be the fine folks at Homeland Security, beloved of airline travelers throughout the land, and an even more recent addition to the US than myself.

Alien resident cards are issued for ten years at a time. Mine expired last summer and I applied for a renewal, the first time I've had to renew since Homeland Security took over the job of keeping us safe.

And, in case you had any doubts, they are working very conscientiously towards that end. They left no stone unturned to make sure I was not a menace to society, so that the good citizens of this country would not be at risk of their lives by having the likes of me living and breathing among them. After all, just because a person marries an American citizen and spends the best years of her life raising other American citizens, is no reason to assume she will not get a wild hair, one of these days, and embark on a life of crime. And the fact that one's husband was a career military man and served his country with distinction should in no way raise one above suspicion.

A terrorist until proven otherwise.

No exceptions. In the interests of national security, you understand.

I sent in the [considerable] fee, along with my renewal application. In due time I was told to report to an office in a distant city, so that immigration experts [the implication being that such specialized work was beyond the capabilities of the local sheriff's office] could take my fingerprints and my picture.

And when the powers that be deemed my fingerprints "unreadable," I was required to motor once again to the same distant city, so that the same [not so expert] people and their fancy-ass fingerprinting machines could do it all again.

And when they were once again deemed "unreadable," I was told to contact the law enforcement offices of each place I had lived in the past ten years, and obtain from them a copy of my criminal history record, which I should then mail to them within 87 days.....#$%@! What's with that magic number? And exactly what criminal history were they talking about, I wondered? A case, once again, of being a criminal 'til proven otherwise. Oh, and don't forget to include a check for the fee to each law enforcement office involved.

Insinuations to the contrary aside, I am a law abiding person, though it tries my patience when the law is implemented idiotically, so I sent off requests to the law enforcement offices of two states in which I have lived in the past ten years, complete with requisite fees.

Now, I understand red tape. I understand bureaucracy. But I was beginning to feel insulted. Beginning to feel I might be better off packing my bags and relieving the U S of A of the apparent hazard of having me at large. I could go home to Ireland. I'm sure the Little Blister would not leave me out in the cold and the rain...I would survive just fine there, as long as I was armed [or maybe that should be footed?] with a good supply of thick, woollie socks. At least there I wouldn't be viewed with such suspicion!

In the fullness of time I received reports in the mail from the investigative agencies of the States of Florida and Minnesota. They had snooped and pried and uncovered my dastardly secret...........

I had never been in trouble with the law!

Didn't I assure you that these folks are toiling, day and night, sparing no expense [on my part!] to keep you safe from the dodgy ones among us?

I now have in my possession, a shiny, new Alien Registration card, complete with its very own protective sleeve.



Which means they won't be looking to deport me for at least the next ten years....

And what else does it mean? The rest of the country can sleep easy tonight, in the knowledge that the chances of being knifed in their beds by Molly Bawn, are slim to none.

Birthday Mum and Birthday Boy

Happy first Birthday to littlest Grandson and to his lovely Mum --- He was born on her birthday, one year ago today!

Don't Mess With The Tried And True

Residents of the Chilly North, to wit Lily, Hubby and boys, breezed in to have breakfast with us last Saturday when we were barely out of bed. They'd driven all night, en route to a week at the beach, another hour south of us.

In anticipation of their arrival I had made a cake. I found the recipe in the food section of the newspaper earlier in the week. It was called Depression Cake. Two cups of hot, strong coffee were involved---always a good sign. A generous number of raisins, some shortening, some sugar and lots of spices were added. No eggs, no butter, no milk---hence, a cake that could be made when those commodities were in short supply, during the Great Depression. What the heck, I thought. I always like to try something new.

Lily could not help smiling when she spotted the cake on the kitchen counter. Lifted the cloth covering it, smiled, and said "Oh! Chocolate!"

"Oh-oh!" I thought. "Now I'm in trouble."

I should know better than to mess with the tried and true. Keeping my voice cheerful, I explained how I'd spotted it in the paper last week; how it sounded "interesting." How it was called Depression Cake....Surely she'd be intrigued by that.


