Everyone Make a Wish

WOW.

It is my one year "blog-aversary".   I can't believe I started this thing a year ago.  Frankly,  I'm not sure about continuing... not that I have run out of things to say, rant, sew, complain and/or outright bitch about - the topics are endless.  In fact,  I wish I had fewer things to write about.  I wish I had a quiet life.

I wish I was healthier, that my husband was healthier, that this economy would stop strangling us.  I wish people would think before they speak, be more considerate drivers and stop throwing cigarette butts out  the windows of their cars.  I wish dog owners would pick up their dog's poops.  I wish  people would stop posting videos of their very young children singing and dancing like a stripper and thinking it is cute. I wish the political leaders of every country would pull their collective heads out of their asses and work cooperatively and constructively.  I wish women would stop being their own worst enemies.  I wish people were required to regularly read good books.  I wish the news and TV outlets would also pull their collective heads out of their asses and go back to producing news programs with journalistic standards. I wish reality programming would be banned. Forever.

See what I mean?  There is no end to it.  Maybe it is a year-end thing, but I just feel exhausted keeping all the plates up in the air and spinning. (Ed Sullivan show reference.)  When I was in my 20's I used to look at the elderly (meaning people in their 50's) and wonder how they could be so content with reading and sewing and gardening and having long, lovely dinners with friends.  Now I understand. Less is so much more. Less is so much saner. Less is so much better for the heart, mind, body and soul.

I wish us all less in 2011.  Less aggravation, stress and debt.  Less weight, worry and fear.  Less of anything that is weighing us down physically, mentally and spiritually.  "Less will be heaven in 2011" if you will. That's my wish, and now I will blow out my one-year candle.  Let's all make a wish it comes true.

Buddy the Elf Day

"The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear!"

December 18th is "Answer the Phone Like Buddy the Elf Day" - so if your phone rings, pick it up and say, "Buddy the Elf - what's your favorite color?"

If you haven't see the movie Elf you are missing out on a great Christmas flick.  I own a copy of it and watch it ad nauseum.  It never gets old.  You can also put a lot of syrup in your coffee if you need a boost getting started.

PS - make smiling your favorite!

Noelco!

It isn't the original, but pretty close.  I have such memories of this commercial (for some unknown reason) and it is nice to see it up on YouTube.  Bonus - you  get a peek at the  wonky,  1970's state of the art beauty supplies!  Enjoy!

"Noel-co, Even Our Name Says Merry Christmas!"

Norelco Electric Razors

Christmas Earworms

I am watching the store today; my husband had his Rotary Club meeting at noon and then has marching orders to get a haircut.  (I have strong feelings about long hair on men - eeeuuuchh.  His hair cannot be longer than mine.)

Needing a creative outlet I decided I'd play around with the look of my blog.  It's kind of like auditioning fabric for a quilt but without the patterns.  (If there were patterns available I'd never get anything done.  Seriously.  How much fun is this?) In between tweaks, I wait on customers, answer a lot of questions, and listen to Christmas music on either the radio or my Pandora.  I have strong feelings about music and a pretty broad spectrum of music I like. There are, however, a few changes to the cannon of Christmas music that I would like to change effective immediately.  They are as follows:

1. Dominic the Donkey should be banned from the entire planet.  It is the most obnoxious, stupid song ever written and screws itself into your brain like an earworm. I'm not an old fart - I love Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer and the barking dogs Jingle Bells, but this donkey song is just vile.


2. Anything sung by Mariah Carey.  Mariah the Pariah has destroyed more Christmas songs than anyone on the planet.  Seriously - it sounds like someone is holding lit matches to her feet while she sings.  She makes me want to pour hot wax into my ears so I don't have to listen.


3. Synthesizers can serve a purpose (limited at best) but you can't seriously build your life or career or album around 5000 of them.  It is just waaaaaaaayyyy too much.  (Are you listening, Trans Siberia Orchestra?)


4. Metal bands doing Christmas songs.  I was in the grocery store the other night and it sounded like  Iron Maiden was singing Silent Night. Aside from being really offensive, it almost made me run out of the store. It was L O U D and causing the groceries in my cart to rattle from the vibrations.  It was surreal, like being caught in a  Stephen King nightmare.


5. Songs where a parent is drunk (Please, Daddy Don't Get Drunk This Christmas) or dying (The Christmas Shoes). No further explanation needed.


6. The Little Drummer Boy. Nice concept, bad execution.  I've never heard a version of it where those "rump-a-pum-pums" didn't make my ears bleed.

One further admonition - just because you have successful recording contracts does not mean you can sing Oh Holy Night.  Very few people have the pipes and the talent to tackle that song and you should leave it to the people who do.  Chances are, Celine Dion, you are not one of them. Just sayin'.

For a consummate Christmas music experience  listen to a professional choir.  Choral singing is the most brilliant, beautiful and evocative way to listen to the songs you love best.  The Kings College Choir, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, the Cambridge Choir - any of them will reverberate in your soul.  Combined with their orchestral support (those French horns do me in every time) you are virtually guaranteed to be infused with love and light.  Alternatively,   you can shake yourself up a pitcher of icy martinis and listen to Eartha Kitt sing Santa Baby.  That'll put some holiday color in your cheeks!

Enjoy.

About Shopping with Beverages...

Today's subject:   Shopping with beverages.  I'm not sure at what point in time so many people became incapable of walking in to a store without clutching a cup of hot coffee or a dripping cold beverage. It might be about the same time that water bottles became a semi-permanent fixture, either stuck in everyone's mouth or clutched in their hand as if it was their last chance to hydrate on this earth.   It's all a blur.  A very bad blur.

Most stores and offices have signs indicating that you need a shirt and shoes - or you will have no service.  Many more have signs that say "no food or drink in store" or the more gentrified, "please enjoy your beverages outside."   Not only are  these signs ignored, but customers often bristle offensively when asked to "leave your cup on the counter while you browse" or "Let me know if you need anything, and do be careful with the coffee!" chirped ever so pleasantly.  WELL. I NEVER.  (Stomp out in a huff.)   "Good riddance,"  I think to myself.

People sipping coffee/tea/soda/pop/water are rarely purchasing anything. They are recreational shopping.  That alone is cause for having your head examined, but please consider the store owners who are left with soggy quilt fabric, dribbled on greeting cards, dripped on t-shirts, and puddles of god knows what where a coffee cup (not empty) was "cleverly" tucked behind merchandise when the drinker was looking for a place to get rid of it.  I was in a well known department store shopping for a new down comforter when I pulled one from the shelving and found just such an abandoned cup of coffee. It had teeny little bugs crawling around it  - and I put the down comforter back.  Even though it was encased, I don't want anything in my bed that was near those bugs.

Lest you think this does not affect you, please know the cost of replacing these stained shirts & merchandise is passed along to the consumer - you and I are paying for the nimrods who can't separate themselves from their precious drinks.  I love to have a cup of coffee, but I take a break from what I am doing and sit down and DRINK THE DAMN COFFEE.  It is much more relaxing and does not encroach on other people's property or skeeve out people who have to watch you slurp and dribble on what would otherwise be saleable merchandise.

If you do it - knock it off.  If you don't - you are a reasonable person who is not a nimrod.

Thank you, and spread the word.

Decking the Halls

Have a few hours at home this morning and thought I better get started decking my halls.  The feathered star above the mantel is actually a table runner my mother made, but I like it up here much better.  It's visually gorgeous and no one can spill anything on it!  The mantel  is a work in progress, but I like what I've got so far.

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The quilt on the left is called "Reflections" and is another one of mom's wonderful quilts.  The piecing on it is just amazing - the work of the insane.  It is hanging in my Dad's room so he can see it from his bed.  I'm not sure if he knows what it is or remembers who made it, but I like the idea of him having something beautiful to look at and that it was made by someone he loved - and who loved him - so very much.

The GO BIG RED Nebraska plate was an early gift from Santa - I LOVE IT, and it will be up and around through the Big 12 Championship  game this Saturday, and for the bowl game season.

Etiquette for Advent (Educating the Universe Part I)

Just finished making this year's Advent wreath ( a day late but I was at work all weekend ) and it got me to thinking about all the things that stress people out over the holidays.  Most of it is the result of thoughtlessness 0r absent-mindedness, but most frequently - stupidity.  I'm starting an "Educating the Universe" series that I hope will serve a useful purpose and maybe render bitch slapping a less frequent occurrence during this festive holiday season.