"Oh. I think you mean 'Depressing Cake,'" she responded glumly.

"Why depressing?" I asked, knowing full well.

"Because it looks like chocolate...But it's not. I call that depressing!"

Looked like that cake was going to stick around for a while. Grandson number one said he'd try some, but one bite and he changed his mind. What had I been thinking,I wondered. Some of the pistons in my brain [brains have pistons,right?] must have mis-fired......No one was showing the least bit of enthusiasm.

The OC likes a smackeral of something sweet with his tea in the evening. That's something he has in common with Winnie the Pooh...As a result, he has something else in common with that endearing bear! But even he turned up his nose at my Depression Cake. So, if you want the recipe, you'll have to call the newspaper. Or dig down to the bottom of my rubbish bin.

Yesterday I made another cake. A Tried and True cake. A cake I've made a few hundred times before. And carried it to Lily at the beach. To atone for my sin. A cake I knew would not depress her. Because it has cocoa and chocolate chips. And, in case the calories incline her towards depression, the beach is right outside her door, so she can run it off......

By the time we left the beach last night, every crumb of the Not-Depressing cake had vanished.

Which just goes to show, if you have a sure thing, don't turn your back on it in favour of a depressing experiment!

A Little Rant By A Little Voice In My Head

Emboldened by my success at growing radishes, [see above], albeit puny ones, in spite of impressive verdure [today's word of the day from Merriam Webster!] I decided to apply to take a master gardener course offered by the county. Bit of a leap from novice radish grower to master gardener, but, one should aim high I've always heard. Not that I'll be magically transformed or anything like that. All day, every Friday, for twelve weeks, will be devoted to trying to cram horticultural knowledge into the few wits remaining in my cranial cavity, if I'm accepted into the course.

I see-sawed back and forth about applying, but then figured, looking at it from a purely selfish point of view, I could only come out ahead, as my brain would be snatched from the gaping jaws of senility by the necessity of flexing and stretching it to accommodate all this seed and weed know-how.

Filling out the form was easy, until I came to a question near the end.

"Do you work?" was the question. As in, "Are you employed?"

This usually rattles me because I know the answer they expect from the likes of me. I'm possibly a little hyper-sensitive on the subject since my father-in-law, bless his aged, bald, and shiny pate, has made a point of needling me about my lack of "gainful" employment for the last forty years. He especially likes to tell tales from the old country. One in particular, about a new bride whose f-i-l informs her, soon after her marriage to his son that, in his household, those who don't work don't eat. All the while casting pseudo jocular glances in my direction. As though washing his son's underwear and raising his grandchildren were merely hobbies to fill the gaps between tropical vacations and frothy bubble baths....

Reluctantly I marked the "No" box. But a rebellious little voice in my head objected, and went on a little rant. Something like this:

No. Instead of working I like to spend my days cleaning toilets; sweeping floors; keeping ahead of clutter; changing bed sheets; doing laundry; folding clothes; occasionally even ironing them; shopping for groceries; planning meals; cooking meals; cleaning up after meals; trying not to trip over the cat; taking the aforementioned, decidedly unwilling animal, to the vet, which cannot be accomplished until he is in the cat carrier, into which he can only be wrestled by three muscular grown men wearing leather gloves and face protection.

Or one determined housewife who does not work.

Other desultory activities include, but are not limited to, staying in touch with the children; listening to problems; making sympathetic noises when I can offer nothing better; cheering them on when things go well; remembering birthdays; visiting my aged and cantankerous father-in-law, grinding my teeth and holding my tongue while so doing [years of practice]; pulling weeds; planting vegetables; pulling more weeds; planting more vegetables; making lists; losing lists; making more lists; wasting time looking for lists I've lost; writing on Blogger; searching, always, for a pen that works---in a house that has as many pens as a raccoon has fleas; making, remembering, and keeping appointments with doctors, dentists, chiropractors, vets and friends; trying to make regular dents in the UFO pile; trying not to start new projects that will ensure I do not make those dents......