Advent is the four weeks prior to Christmas.  It is a religious observance.  Do not walk into a gift shop, ask for an Advent calendar, and say, "Oh, not a religious one!"  An ADVENT calendar is a guide for children to understand the approaching birth of their Lord.  A gigundo poster of Santa Claus with a big bag that has 24 little paper doors on it  is a COUNTDOWN TO CHRISTMAS.  Advent (and for that matter, Christmas) has nothing to do with Santa. Do what you like, but get your terms correct.

The color of Advent candles vary in some churches but the basic set is 3 purple and one rose.  They are lit on the 4  Sundays of Advent and  go in this sequence:  1st Sunday  - purple,  2nd) purple, purple  3rd) purple, purple,  rose 4th) purple, purple, rose, purple.   You may also light them at supper during the week, it's nice.  The rose (or pink) candle is for Gaudete Sunday (Latin for "rejoice")   and is a rose candle because rose is the liturgical color for joy.  The 3rd Sunday marks the "nearness" of the great event so anticipatory jumping up and down encouraged.  (Trivia question - what is the only other Sunday in the liturgical year that rose vestments are worn?)

• Sidebar on candles:  DO NOT BUY CHEAP CANDLES.  Repeat:  DO.  NOT.  BUY.  CHEAP.  CANDLES.  Cheap candles melt rapidly and puddle wax that will destroy linens and surfaces.  There is nothing attractive about a candle with diarrhea.   If you purchase good candles they will burn MUCH  longer, drip less (if at all) and save you money.  Honest.  PS - make sure the candles are S-T-R-A-I-G-H-T up in their holders.  Seriously. You would think people would know that, but there you are.   PSS - do not buy scented candles for the dinner table.  ( I know - a no-brainer, but I've been to dinners where the scent of flowery candles combined with the scent of roast lamb to become cause for projectile vomiting.)  Let's review:  cheap candles (tapers, jars, floaties, you name it) are a fire hazard and a nuisance.

So that is Advent 101.  There is more but that should  get you through the holidays.  Our next  installment in the Educating the Universe series will be about the shocking stupidity and thoughtlessness of walking through stores with hot coffee and/or  soft drinks.

Quilted Thanksgiving Wishes

Found this on the International Quilt Market page on Facebook.  Thought it was a howl - have a great holiday, everyone!

 

Turkey Wars

Strap on your party livers, it's Thanksgiving week - the beginning of the "best in eating" season EVER.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday - it's mellow, it is easy (anyone can roast a turkey) and it combines leftover turkey sandwiches, football, and napping on the couch.  It is the trifecta of relaxation.  I understand there are some universal  issues that come up around this time, so I'll go ahead and clear things up for everyone.

1. The toilet paper should unroll over the TOP for easy access.  You're welcome.


2. Stuffing or dressing?  Not worth an argument, either one will suffice.  It is more important that you pay attention to the ingredients than what you insist on calling the finished product.  Purists will call what is cooked inside the turkey "stuffing" and what is cooked outside the turkey "dressing."   What do I call it?  The main reason for roasting a turkey.

What goes in the stuffing (or dressing)  is of paramount importance, and the source of many arguments, family discord and marital stress. Everyone likes THEIR family recipe, whatever they grew up with.  (I have noted this phenomenon also occurs around how to make potato salad.)  It is understandable, but there are entire generations that insist on putting oysters, raisins, cranberries, apples - you name it and  people use it to ruin the centerpiece of the meal.

My husband's mother was Sicilian and  not clear on the concept of  Thanksgiving.   She called it the Festa della Toyko (phonetically and loosely translated as "the feast of the turkey").  She stuffed the turkey with a mixture of ground beef, rice, and sugo (sauce).   My husband adored it and still tries to recreate it every Thanksgiving.  (It is never placed inside the turkey  or anywhere near my mouth, I can tell you that right now.)  Living in New England, there are an abundant number of locals who make cornbread stuffing (I am not making this up) and think it is "normal."   Whatever. Again, it is what you grew up with that makes the holiday.  (Many people grew up with not brushing their teeth regularly either, but that does not make it right. Just sayin'.)

Here is how I make my stuffing:   I wash out the turkey, removing the packets of giblets, neck, etc.  All of the bits and pieces go into a large pan on the stove where I add water, an onion, celery, and seasonings.   This needs to simmer gently for at least an hour, maybe longer (usually until the movie on TV is over.)  I find the hand written recipe from my mother, take out the large yellow pyrex bowl (that made a thousand batches of this, birthday cakes, etc.) and read through the recipe just for love.  I don't need to see it, it is engraved in my head, but I love looking at her handwriting.  Bonus - it gives me a feeling like she is still here with us, looking over my shoulder.

I melt the butter in a large skillet, remembering my mother's hand-written admonishment, "damnit Jo, don't let it burn!" and saute the finely chopped onion and celery until it is lightly translucent.  Then I start tossing it with the cubed, stale bread, adding sage, poultry seasoning, a little salt, and moistening the whole batch with the broth made from the turkey trimmings.   At this point I remove a portion of the stuffing to a separate bowl - this is the "stuffing" batch - and continue adding a little more broth to the "dressing" portion.  It needs more moisture as it is being cooked outside the bird.  Then I hit a sheet of heavy aluminum foil with non-stick spray and lay out the remaining dressing and shape it like a long, thinnish loaf.  This way you can slide it in to the oven alongside the roasting pan and it "fits" the space without needing to make room for a blocky casserole dish.   When the turkey is finished, I combine the stuffing with the dressing and THEN put it in a covered casserole dish and put it back in the oven while the turkey is resting.

I am experimenting with adding a beaten egg to the mixture, it is supposed to "puff it up" but I'm not getting that sense just yet.   I really do love this centerpiece dish,  it makes the meal and also makes a leftover turkey sandwich even better (yes, I do eat it cold.)  However you make it and whatever you call it, enjoy.  Even with all that is going on in our homes, our cities, our country and the world, we still have more than most.  Give thanks for that abundance.  (And for pete's sake, don't screw up the stuffing/dressing.)

Creativity Block

I'm dry as a bone - word dry, inspiration dry, imagination dry.  I'm blocked on every level and it doesn't look like that will change anytime soon.  This is doubly unfortunate because the holidays are upon us and the decking of the halls (which I normally LOVE) has just left me......meh.

I have been trying to come up with something for our quilted holiday village at work. I decided to go rogue and do a quilted igloo (what the heck -  it's a house, too,  right?) but it just isn't happening.  I wanted it to look primitive and sincere but I think I'm getting more of a "what were you thinking" kind of vibe.  I might caulk the joints with some pearl cotton embroidery floss, that might pull it all together, but until I do I'm not even going to attempt to finish the entrance/door block.  It could all be  for naught.

I'm bummed that I'm not in the usual pre-holiday groove.  Granted, there are some serious family issues going on right now and I feel like I  have been hit by a grain truck, but I really wish I could find the trigger to get my hands going on something.   I always feel better when I'm sewing or embroidering.  Maybe I'll pop in the movie ELF - that always makes me smile, and maybe  it will jump-start my engines.  What do you do to get yourself out of  a rut?  I'd love to hear from you.

Think I'll Tie One On.....

Well, not in the usual (for me) sense, but there is nothing like the awareness of the great needs of others to put  your  family Thanksgiving in perspective.  It's also a good way to take a break from your troubles and remind yourself that others everywhere are with you, either  neck-deep in their own troubles or offering you a hand to help you out of yours.  No wonder Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.

Continuing my "be useful" theme -  check this out and Tie One On!

Seriously?

The last two weeks have been a hazy blur, and not in the good way.

Dad suffered a  series of markedly down-turning events that necessitated a very quick trip home.  As a consistent target for TSA bitches  I'm not a fan of flying to begin with - much less when the day has to begin at 3AM to catch a 6AM flight. The TSA's were manageable on the outbound flights from Boston, no hammer complexes there.

After a few days of hospital roulette (never knowing who the next assigned doctor would be, ever getting an update on some test results, or wondering if the wastebaskets would EVER be emptied) we ended up moving him to a local rehabilitation center.  For reasons known only to fans of the movie Birdcage,  I have nicknamed the place Bob Fosse.  I spent the next few days there with my sisters and brothers trying  vainly  to honor my Dad's wishes about his health care proxy.