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Changed my answer to "Yes."

Next question: If "yes," what is your job title?

General dogsbody?

Don't get me wrong. I have a good life and much to be thankful for. As long as I keep the house from falling down, I can set my own schedule, and carve out time for the really important things in life --- reading, writing and quilting. I only think about running away to join the circus once every three weeks or so. Besides, the circus is here. Just because I don't get a salary for being the ringmaster doesn't mean it isn't a job...doesn't mean I'm not employed.

So, revised short answer: Yes, I work.

What else could I add that might tip the scales? Flexible schedule. Plus, I'm willing! Important because, in return for the knowledge, those who complete the course have to commit to many hours volunteering at garden and plant shows, answering phones---and, intriguingly, writing articles. Now they're talking! But one is probably required to have a clue about gardening before one can write about it! Ergo......


How am I doing Isabelle? I shouldn't blithely toss out vague promises, such as "I'm going to post something every other day." Because you never know who's listening and taking notes. I hereby amend my foolishness to "every other day, or two, or three, or four or even seven!"

And still waiting, and sighing, for reciprocation from the motherland [or maybe that should be the sisterland....]

Keeping Isabelle Happy..........

Bumbling along from day to day, I sometimes wonder where I'm going, why I'm going there, what, if anything, will happen when I get there, and does any of it matter? When I was growing up there was no requirement to think, apart from muddling out the answers to arithmetic homework. In fact we were discouraged from questioning, especially in matters of religion. The Church had all the answers, even before we asked the questions. Don't worry, put your faith in God, say your prayers, do what you're told, go to confession on Saturday, to Mass on Sunday, don't pull your sister's hair or kick your brother in the shins, don't eat meat on Fridays and, for heaven's sake, keep your legs together.

But now, it seems to me, religion has lost its stranglehold on our lives. I find myself disillusioned, and vaguely angry that I was fed all those pat answers, and frowningly discouraged from asking "why?" and other impertinent questions. I have not suddenly stopped believing in God, but it does seem that a lot of what I was taught growing up were simply stories to make us conform, to make us behave a certain way, to make us easy to control. And who is it that wants us to be so docile?

One of the "givens" was that if we lived by the rules we'd go to heaven in the end and be happy there for all eternity. Heaven was a vague, pastel place, full of fluffy clouds, and angels sporting huge, feathery wings, making beautiful music on various stringed instruments. It was a place where you would be re-united with all the people you had loved who'd died before you. The party line was that the only thing that died was your body. Your soul, or spirit, that intangible that made you you, would live on. It was up to you, and how well you conformed with all the rules, whether you would spend eternity in the pastel place, or in a fiery, much hotter place, listening to horrible rap for all eternity.

Several people I loved have died over the years. When I was younger I just assumed they went to heaven. Certainly I hoped they did, since I wasn't anxious for anyone close to me to end up in the other place. But it has always bothered me that I have never had the slightest feeling that those people, who were close to me, are close or somehow nearby, watching over me, now that they're gone.

There's little comfort in the phrase "Life's a bitch and then you die." So, even though I'm suspicious now of a lot of what we "learned" in school from the nuns, I still cling to the idea of a life of the spirit, of the effectiveness of prayer, of trying to be "good," even if there is no "eternal reward." Just because I'd rather be good than bad. And then you get into definitions, and you could speculate all night!

I wonder if everyone is torn this way between the "life's a bitch..." attitude and wanting to cling to beliefs that comforted us when we were children? I really want to believe there is a master plan, that Someone with a clue is in charge, and that we can trust that Someone to ensure that the universe, and our lives, and our childrens' lives are unfolding according to plan.......

I hope St. Patrick smiled on you today...

Ladybugs Resurrected

While blog wandering recently I happened upon this quilt. Birds sang, bells tinkled, nerve endings tingled----temptation beckoned seductively, "you know you want to!" But, in a display of supreme self control, I beat that monster down. Joseph's Coat has many charms, not least among them those clean, clear, singing colours, the really neat way those circles go together [yes, I read every word of the multi-part tutorial, which only served to increase the temptation] and the fact that it is applique.

But no. Not now. Not when the teetering pile of UFOs has not diminished one whit in the past year. At some future date, when that pile has been beaten into submission, it may be feasible. Until then, I'll just have to be strong.

The most immediate reason I shouldn't start a major new project now is this:





Started tentatively for Number One grandson,[eight years ago!] it was still not finished by the time he arrived, at which point it became apparent that
#1---he was a boy, and maybe the quilt looked a bit girly; and
#2---as he grew it became obvious that, not only was he a boy, he was a vroom-vroom kind of boy, attracted to machinery, and trucks [which he famously and hilariously mispronounced] and other things that made growly, gravelly noises. Back to the drawing board to plan a vroom-vroom kind of quilt. Which was accomplished with the able assistance of Rise who was visiting at the time.

IMG_3511
Originally uploaded by Mollybawn

And so the ladybugs and flowers slowly sank into the UFO pile. And then, a year ago, grandson number four was born, and came to visit at Christmas. I'd been embarrassed by the rushed quilt I'd made for him when he was a newborn, so consulted with his mum, who loved the ladybugs, and thought they'd go beautifully in her garden-themed nursery. You'd think I'd have gotten on the ball in the new year, but until now, lethargy.

Last week I spread it on the dining room table, thinking if it's out I'll start quilting it. But it intimidated me. The actual quilting of a project is the part of the whole process I'm least adept at. I gave it a wide berth, avoided making eye contact with it for a week. The weather was cold, my fingers were stiff and achy, and it just seemed too overwhelming. The first step is the hardest. Finally, today, I boldly grabbed the needle and took the first stitch. And then a second, and a third, and before I knew it I'd quilted a whole block!




I love how it looks and wish I'd started ages ago! It also helped that the weather warmed up and loosened my fingers. I have nineteen applique blocks to go---agh!--- and then the matter of the plain alternate blocks, but at least now I know it can be done. The question is can it be done in time for the little man's birthday at the end of the month??

Meanwhile, I'm adding Joseph's Coat to the list of quilts I'd like to make before I die, but after finishing at least a few of the projects in The Pile!

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary.....

"Wintering in Florida" has taken on a whole new meaning this year. Not since 1958 has the state had such a brutal winter, understanding, of course, that "brutal" to a Floridian is different than "brutal" to a North Dakotan. Still. It's been a lot more about huddling indoors, wrapped in multiple layers of whatever woollies you didn't blithely toss away when you made the decision to go south, than frolicking on the beach in your scanty bikini [not, my dears, that I would, even on the hottest day, subject the rest of humanity to the sight of this aging bag of bones in such a garment......]

So it was a long overdue treat to sit on the dry brown remains of what used to be our grass, yesterday, and indulge in an hour of catching up with the Little Blister, while the sun warmed my back. She'd been moaning earlier in the week in an e-mail, that I need to post more often; every day for instance! Whoa! Have you seen a blog post from her in recent memory? Didn't think so. And she has so much she could write about. Certainly she has a livelier life than I do. Which is part of the problem. She has dilemmas such as washing her hair or [and not being an option] doing the grocery shopping. Whereas I have time for both. But I'm guessing nobody would be enthralled by posts on either subject.

I decided to humour her. Because I love her. Not because there's a hope in hell that she'll respond by posting something new on her blog. Though where's the harm in hoping? I might not post every day, but I'll try for at least every other day, until the well runs dry. Which shouldn't take too long.

So, what subject does the normal Irishwoman, walking down O'Connell Street, love to talk about and find endlessly entertaining?

Why, the weather, of course.

If you said "The weather" before you read those words, you may go to the top of the class!

While the rest of the country was busy shoveling white fluffy stuff in the last few weeks, we've been shoveling [while shivering] brown stuff. Dirt. Soil. Found in a garden. Used to grow things. Like vegetables. Because, in spite of all appearances, we believe Spring will come!