"Fosse" is a Catholic institution that currently has 3 local priests  with a parent/patient currently in-house; consequently the place is crawling with RC priests.  I'm ok with that, my little brother is one of them.  Here is what I am not OK with:  one of them (pretty much a stranger to me no less)  took the opportunity to get all pastoral on my ass at a time when I was trying to pull myself together and say goodbye to my Dad for what well could have been the last time I will see him alive.  I told him three times I was not going to have that conversation with him right now, and that I really had to concentrate on my father.   I understood his deal,   I knew he thought he was being helpful, put he pushed back with a lengthy  fairy tale  about how " your  Dad's suffering is  not in vain, his suffering will save other souls and that when he is in heaven there will be people lined up to thank him for his suffering because he saved their souls....."    and I threw a big, red bullshit flag.

Seriously?  A line of people thanking Dad?  It sounded like a coffee shop in a bad Disney movie.  I am  RC by faith and by grace but what heaven will or will not be is not definitively known to any of us. We can hope, conjecture  and read Catherine of Siena until we are blue in the face but I believe our puny human minds cannot begin to comprehend what lies ahead.  I think it is much bigger and better than anything we could ever come up with and I am content with that knowledge.

Father Get-All-Up-In-My-Grill was shocked when  I threw that BS flag and tripled his horrifically patronizing efforts to educate me on the error of my thinking. It set off an avalanche of reprimand and judgment.  ( I was also told to go to confession.)  He started peppering me with questions, all of which I answered pretty calmly.  Here is a sample:

Father Grill:   Are you married?

ME:  Yes.

Father Grill:  Children?

ME:  No.

Father Grill:  (One eyebrow critically raised)

ME: I had ovarian cancer.

Father Grill:  Oh.  (Evidently that was pardonable)  What is your married name?

ME:  Ciolino.

Father Grill:  Ciolina?

ME: No.  Ciolino - with an O at the end.

Father Grill:  Oh, is he Italian?

ME:  No, Sicilian.

Father Grill:  (Scared look)  Ohhh, Sicilian.  Did you learn to make the pasta?   (SERIOUSLY, HE SAID THAT.    I SWEAR I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP. )

ME:  No.  I don't have to.  My husband makes it when he wants it.

It went on longer than I ever should have permitted and he left the room wearing more skin on his body than I ever should ever have left on it.  I was angry and shaken and grieving - and all at the same time.   I refuse to dwell on it or give it any more time or thought than I already have.  Instead, I will take that experience and offer the following suggestions for visiting the sick that all of us can use:

1. Speak softly.  Noise in the sickroom is anathema.  Ditto for perfumes and well-intentioned  aromatherapy.


2. Be brief.  The family and the patient are both exhausted.


3. Be useful.  Ask  them if you can bring them water, coffee, dinner - anything. Walk the hall with them.  Anybody need to be picked up at the airport?  Anybody need a ride to the hospital?


4. Be present.  You don't need to regale them with stories of your own family illnesses and/or deaths, it isn't a throw-down.  Just be present.


5. Be honest.  Spare them the "oh wait and see, he'll be good as new in no time, " especially when that is NOT going to happen.


6. Be cognizant. It is about what they need, not what you want to give them.

I remember years ago when we lost mom and people started showing up at my folk's house with all kinds of food.  It was all home cooked and all wonderful.  Since there were about 24 of us there at the time (children & grandkids, spouses, etc.) it made meal times much  less difficult. Then, and I'll never forget this,  someone showed up with a huge box of stuff and just left it very quietly.  It was filled with big packages of paper plates, cups, napkins, rolls of paper towels.... and toilet paper.  It was the most incredible, thoughtful,  useful thing ever.  Who knew?  Someone did, and I'm happy to pass it along.  We should all be so useful.  Seriously.

Deja Pallooza

Okay.  Not 30 seconds after I sat down at my Bernina to work on my iBuddy tote bag, the machine stopped working.  Specifically, the needle stopped going up and down.  The machine hummed, the feed dogs fed - but nadda from the needle.  WHASSUP WITH THAT?  After a frantic phone call to the Bernina place that just did the brain transplant, cleaning and repair, I found out it was a "mechanical issue" and was not covered in my 6 month "all work, etc. " warranty.  Seriously.  SERIOUSLY?  I'll give you seriously - I'm seriously pissed off.  I need to get it fixed, but I'm shopping for a new repair place.

Back to the drawing board - back to my cherry pallooza tribute wall hanging.  It's all hand sewing, so I guess I can do that without a machine, right?  Rats. I was SO in the mood.

iNeed iPad Distraction

My cup runneth so far over I can't see daylight.  If you are a praying reader, please remember 3 dear souls (and their families) who are negotiating life passages as we   e-speak.  That's all I'm gonna say for now.

I need a project that will occupy and  ease my mind for a while.  Nothing is quite as capable of  soothing my spirit (and confusing my brain) as making a project that involves a zipper.  I was recently (and most magnificently) gifted with an iPad and a wireless keyboard.  I decided to take some trip-treat fabric from a friend's recent journey to Paris and fashion myself a stylish little tote bag for my newest, bestest iBuddy.  I'm not sure which handles to use (the pink ones are much pinker than they appear here) or how it will all sort out, but I'm home for a day and I have nothing to do until 8PM when Joe gets home and I whip up a simple carbonara for supper.  Wish me luck.  Pray for my peeps.  Thank you.

Ladies in Limbo

I have known for some time now that I am no longer the "target audience" for advertisers, movie makers, shoe,  purse, dress or other  fashionista types.   I have literally been there and bought that.  I am no longer that stupid. I don't live for trends, what is  "in season,"   what is not,  or what other people (or magazines)  think or dictate.   I have become what I used to hold in contempt - I am the woman in Glamour magazine with the black bar across my eyes - the GLAMOUR DON'T,   if you will.

I'm okay with that.  But there is a problem.  I am not dead yet.

This became more apparent than ever two nights ago as I found myself shopping for shoes.  Frankly, I'd rather have my colon irrigated than  go shoe shopping.  (At least I could drop a few pounds in the process and have something to show for the effort.)  Normally I just go online to Zappos and order my shoes, sending back whatever does not fit.  This time I needed something quick and was keen to find something to fit comfortably over a slightly dented left  foot. (Proof positive that vacuuming is hazardous to your health - especially if you drop the heavy new attachment on your foot.)

I went in to one of those DSW shoe superstores (first mistake) that claim to be thee source for great shoes.  I felt like I walked into a time warp - was it the late 70's?  Was disco back?  Are hooker shoes all that women wear to work now?  The first 4 or 5 rows were dismissed without a second look - I already ruined my feet in my 20's with those stupid high, spiked heels.   Granted, I weighed about 120 pounds. I also chain smoked, drank coke for breakfast, and lived on Doritos and peanut butter  toast.   (My early 20's were the  peak  of bad-decisions-all-around when it came to my health and my feet. )  I wanted something - dare I say it - comfortable?  I wanted real shoes, nice style,  well constructed and smart-looking.  The array of shoes said either "hooker" or "nursing home"  - there were no shoes in between the two extremes.  No shoes for the ladies in limbo.

Why is it that clothing and shoes for women in their VERY early 50's are either one extreme or the other?  What happened to classics?  What happened to tailored shirts, jackets with shape, beautiful woven fabrics?  I have shopped up and down the pay scale and cannot believe what passes for quality. If I am at Nordstroms  I should be able to expect some nice quality for the price, right?  Seam finishes?  Forget it.  Shape?  No way.   No tucks or darts.  Or style.  I am not ready for the Alfred Dunner separates for a long time, thank you, and I do wish there was an easier way out than going back to sewing for myself again because that means less time for quilting and sewing the things I enjoy.

I am about 90% ready to go there, though.  I  am ready to go back to my tracing wheels and dressmakers carbon and hem gauges and pins.  I still have a few patterns, too.  I think my Bernina might blow up if I start sewing anything but quilts on it but that is a chance I might have to take.  I have no idea what I'll do about shoes, though.  There is a limit to what I'm willing to make for myself, and I know they would probably turn out worse than some of the old fuddy duddy shoes available now. There was a little girl in the museum yesterday with the cutest shoes that lit up and sparkled when she walked.  I want a pair of THOSE.