We moved here nine years ago and it's taken me that long, and many unsuccessful attempts at growing tomatoes, to get it through my head that, just because Spring and Summer are the time to plant a garden up north, the same is not true down here. So in December, I bought a couple of tomato seedlings and boldly planted them, and behold! They grew! And produced beautiful, plump, blemish-free, green tomatoes, which, by now should be ripe and juicy and red, if the winter from hell hadn't intervened. My beautiful, blemish-free, going-to-be-so-tasty, best-ever tomatoes perished on the vine, in spite of all the mollycoddling, the shrouds of old blankets, and teepees of old sheets we erected around them to protect them from Old Man Frosty Winter. There were just too many really cold nights. Sigh.

Duly chastened, we modified our expectations, and planted rows of peas.

And radishes, broccoli, beets, carrots and lettuce for good measure.

The Bean did the donkey work and I did the fun stuff---poking holes, dropping in seeds, covering them up. Then off he went to school for the week and I set to watering,traipsing back and forth from the house to the vegetable patch, wobbling unsteadily under the weight of two heavy watering cans. To check on the babies and make sure they weren't thirsty. Normally we'd have water available right there, but the freeze cracked our pump so, until it got fixed, traipsing, wobbling and sloshing were the order of the day. Mercifully, we had several rainy days [and nights.] And now the pump is fixed, traipsing over.

Days to germination: 4-7, the radish seed packet proclaimed. Based on my own personal research, I'd have to say they're lying. Or maybe the seeds are bashful about peeping up when there's a mad Irishwoman bending over them five times a day, muttering, cajoling, willing them to pop. It seemed like forever before the first sliver of green poked up through the dirt. But they gathered courage when it became apparent that the mad Irishwoman was harmless, if a bit on the over-eager side. You'd think it was magic, I was so excited! You certainly wouldn't have believed I came from farmers; or that I've done this before, or that my mother had two green thumbs and a full set of green toes; or that the Bean only has to look at a seed and it coyly sprouts, or that all his siblings grow gardens too.




It's always magic.





Another weekend came, and with it the scholar, who planted parsley, chives and cilantro, just so those sweet little peas and radishes wouldn't be lonesome. My list for this week includes a trip to the garden store for a few more tomato seedlings. To have another shot at home grown tomatoes. But they'll be mollycoddled in pots until this crazy winter scarpers on out of here, back to wherever it came from.

Meanwhile, it's not as warm yet as it normally is in March, but the sun is shining and there's a sporting chance we might salvage a few typical "Wintering in Florida" weeks out of the tail end of the season. But even if we do, there'll be no sightings of this Irishwoman in a bikini!

Westward Ho!

We went away the w.e. before last.......

To Paris?




New York?




Egypt?




Japan?




Disneyland?



None of the above. We went to Las Vegas where nothing is as it seems. We didn't go for the gambling, or the shows, or the nightlife. We're not much into that kind of partying lifestyle. A cousin, a rarity in the OC's life, was getting married there, and he wanted to show her a little support, as there wasn't a lot of it among family elders! He is very fond of her, figures she's a grown-up and deserves a chance to be happy. So off we went into the desolation of the west.......



The bride was beautiful, and radiant, and in full possession of her wits and her sense of humour!





Since Vegas is likely not a place we'll go again, we hoofed it all around town, craning our necks at all the touristy sights. It was interesting, but all so false, and mercenary, the glitz and bright lights signifying-----what?

We got out of town the second day to see the Hoover Dam. An engineering marvel to be sure.




What I liked even better than the dam, though, was the new bridge they're building.....I have always been in love with bridges, from the humpy-backed little bridge that signaled we were getting close to Granny's when we went on Sunday jaunts out the country long ago, to the Verrazano Narrows in NY to the Golden Gate In San Francisco. This one is scheduled to be finished in September, and, already, it looks amazing!