Waiting for Randot

Remember the Samuel Beckett play, Waiting for Godot? This one rhymes, but his last name does not have the "t".  I spent almost all of last  Monday at Mass General Hospital in Boston while a friend was in surgery.  I have done a lot of time in hospitals as a patient, but not as the patient advocate/support buddy.  The ensuing days were full of commuting to Lowell to work, commuting to Boston to bedside-sit, and then back home late at night. It was a remarkable week, full of insights on the human condition and a reminder of the suffering going on all around us 24/7 and 365.  Overhearing conversations in waiting rooms and hospital cafeterias should be mandated about once a month for all of us - it puts so much into perspective and  allows us to realize not all of our problems are so terrible.  It also gives us the opportunity to enrich our own  souls by praying for the health and well-being of  those lives  briefly glimpsed and overlapped with our own.

Knowing I would have a lot of  time on my hands I packed up my little cathedral window table runner blocks to bring with me,  thinking it would be a good time to finish up the project. (This picture shows it when it was a  work in progress.)  I'm more pleased that it is finished than I am with how it actually looks.  It is one of those projects that looks pretty simple on the surface, but matching those exacting intersections and seam allowances is entirely another matter. It was very therapeutic to be in a stressful situation with some hand sewing.  I found it made me calmer and - in turn - a better patient advocate. I had a few moments when I wanted to go postal and  make like Shirley Maclaine in Terms of Endearment (GIVE MY DAUGHTER  THE SHOT !!!!!) but managed much more successful methods of requesting medication and attention for my friend.  After  a  couple of trips to the nurses desk, the nurse informed me I could just use the call button and request what I needed.  ( I already knew that, but I wasn't going to tell her.)  I just smiled and said it felt good to get up and walk around a little.  While I have enormous respect for the work nurses do, I also know that things happen faster when you request nicely and face to face.  I did not bust chops,  I wasn't a pain in anyone's ass, but I'm not allowing anyone to be a pain in mine (or my friend's) either, and the previous night we politely  waited two hours for a simple  sandwich that never did show up for my very, very hungry patient. I am a reasonable person, but that is the kind of thing that makes  me change gears and ramp it up.  Aside from the fact that I could make Shirley Maclaine look like a piker by comparison, it just isn't necessary to get ugly.    I think anything we do, sew, create, cook or tend to for another person should be done with compassion and love. Judging by what I have seen and heard over the past week,  we could all make an effort to make someone else's life or job easier.  In turn, ours will, too.

The Healing Power of Fabric Arts

A wonderful article about an artist to be featured in the next exhibit at the New England Quilt Museum.  Dr. Michele David has quite a story - and a marvelous talent.  You just want to grit your teeth at such an overachiever, but you gotta love her.  All that talent, brains and spirit in one woman - WOW!

A Healing Art by Sandra Lawson

Conversations with My Departed Quilting Mother

I need to make a confession.  You see, I was the recipient of my late mother's  Bernina 1090 sewing machine and every time I sit down to sew........she starts talking to me.  Most of the time she is pretty quiet,  but quick to yell when I'm sewing over pins or winding the bobbin too fast (and not paying attention).   Lately we have had some interesting conversations.  Here is a sampling of what happened recently when I was going to make up some potholders for my own kitchen:

ME:  Okay, today I think I'll work on....

MOM:  With that thread?  The color isn't quite right.

ME:   I know, but I'm not in the mood to re-thread the machine and wind a bobbin and it's just a couple of stupid potholders that Joe will spill sauce on and it will be stained and besides shutup, I don't care.

MOM:   You know Joannie, you had that same attitude when you were trying to cover that cigar box with contact paper for your 4-H project when you were in 6th grade.

ME:   Jeez, Mom,  I can't believe you remember that.  I hated that project.

MOM:   It showed. The end result was you  got a white ribbon and I think they gave that to you out of sympathy.

ME:   Thanks for reminding me, Mom, that humiliating memory HAD vanished long ago.

MOM:     Aren't you going to measure that fabric?
ME:    No,  Mom,  it's a potholder.  It will be potholder-sized appropriate.  I like doing these things, no rules, no seam allowance

MOM: That is good, because you still have not mastered a consistent ¼ inch seam.

ME:   I know, I know.  How did you do it?

MOM:  I sewed about ten thousand of them.  That’s how you do it.

ME:   Well, thanks, anything else?
MOM:   You get too tense when you sew, your shoulders start hunching up and your neck gets stiff.  You have to relax, get in to the rhythm of it. You also have a lead foot, you need to slow down.  That machine has a button to keep you sewing at ½ speed you know, why don’t you use it?

ME:   Because I don’t have a lot of time to sew and I feel like I want to get a lot done.

MOM:   That’s good.  Get a lot done.  It will look like crap, but you’ll get a lot done. Would it kill you to put on some lipstick?
ME:   Mom, I’m home, no one sees me all day.

MOM:  So what’s your excuse on work days?  I never see you with lipstick. I never would have left the house without it.

ME:   I know. (Trying to continue sewing)   I’m 52, Mom, I’m not going to start now.

MOM:   Well then at least bite your upper and lower lips a little, that will give you some color…..

ME:   Yes, Mom.  I remember you doing that a lot.  I thought it was because you were angry.

MOM:   Well, most of the time I was mad at one of you kids, but I did it to keep my lips pink when I didn’t have a lipstick handy.

ME:   That’s nice, Mom.

MOM:   What is the  stuff you are putting in that potholder?
ME:   Well, I usually use squares from an old,  cut up mattress pad because  they are soft and thick, but this is a new product that is very thin but has a super heat-resistant layer.

MOM:    That’s nice. I’d put that on top of a square of mattress pad if I were you.

ME:    I was thinking about that……I’m not sure if I trust it.

MOM:    Listen to your Mother….

ME :   Okay, Mom, you’re probably right.
MOM:   No “probably” about it.   I am also right about your hair – why don’t you get that short cut you had when you finished high school?  That was your best haircut, it looked so nice.

ME:   Mom, that was 1976 and every girl had that Dorothy Hammill skater  haircut. I’m not going to get a haircut that is 34 years old and only looks nice when you spin around.

MOM:   OH Jo, you are so rigid sometimes.  You are so like your stubborn Scott(ish) father.

ME:    Excuse me? You don’t think this is from your Irish blood?
MOM:    Don’t be ridiculous.  And watch the binding there, you aren’t going to have a nice mitered corner if you sew too close to the edge and….

ME:    Damnit.  I went to far.  These are going to look like they were done when I was having a martini…
MOM:    Or two.  I don’t know how you drink those things.
ME:    I don’t know how you drank vodka and Squirt. That stuff was sour and vile.

MOM:    Vodka and Squirt was a lovely drink, and if you had 6 kids and a sick husband you would be pretty damn happy to enjoy one at the end of the day.

ME:   Oh, yeah, true, I don’t blame you.  How does this potholder look?
MOM:    Well, not bad. Maybe a red ribbon from the 4H judges.  I don’t know why you are worried about it, you should be working on one of those unfinished quilts.
ME:    I know, I know.  I just wanted to sew a little something and get warmed up.
MOM:  That’s my girl.  Now relax, slow down, and remember to get up and stretch once in awhile.

And that is pretty much how it goes.  I love sewing on her machine (it will always be her machine.) On the days I sit down to sew and don’t hear her voice I never sew as well.  I miss her terribly, and sewing at that machine is the time I feel closest to her.

I will often wear one of her old necklaces to work, and frequently wear a silver thimble keep on a long chain. Inside is her sewing thimble.  I like “taking her to work” with me, especially when we open a new exhibit.  I always hear her quilt commentary in my head.  (She swears more now that no one else can hear her.) Whenever I see paisley fabric fat quarters I pick them up and  think, “I’ll put these away for her birthday…” and then remember that I can’t give them to her anymore.  The realization still makes me weepy.

Then I think about it. The power of love continues to astonish me. Not even death can diminish or  alter the love between a mother and child.  If anything,  the love  has grown  stronger, wiser and is more nourishing.   I certainly keep learning from her, and I know I'm a better quilter because of her.

Thanks Mom – I love you, and heck - I love  your Bernina,  but mostly because it keeps me close to you. A girl never stops needing her mother. I promise to work harder on that 1/4 inch seam thing, too.

Canadian Geese are Extinct!

Hooray!  Canadian Geese are extinct!  How do I know this?  THEY NEVER EXISTED IN THE FIRST PLACE.   It is that time of year  when these migrating,  flying poop machines start hanging out at  golf courses,  traffic circles, football fields, you name it.  Eat,  Fly,  Poop if you wanted to write a book about it. TV stations start doing cute reports about all those "Canadian Geese stopping traffic by wandering off the golf course and in to the street.  Yuk yuk yuk,  back to you, Bob."

Canadian? Really?

I'm not sure who started calling them Canadian geese, but they are not. They are Canadas. A single one is referred to as a  Canada goose, a flock would be called a flock of Canada geese.  They are not Canadian geese because they are not Canadians - those are 1) people,  who are 2) citizens of Canada.  Whenever I hear someone call them Canadian geese  I always ask them if they had little bird passports tucked under their wings, or had a hockey stick strapped to their back.   Yuk yuk yourself, dude.

It's always a good day when you learn something new, right?   So - all together now - CANADIAN GEESE ARE EXTINCT.  LONG LIVE CANADA GEESE.  Except for when they are pooping all over the place - I mean jeez, dudes,  really.

Our next lesson will be debunking the saying, "The proof is in the pudding."  In addition to being only  half of the actual expression, it this form it makes absolutely no sense.  It will make sense when you learn the full  phrase.  Your homework assignment is to look it up and write a one page report, single spaced, 1 inch margins,  ink -  not pencil.  No fountain pens.

Class dismissed.

Deja Vu All Over Again

I was married back in 1988, the days of big hair and wide lapels.  You have no control over the styles of the day, you're just stuck with what is in vogue.  (I'm still feeling bad for the Leisure Suit weddings of the 70's .....).  Regular readers already know  I have an aversion to weddings, frou frou, and the parade of BS that tends to come along with them.  Even back then  I made choices about our wedding that many would think appalling.  Didn't care then, don't care now.

I came from a big family in the Midwest; the contingent of first cousins on my mother's side numbered about 56 when Grandma McGill died in the early seventies.  By 1988  those cousins had married and multiplied.  (We had a standing joke about having to marry an orphan so we could fit everyone in to the church.)  Rather than going home and having the wedding on my home turf   (as most brides would want)  I opted to get married in Gloucester  to cut down on the numbers.   Seriously.  I wanted a small wedding and my pre-husband promised me he wanted the same.

NOTE: The Sicilian definition of a "small wedding"  is not even remotely close to the Midwestern definition.  We ended up with 140 people, about 100 more than I wanted.

During the planning Joe informed me he had 4 ushers and his brother, Sam, would be his best man.  I gave that the green light, knowing that my two sisters would be my attendants .   (Even then I did not want to responsible for another  parade of badly dressed bridesmaids.)  As the wedding got closer  I asked Joe who his other groomsman would be.  Groomsman?  What is that?  I explained that Pat and Peg each need a groomsman.  Sam would be one and  - who would be the other?

NOTE: Ushers and groomsmen are not synonymous, damnit. Ushers ush - they escort guests and seat them in the church.  Groomsmen escort the bridesmaids. Period. Apparently this is a geographical thing, but ushers at a funeral don't escort bridesmaids at a funeral now do they. Just sayin'.

We had a pretty good fight over this one,  Joe insisting I get more bridesmaids and I insisted he cut loose a few ushers.  It was ugly.  We did not compromise.  (Irish VS.  Sicilian? Are you kidding me?) so during the wedding procession  those four ushers marched solemnly up the aisle looking for all the world like a group of  freakin' pallbearers.

But I digress.

I had a very hard time finding bridesmaid dresses.  I love my sisters and didn't want them wearing some gacky, overpriced  polyester fluff.   Back then I  was in love with polished cotton chintz  but could find nothing even remotely close in a bridesmaid dress.  I chose to do what any woman who has read Gone With The Wind 20 times ( a conservative estimate ) would do -  I went to a great fabric store  and found a lovely Waverley floral chintz.  LOVED it.  Bought a bunch of it, found a dress pattern, mailed it back home to a girlfriend and she sewed up the dresses for my sisters.  In an interesting twist on Scarlett O'Hara,  I made curtains for our main floor powder room out of the remnants.  ( I love balance in the universe. )

Fast forward to a fundraiser last weekend.  The  Text and Textile Extravaganza is a great way for quilters to manicure their stash and then take home more than they manicured.  For a small donation to the museum, you fill up a shopping tote with zillions of fabrics. (It's a little like getting fabric drunk.) I was working on the home dec fabrics when I pulled out some neatly folded yardage that looked.....VERY familiar.  It was Waverley Garden Tour AND  in the exact same color run.  I let out a yelp and modeled it for all the women present. Needless to say I tucked it into my tote bag-o-stash builders and brought it safely home.  Since we're re-doing the upstairs bathroom I will need fabric for curtains, right?  The walls are going to be one of the greens in the print  so it will already match beautifully.  I'm not that crazy about Waverley Garden Tour now, but I absolutely cannot resist a second round of bridesmaid dress bathroom curtains.  Even my husband thought it was pretty funny, and like  Yogi Berra said,  " It's  deja vu all over again!"

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Yet Another Good Reason To Boycott WalMart - Fabric Swindle

Like we needed another reason to boycott WalMart?  I have never been a fan and the reasons are numerous and available on request. The list is so long you might need me to burn them to a CD rom, just sayin'.

Saw this today from the Quilters Newsletter Blog and just blew my stack.  How does this company sleep at night? Then I remembered:  sharks never sleep.  They just prowl and eat their prey.  Nice.   Don't take my word for it- read it for yourself:

WalMart Sells Stolen Fabric Designs.

While you are at it, read this and send Tula Pink some love.

(Blank) of the Day

In honor of today being International Talk Like a Pirate Day,  I decided to offer a few of my own  "of the day"  favorites.

1. Official SAT Question of the Day.  Bonus: answer the question and it will tell you if you are correct!


2. Word of the Day. Merriam Webster Online offers a new word  every day.  Many of the words you will already know (if you, too,  had a mother who was also a Scrabble fiend),  others  will surprise you.  Each has a little speaker phone icon next to it so you may hear it pronounced correctly.  I'm waiting for the day they do "zoology".


3. Cool Site of the Day is always interesting  and you get to give it a thumbs up or down.  Participatory web surfing is good!


4. Quilt of the Day is usually featured on the Quilt Index Facebook page, but this link to their homepage always has a new quilt shown every day, and always something  to admire and covet.

There are scads of "of the day" sites, many for jokes, scripture, recipes - you name it,  it's got an "of the day".

As the weather gets cooler, I pull out my old videos and DVD's of holiday movies.  I pop one in when I'm in for a long stretch of sewing or ironing.  Right now I'll watching "ELF"  and it  reminds me of my own personal favorite "of the day" thingie.   "Answer the Phone Like Buddy the Elf"  day is -  I think -  on Saturday, December 18th of this year.

You gotta love it - and you gotta do it!

Swiss Cheese Memory

As much as I wish this was about my fond recollection of swiss cheese, it is not.  Something very strange is happening and I do not like it one bit.

Yesterday, after an almost summer-long hiatus from my sewing room, I sat down to my freshly cleaned and repaired Bernina to see how quickly I could get back in the swing of things and finish up some quilts. I decided to make up a few potholders to warm up my skills and found out..... I was all over the map.  I kept pushing the wrong place on the Bernina to get my back stitch,  I had to thread the bobbin twice to get it running smoothly, and all in all was just amazed at the lack of continuity in my head.  I've had this machine for about 6 or 7 years and I know it cold.  Or so I thought. After  finishing up 3 homely potholders (no worries, they get used and stained regardless) I decided to finish up some pin cushions from an old silk log cabin quilt that had seen better days.  I had cut the usable squares earlier and started trimming them with black ribbon to stabilize the edges.  Jeebus, what a mess.  That ribbon was slippery and I had to wrap my head around which presser foot to use, feed dogs, etc. and at the end of the episode I cut the thing up  only to  start over after trimming my nasty edges.  All the Fray Check in the world couldn't save it,  poor thing.

I might blame this on the infernal summer heat baking my brains to a level of irreparable damage.  Or, I could just chalk it up to being rusty.  But I never choose the glass that is half full - it is always half empty. (And in grave danger of being empty at any second.) I am so afraid that this is me,  aging.  I'm 52 and much too young for this crap.....but when does "aging"  actually start? I know it will happen eventually - but am I at the threshold of that "eventually"?  I used to pride myself on the number of balls I could keep in the air and nail them all accurately and quickly.  I could dispatch any number of things in a day.  Now it seems like I look upon the increasing number of  tasks  as an additional challenge to my sanity.