I'm glad we went to the wedding, though Vegas would be the last place I'd want to tie the knot. Which just goes to show there's room for all kinds of different ways of doing things in the world. If I had it to do over, I'd still head for the hills and the heather. But this was not about me. This was someone else's idea of bliss. And as they were headed off to the Grand Canyon afterwards, I'm sure they had a lovely time. Call me dull, call me boring, the nicest part of going away, anywhere, for me, is coming home to my own cozy nest at the end of it all.

Please Don't Drool On The Quilts

One of the biggest treats for those of the quilty persuasion in these parts is the West Pasco Quilters'Guild Show. It is held biennially [with a nod to Suse for setting me straight!]



Anyway, guess where I went on the weekend? Excellent guess! To the West Pasco Quilt Show of course. Over the years I've honed my technique for making sure I see everything when I go to one of these shows.

First I get a choke hold on the programme so it doesn't float away.

Then I approach the first quilt that catches my eye and examine it from various angles, including, but not limited to, up close. When my eyes have drunk their fill [or others, impatient for me to move, jostle me on my way] I carefully tick it off in the programme and proceed to its next door neighbour.




[I can't resist quilts with houses and appliqued flowers, like this one.]

The goddesses of quilt shows have no rhyme or reason to the order in which they hang the quilts. Or so it seems to me. It would be nice to go smoothly from number one to number two to number three.....But no! Willy-nilly seems to be the preferred method.




[Please note: Purple quilt! Very Purple quilt.]


Which is better, I guess, than having all the appliqued quilts clumped together. That way, even if you have no interest in applique, you're going to see some anyway, because they'll be sprinkled around among all the others.




[This is what, I think, is called thread painting, something I could eat more easily than do, but I liked the blueberries-beads-since I have an enthusiastic blueberry grower in my family!]


The only problem is having to switch pages at every quilt, while hanging onto your purse, making sure you keep track of your camera, keeping the death grip on the all-important programme, making small talk with all the people you meet, and enduring the mortification of not remembering names --- "Well, hello there! I remember you! I took a class from you at the blah-blah quilt shop, way back when the earth was young! How are you?" [you really want to know? Suffering from profound amnesia.]





And fumbling for your phone in the depths of your purse when the friends you came with are wondering where you've vanished to.....Fun times!




[This log cabin quilt had wool applique blanket stitched over each block. Very unusual and gorgeous.]

This next quilt was my favourite. I voted it Best of Show. My picture of the whole quilt came out very blurry, so instead, here are some detail shots.






If someone had told me I could take home one of the quilts in the show I'd have taken this one.......


Or this one......




[I have the book for this delft quilt. It's on my list to make before I die!]

Or this version of the Dear Jane quilt.....




[These little four inch blocks are an ideal project for toting around in your purse for when you're stranded without a book miles from home. That never happens to you? Oh.]

There were a gazillion quilts to see. I think I saw most of them. The quilts I've shown here show my applique leanings, but there were lots of beautiful pieced quilts too. Hope you've enjoyed the show!

Fly Me To The Moon......

Saturn I
Originally uploaded by fire starter 100

I couldn't find my Blistex anywhere and the thought of a month without it was stressing me out. Paper lips don't work for me. And they have been dry with this unusually cold winter we're having. Not to mention, everyone else was ready for liftoff. People were getting irate with me. Even my friend was already on board and yelling in exasperation for me to hurry up.

But I had to find my Blistex!

There'd be no opportunity to go to the store and buy more where we were going. And the thought of being Blistex-less for a full thirty days didn't bear thinking about. My lips would surely fall off. I ran back and forth like a headless chicken, pulling out drawers and reaching to check on high shelves, places where I was not remotely likely to find the familiar little white tube. But I'd already ascertained that it wasn't in the side pocket of my purse, where I usually keep it; it wasn't in the pocket of the pants I'd worn yesterday; not in my jacket pocket either; it wasn't on my night table; it wasn't on the kitchen counter; it wasn't on the table by my computer. Where in creation had I put the darn thing? I felt hot tears pricking my eyelids and my feet twitched in a jig of frustration. It didn't help that the shouts from across what seemed like a barnyard, were becoming more strident. Panic rose in my throat as I looked wildly about.