Remember the Ed Sullivan show?  There used to be a  guy on there who spun plates on top of 6  foot poles.   He would start one spinning, then pick up a pole and start the 2nd plate spinning.  Then he would run back to the first, give it a spin, spin the 2nd again, and put up a 3rd plate.  Pretty soon he'd have 8 or 9 plates spinning around and he would run back and forth,  frantically giving each of them another spin just as they would wobble precariously.  (Behind this, the orchestra would be playing the Sabre Dance to add to the drama.)  It was wonderful to watch back then, but not so wonderful now. I feel like I'm the one trying to keep all those plates  spinning, and I'm afraid I'm breaking a few of them.

What Gives?

I'll tell you who gives -  Betty Londergan.  Her blog is called What Gives 365 and here is some insight on her thinking:

I’d been looking for a way to do some good in the world for a while but could never figure out exactly what to do – so I’ve settled on a random shotgun approach of giving to anything that rings my chimes –which hopefully will inspire other people to pry open their wallets and give as well. I’m using the money my dad left me to fund this venture – and since he and my mom were thrifty savers who were also passionate givers, it’s poetic justice that those hard-earned dimes and nickels will be passed along to good causes. Dorothy Mae would love that—and say that it’s about time I stopped buying so many darn shoes and did something for others.

Today she gives a shout-out to the New England Quilt Museum (yay!) by featuring a beautiful quilt from the collection, and gives props to the Quilt Index and the Alliance for American Quilts. It's a wonderful blog entry - just click on this link. Thanks, Betty!

Ornament Rain Man

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Just about everyone who really knows me has, at some point in time,  looked me square in the eye and said,  "Your head is filled with useless information."   I am actually ok with that.  I have a memory for minutia and it pops up at the most amazing times.  It serves me well - many of my passwords incorporate old phone numbers or zip codes or even the dates of various - well,  never mind.   On the down side, I  remember (usually verbatim)  hurtful things said or done or overheard.  (Sometime I'll tell you the story about my kindergarten teacher correcting me on a sentence.  Seriously.)  On the upside,  I can also remember things that happened long ago but made me  feel creative and clever.  Here is one of my favorites.

In between hot flashes  I have tried to think about  snow and Christmas and maybe  making something new with which to deck my halls when I remembered something Mom played with years and years ago.  She taught us how to make these weird ornaments from scraps.  The ones we made back then were done with bits of reds and greens and Christmas-y prints.  I had the necessary materials already in-house, so there was no fussing.  I did not want to make actual tree ornaments  (I haven't got much in the way of scraps of  Christmas fabric) so I did one with some batik scraps.  It was  kind of nice to look at,  so   I selected some of my precious scraps of Japanese fabric  to play around with and see what I could create.  It finished up well  but I had  a *$#&$%  of a time with those beautiful fabrics that unravel if you so much as LOOK at them.

By this time I was pretty much satisfied that I remembered how to make them (there are a few tricks) but at a bit of a loss to know what to do with them.  For now they are just going to sit on a shelf in my sewing room.   The best part of the project was thinking back on  making them with Mom.  I miss her so much.  I guess we never think that what we do  now could be remembered years later with so much love.

Sometimes it's good to be a Rain Man.

Even Steven

"Even Steven" was something my mom used to say  a lot  - probably because with 6 kids there was a lot of dividing up to do and there was much less chaos if things were evenly distributed.

This weekend I officially become "even Steven." Twenty six years ago on Labor Day Weekend I left Nebraska and flew out to Boston to start the next chapter of my life. Twenty six years later, here I am.  I have had one foot in two very different lives for 26 years  each.  Even.  Balanced.  Or not.

First of all, I can't believe I am 52.  (I expected to be MUCH older when I turned 52, probably close to being dead because back then it sounded so ancient.)  I know like my brain is more fully formed than it ever was at 26  and I do like myself a lot more.  While I am happily  free from so many of the concerns that overwhelm the 26-year-old mind, I look back and am a little in awe of myself -  I uprooted my life, my culture,  everything I had and knew to move halfway across the country. Yikes.  I was motivated by a broken heart, a fatigue of singing at all my friend's weddings (and then  babysitting their children) but mostly  because I had to feed the wanderlust that  took root when I began reading books. Those days of lying in the grass and watching the contrails from jets stream across the sky  - oh how I wanted to be one of those people ON the jet,  going somewhere,  anywhere - just going.   I wanted to  see,  do, and experience the big, wide world.

Would I do it over?  In a New York minute.  There are parts of both lives I would never want to repeat, which is moot anyway since we don't get a do-over in life.  I can't choose which life has been richer or more satisfying because each has had tremendous joys and gifts.

It will be interesting to see which way the scales tip in the next 26 years.  I have a lot of places to see (when am I EVER going to get to Paris????) and a lot of things to do out here.  I do know that when it is all over I want my body to be burned and my ashes to be scattered along the Platte River in Nebraska.  That saying about "you can take the girl out of the country but you can't take the country out of the girl" is true.  Life is where you live it, but home......is home.

Help, Please!

Please take a two second poll that will help enormously with a future project. THANK YOU ! ! !

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Homage to my Sherpa

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Deborah Janes is my sherpa.  I have the very good fortune to work with this talented woman and I learn from her every single day that I do.  In addition to being one of the most talented quilters I know (click on the above picture)  she has an endless supply of patience.   Seriously.  I know I sometimes ask the most basic questions of her and she manages to look thoughtful (like she has never been asked that before) and give me an answer that in no way makes me feel like an idiot.

I think I am most in awe of the latter - someone with her skills and abilities could easily take the high and haughty route but she does not. Heaven knows there are enough **QB's on the planet.  She demonstrates such a genuine love for what she does that it becomes contagious.  I've seen people in the museum shop watch her, ask her questions, and she draws them in to whatever she is working on and always tells them, "Oh yes you CAN do this,  it's fun!" and they walk away shaking their heads in amazement....and encouraged by her infused energy.

I am inspired by Debbie  for these and other reasons that go beyond what can be discussed here.  She has faced major battles in her life and she meets them head on.  I try to remember her example when I am asked questions (not about quilting) by tourists in my husband's store, by people who think working at a quilt museum is (tilt your head to the side) "sooo cute!" and who generally exhibit a disregard for personal property.  (I honk the hell out of my horn when I see someone throw a cigarette butt out their car window.)  I think we all have knowledge and gifts that we need to share with others even if we don't realize it ourselves.  I hope before I leave this earth I have been a sherpa to someone, or a whole lot of someones.

**QB's  =  Quilt Bitches.  We all know a few..... make sure you aren't one of them.

Out of the Frying Pan...

.......and in to the fire.  It has gone from hot to "heat wave HOT" in a matter of days.  We're looking at a five-day heat wave and that means working on something I can do downstairs in the company of R2D2 (our portable AC machine)  in the family room.  R2 does a pretty efficient job of cooling the room but eats electricity like a big ol' hog.  I'm OK with paying the higher electric bill if it enables me to breathe and sleep like a human being.

This heat wave prematurely jump starts my annual fall side-excursion into wool felt.  I like the change-up in fabrics and textures (and skills -  I have to remember how to embroider).  Bonus - you can watch TV or a movie while you do this  so what's not to love?  The only downside is that there is a hurricane named Earl lurking out there in the Atlantic.  This alone is not a problem, but every local TV station is working terribly hard to manufacture a frenzy about "this might" or "it could" and frankly I just do not need the drama.  Keep us reasonably informed and if something actually materializes you may  THEN push the frenzy button. The  weather reporters out here are epic at crying "wolf" about hurricanes . 9 1/2 times out of 10 these earth shattering predictions have  fizzled to nadda far offshore.  If and when one actually does materialize  there is a danger that  people are going to ignore the hysterical warnings just out of habit.  I need one of those "easy" buttons to edit the level of hype in news these days.  Since I do not have one, I will content myself  by making like Donna Reed and embroider my little ornaments.  It relaxes me to do these things and I could use that these days.......

A Quilter's Confession

I'm still thumbing through Anonymous Was a Woman.  I pick it up often and every time  I find something wonderful to savor.  This is today's excerpt, and every woman who has made a quilt, mended a shirt or hemmed a pair of trousers knows exactly what this woman is talking about:

It took me more than twenty years, nearly twenty-five, I reckon, in the evenings after supper when the children were all put to bed. My whole life is in that quilt. It scares me sometimes when I look at it. All my joys and all my sorrows are stitched into those little pieces. When I was proud of the boys and when I was downright provoked and angry with them. When the girls annoyed me or when they gave me a warm feeling around my heart. And John, too.  He was stitched into that quilt and all the thirty years we were married.  Sometimes I loved him and sometimes I sat there hating him as I pieced the patches together.  So they are all in that quilt,  my hopes and fears, my joys and sorrows, my loves and hates.  I tremble sometimes when I remember what that quilt knows about me.

Marguerite Ickis, quoting her great grandmother,  from the book Anonymous Was a Woman, 1979, Mirra Bank, St. Martin's Press.

Mosque Ado About Nothing

I came across this bit of wisdom from Someecards this morning.  "I'm okay with a mosque being built at Ground Zero because at least something would be built at Ground Zero."   Brilliant.  I'm not okay with the fact that almost nine years later  Ground Zero still sits pretty much vacant.  I'm embarrassed for our country that we are so paralyzed with political corruption, political correctness, posturing and back room shenanigans that we cannot demonstrate to the rest of the world how a powerful  phoenix should rise from the ashes.

We're talking about building a community center here, people, one that will have a basketball court and yes - a prayer room.  But to call it a mosque is waaay sexier. The media has used that term to  inflame, to stir up controversy, to  (excuse my vulgarity) piss kerosene to feed the fire. Yeah, that gets ratings! The  media is also safe in the assumption that America is now a chronically attention-impaired populace that won't actually go check out the facts.  We prefer short,  bullet-point stories that aren't grounded in journalistic principles.   We want a TMZ delivery, flashing graphics and spinning chyrons and hey and wow and IT'S A  MOSQUE, BABY, AND IT'S AT GROUND ZERO!

Except that it is neither.  It is not a mosque, it is a community center  with a basketball court and a prayer room.  Even if it was a mosque, it is not  AT Ground Zero. It is over two blocks away, and New York City blocks are big.  Clyde Haberman of the New York Times explains  the significance of using the word "at" :

There's that "at." For a two-letter word, it packs quite a wallop. It has been tossed around in a manner both cavalier and disingenuous, with an intention by some to inflame passions. Nobody, regardless of political leanings, would tolerate a mosque at ground zero. "Near" is not the same, as anyone who paid attention back in the fourth grade should know.

Listen, I'm not thrilled with the controversy here but I can't very well claim First Amendment rights and at the same time deny it to others.  Evidently, a lot  of Americans are willing to do so.  Good luck with that.  Let's see the Lutherans try to build a community center within a couple of blocks of  a Catholic church that was torched by a Lutheran arsonist but later  rebuilt. Yeah, kickass  all you  Catholics  and go  get those heretics and - wait - well, Lutherans are ok.  But not Muslims, man, that's different.  What if it was a pack of wild Lutherans who brought down the World Trade Center?  Would you be declaring a jihad on them?  Or would we, like reasonable, intelligent adults intellectually  realize that maybe, just maybe not every Lutheran is a cold-blooded killer and the few who are were not representative of their entire religion?   Imagine a religion - any religion -  having whacked out, f'd up extremists among its members.  Golly, what a concept.

I had this non-mosque argument with my husband last night. It was one of those moments  when you look up at the ceiling (we were in bed at the time) and think, "Jeebus, who the (#$)(# did I marry?"  He is a measured, reasonable person but he is buying into this frenzy hook, line and sinker and it pisses me off.  I was raised to respect the rights of others even if I did not agree with their ideas.  I live in a country that has legislated the same. (PS we had the same argument about flag burning, so there you go. )

Al-Qaeda must be loving this.  The big, scary USA is terrified of a Muslim community center.  Do I need to point out that this is exactly what feeds their mentality? Don't feed the beast.  We should, as a country, be able to stand up and say, "Yes, we guarantee the right of every American to worship and speak freely.  We are also free to disagree with each other, but the ability to do so remains  a constitutionally guaranteed right. It is one of the reasons why we are the greatest nation on this earth.  If  you gotta problem with that then bring it, baby. We will kick your ass to defend those freedoms." **

** I just think we'd  have a lot more credibility  when we said that if there was a well designed, finished complex in place at the site of the World Trace Center.  That would show 'em. Nothing says "don't f' with me" like getting right back up on your feet after you have been knocked down.  If you stay down, it appears that you fear them.

You Like Me - You Really Like Me!

Awwww, sorry to go all "Sally Fields" on you, but I just received the nicest award from Shannon over at MonkeyDog Quilts.   I think Shannon 'gets' my dark sense of humor, and aside from my family and a few good friends that is a pretty rare thing.  Anyway, she's a doll,  she has a crazy dog and she really enjoys sewing.  What's  not to love?

Before I get my tiara I have to follow a few rules and do some stuff.  This will entitle me to bestow this lovely award on others so that I may encourage them the way that Shannon has, thankfully, done for me.  First up - I have to reveal  seven things.   This could be interesting.

1. I have a tool box that I hide from my husband. Inside are my needle nose pliers, an assortment of screwdrivers, blue painter's tape (also used to tape off quilting patterns), graduated paint rollers, a stash of Allen wrenches and my very precious collection of paintbrushes.  I have to hide them because my husband would use an expensive cutting brush to sweep dead leaf gunk out of a gutter and not break a sweat.  If you turned me loose in a hardware store with $500 to spend  I'd blow it all in the paint department.


2. I consider the following one of the finest culinary recipes for comfort food: hot chicken soup, a box of Chicken in a Biscuit crackers and Skippy chunky peanut butter.  Apply chunky peanut butter to CIB crackers and float them on top of a steaming bowl of chicken soup.  It is a thing of beauty and it is delicious.  (Hey, I make my own soup.)


3. I started sewing in junior high school and have made garments all my life.  I consider myself a pretty good quilter but I can't for the life of me install a simple  zipper.


4. I sing while I brush my teeth.


5. I have struggled with shyness my entire life.


6. I have a pair of mentors who live on my CPU and I talk to them a lot.  Helen (the chicken) and Commander Bob (the green army guy) are fine sources of wisdom.  I can't use the language they use here  so let's just say they have a very low tolerance for BS and keep me on track about a lot of things.


7. I adore rhubarb.

There - let the festivities begin.  Bloggers everywhere should rejoice that while we may be separated by time, distance, opinion or subject,  we all support each other.  It is a delight for me to be able to now go forth and do it for others.

Contemplating Ceilings

I feel like indulging myself in  some really selfish whining so if you can't handle it just  bail right now. It's my blog and I'll bitch if I want to -- and I want to.

I have spent an unfair amount of my life staring at ceilings, namely the drop  ceilings found in doctor's offices.  I have had  a LOT of surgery over the years so I am something of  a connoisseur of ceiling construction, examination garments (paper and cloth) and the accoutrement that goes with yet another trip to the doctor to see what-the-hell-is-wrong-this-time.

My most favorite ceiling was in the OB/GYN offices of my beloved and much missed Dr. Rose Osborne.  Rose was not only a hell of a surgeon, but for a "cutter" she had a great sense of humor. Rose always had pictures on the ceiling so you had something to enjoy and contemplate while your feet were in the stirrups.  God I loved that woman - and I miss her dearly.  Cancer often takes the best from this earth and I'm getting a seriously bad attitude about the "why" of it all.

Most hospital or doctor's offices have dropped ceilings with or without the little black dots.  I have counted those dots many times while waiting for a doctor, physician assistant, EMG, EKG, MRI, X-ray,  or any one of the endless round of procedures I seem to have on my chart.  A few ceilings have that textured popcorn stuff that is pretty droll and gives you nothing but endless craters to contemplate as you prepare yourself for what comes next.  I'm surprised that no one has thought to put a flat screen on the ceiling so you could watch a movie or take in a sitcom - have a few laughs while you get tubes and electrodes stuck into places where the sun don't shine.  It sure would make a difference. Hell, it would make a huge difference. The pharmaceutical companies should cough up some serious bucks for those things instead of the wine-and-dine golf outings and  BS they pay for now.

I feel at this point I have earned my own examination  gown (they call them a "johnny" out here) that I could whip out of my totebag and put on with some aplomb.  I'd certainly make it out of some attractive print, maybe a Kaffe Fassett, so I could at have something  pleasurable to wrap up in for the duration. (The bleached out drab greens and blues are  surgical and so depressing.  I'm just sayin' . )   As for the ceilings - well, hell - would a little something up there bankrupt your practice?  I don't think so.   I'm not asking for the Sistine Chapel (although a poster of it up there would be a pisser)  but is it really asking too much to tack something up there so those of us trapped in a tarp with three armholes can have a little something to look at while we ponder what  orifice or vein is next to be violated?