"Molleee! We can't wait any longer!"


They must have left without me because, when I woke up, I was warm and snug in my bed and there was no spacecraft in sight.

Just a moment. There's someone at the door.

Oh. It's a couple of men in white lab coats. They told me I should come with them.........I told them to hang on a minute, I'd be right back. So, quick. Before I climb out the back window and make my escape, what do you think it all means? Am I really so disillusioned with life I'd rather be on the moon? Do they have fabric there, I wonder? And books? And chocolate? And warm, cozy beds?

Maybe I can get on the next launch....

But first I have to find my Blistex.

How To Fill Up A Weekend

No divorce proceedings yet! The OC is a kind and generous person but does not suffer fools gladly. All he wanted was to be done with airports, get home, put his feet up, do his crossword and sleep on his own pillow. Not so much to ask. But then a fool intervened, checked the wrong flight, and Voila! He got a bonus hour to enjoy airport ambiance. But, one's own bed, in one's own house, a weekend game of golf, albeit in gloomy, gray rain, a walk in the nature preserve, and not having to shave for a few days, have wonderful restorative powers. He is rested and refreshed. And gone on another trip. And, most importantly, the number of his return flight is chiseled on the inside of my forehead.

It was a good weekend. In spite of miserable weather, to which we are not accustomed in these parts, this time of year. [Is that my daughter I hear, playing a mournful tune on her tiny violin?] How can it possibly be Wednesday already? I think the gray weather, carrying over into the early part of the week, made it seem like the weekend had been extended.

Anne Tyler held me hostage with her latest book, "Noah's Compass." She drew me into the lives of her perfectly ordinary characters, to such an extent that I had to finish the book before anything else got done. And then I had to go to the library and rummage through the shelves to find another Tyler fix....




......which I am trying to hold at arm's length until I finish "Pomegranates" which, while interesting, does not carry me along so effortlessly from page to page as Tyler does.


I found a new recipe for Irish soda bread.......We polished it off in record time. Definitely a keeper!





And a project to sew on while listening to the rain spilling down outside......





I've had this cream floral fabric for more than a year. My sister-in-law bought it, but since she mainly buys fabric, then fondles it now and again, but rarely makes anything from it, I volunteered to make something for her. That something is a table runner. Which I started at the weekend. And could, with luck, finish by Friday! [Another manifestation of the New Me, the one who finishes things!]

But.

I'm not too sure I like it. That mauve-y-lilac-y-purple-y colour seemed perfect when I bought it. And the purple with the sparkle in it serenaded me from the sale shelf at the quilt shop. I seem to have an affinity for purple. Maybe from the purple cloth that covered all the statues in church, during Lent, when I was growing up? Or maybe white hair and shades of purple just go together? But purple has a bad reputation. My Bulgarian friend, Julia, told me once, that, in Bulgaria, purple is the colour for practitioners of the world's oldest profession, for which I do not have an affinity. After she told me that, I dressed very conservatively for our weekly voyages of exploration into Brussels! And then there's another dubious connection. Purple prose. Of which none of us would want to be accused.

Now I'm wondering if these two fabrics take the table runner out of the "demure lady" category, which is certainly descriptive of my s-i-l, and move it into "tart" territory, which would not suit her at all. I no longer trust my own judgement. That lilac/lavender/mauve has been luridly leering at me since I started. But, I am not ripping it out now! If she doesn't like it she can give it away, donate it to charity, or use it to wash her car. I started it, so I will finish it!

It has progressed to this stage:





Layered and pinned. After that there's only one more dilemma---to bind it in the sparkly purple? Or the more demure green? Or.....maybe two dilemmas......Which brothel to donate it to if the finished product is indeed too "tarty?"

If you'd like to weigh in on the matter, I'm all ears! But hurry. I want to get it finished before my next run to the airport!