I have an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon this morning at a sports medicine clinic.  I can't wait to see what they have on the walls.   Judging by the age of the building,  I can  tell you right now the ceilings are going to have fluorescent light fixtures with  those cracked ice lenses.   There will be pictures of patients shooting a basketball, or back on their slalom skis swooshing about with "thanks Doc!" penned across the bottom.   I'll bet anybody $100 that  their ceilings are bare of any posters, much less one of a  50- something  female with a spinal fusion from scoliosis gone to hell-in-a-hand basket.  Any takers?

I didn't think so.

Food for Thought

Whatever you say,  do, create, paint, weave,  whatever --   this is today's food for thought:

I've been a hard worker all my life, but 'most all my work has been the kind that 'perishes with the usin'," as the Bible says.  That's the discouragin' thing about a woman's work....if a woman was to see all the dishes that she had to wash before she dies, piled up before her in one pile, she'd like down right then and there. I've always had the name 'o bein' a good housekeeper, but when I'm dead and gone there ain't anybody goin' to think  o'  the floors I've swept, and the tables I've scrubbed, and the old clothes I've patched, and the stockin's I've darned...But when one of my grandchildren or great-grandchildren sees one o' these quilts, they'll think about Aunt Jane, and, wherever I am,

I'll know I ain't forgotten.

Aunt Jane of Kentucky,  ca. 1900 - from the book Anonymous Was a Woman, 1979, Mirra Bank, St. Martin's Press.

What Makes a Woobie?

Everyone needs a woobie. Your woobie can be a doll, a toy,  or even a special old sweatshirt, but more often than not your woobie is a quilt. One of the great things about being a quilter is being plugged in to groups who specialize in woobies.  Check these out:

• Project Linus -  the ultimate in security blankets


• Quilts of Valor - no better way to say thank you to returning wounded veterans.  It's not about politics - it's about people.


• Operation Pillowcase - for the troops overseas, a little comfort all their own.  Many local groups with similar names operate the same way - Google one up near you.


• End of life quilts, hospice quilts, quilts for babies in neonatal units - there are groups everywhere creating gifts of loving comfort. You need not make an entire quilt - you can make a quilt top and send it to a volunteer who does longarm quilting, or vice versa.  There are entire systems in place to make it happen.

My woobie for over the past decade has been one of my Mom's quilts - one she called "Green Propellers." I found the pattern and sent it to her, bought her the book in fact (HINT HINT HINT Mom) and she did it up in cream and greens.  Really beautiful, but she always thought it looked like airplane propellers, hence the name.  When at last she gave each of her 6 children the Christmas gift of selecting one of her quilts, I dove for the Green Propellers.   (I wanted the  "Blues in the Night" quilt but that one was not on the offering list. Seriously. More on that later. )

After we lost Mom to cancer I  spent a LOT of time under that woobie, wrapping up in her love, in something she touched and handled,   hoping to absorb some bit of her into my soul and ease the grief.   As the years have passed   I still climb under that quilt when I am  missing her, or when  I'm sick, feeling stressed out, or just need a protective barrier to shut out the world for a while.     Tracing my finger along the seams, the squares and the lines of  her hand quilting is a zen-like experience that enriches my spirit and channels her love.  (Love never dies, you know, it simply changes and takes on the most amazing forms.)  Woobie quilts have that crinkly, wrinkly softness that soothes your body and soul.  They can cushion  you against whatever the world can throw at you.  Pull someone you love beneath that woobie with you and the whole world will look even better after a bit.

Not all quilts are woobies, but each quilt has woobie potential. I try to remember that when I am working on a quilt,  that everything I cut, sew, touch, fold and stitch should be done so with tenderness.   I would love to think that at least some of my quilts will find their way into their recipient's heart and become their woobie someday.

See?  That's what I mean about different kinds of love taking on the most amazing forms....

Wanting to Walk in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes

George Gordon, Lord Byron, must have been thinking of a woman wearing a really good embroidered silk kimono when he wrote that lovely poem.  My love affair with nightgowns began when I was very young. This picture shows me going out early -  in very bright sunlight -  to fetch the morning milk.  I knew the nightgown would provide the necessary elegance to undertake such an act at an ungodly hour.  (It was before I drank coffee and could manage a few basic functions....but I digress.)

My mother was prolific on her sewing machine and I had beautiful nightgowns all through my life (even college).  I could give you colors, trims, details about them that should have long ago disappeared from my memory banks.  To this day  I seek out and feel a little thrill when I find something really nice. A new nightgown by   Eileen West has been my annual birthday gift to myself since I turned 50, but deep down I'm yearning for something really spectacular, something I have wanted for years.

I want a silk robe kimono.

An authentic one,  none of this eBay or Pottery Barn crap.   I have this "champagne taste on a beer budget" syndrome that extends into the strangest areas of my life. Purses? Meh.  Shoes? Pffft.  Jewelry?  Got it, don't wear it.  But a good nightgown and silk robe?  Tie on a bib, I'm slobbering.

Most movies are memorable for the story they tell but  I also remember them for the truly important stuff.  In one of the most poignant scenes of the movie DeLovely, Ashley Judd gets dressed for an opening night just after suffering a miscarriage.  She's weepy, the music is haunting, and all I can see is this drop dead gorgeous silk kimono she is wearing as a robe.  It is thick, heavy, buttery, gorgeous. The colors?  OMG.   In Gosford Park, Kristin Scott Thomas rocks  a silk nightgown (likely trimmed with Calais lace) and shrugs on the most spectacular ivory kimono, embroidered with all kinds of muted tones. Her face is covered with night cream for God's sake, but she still looks positively STUNNING.

I'm not at all  surprised at my love affair with nightgowns and robes.  I have never felt especially pretty in my entire  life - even when I was young and thin and pretty-ish.  The nightgowns and robes are just for me - not for public consumption, not for competition or approval.  They exist solely to please me.  I feel pretty in soft, lovely things.  I feel elegant and pampered and sophisticated.   I like the feel of it on my skin and the whooshing sounds they make when I "walk in beauty" to refill my morning coffee or cross and uncross  my legs as I read the newspaper.   That is probably the same experience other women get when they are rocking a new pair of designer shoes, the latest purse, or something off the fashion pages.  It isn't really important what that thing is that gives us  the feeling of 'walking in beauty.'  It just matters that you take the time to do it for yourself.  Women generally spend too much time and energy caring for others and neglect themselves.    Whatever it is that  makes you feel like you are walking in beauty,  to borrow a phrase from Nike -  "Just do it."

Stay-In-Your-Nightgown Monday

Design Wall Monday has been preempted by Stay in your Nightgown Monday. The 2010 Lowell Quilt Festival is in the history books and I'm taking a day to decompress.  While the festival closed on Saturday, the museum is open on Sunday and it's one of my 'regular' work days.  I woke up Sunday morning wishing I could take a roll of duct tape and strap a couple of puffy pillows on my feet and call them shoes.  (Probably  not advisable to attempt the  one-hour commute with pillows strapped to my feet. )  I could also use an IV drip of ibuprofen for sore muscles. Bonus - I'm sporting a large BUO (bruise of unknown origin) on my right forearm, pretty attractive since it is too hot to wear anything with long sleeves. Really attractive.  Yes,  today I need to stay home in my nightgown and just.....cocoon.

Between the ramp up to the festival and the actual three-day extravaganza the days are long and the hours are demanding.  A good friend managed to get me two nights at a very reduced rate at a Holiday Inn near the festivities.  I'm never one to complain about hotels (I think we stayed in one twice during my entire childhood) but I think I'll be writing the management on a few issues.  Namely the following:

1. Why do you put the coffee pot in the bathroom?  DO NOT  put the coffee pot in the bathroom.  Do you have any idea how gross and disgusting that is? I get the dry heaves just remembering it  and I don't need to pay for the privilege.


2. Touch up paint.  Buy it in bulk and apply it generously because  it makes a big difference.  Lotta bang for the buck.


3. Put a sign in the hallway that says, "Unattended children who repeatedly  run screaming up and down the hallway will be shot on sight."  If you don't have the stones to do it, leave a BB gun in my guest bathroom.    (Hey - then you could move the coffee pot to the far corner desk in the sleeping area.  Think about it.)


4. Doors to the room should not only lock securely but they should be actually CLOSED.  This picture shows  (I turned off the room lights) just how much room was between the door and the door jamb.  Color me paranoid but I don't feel all that secure when you could swing a cat through the crack in the door.  The one along the bottom  was even bigger.  (Note: apparently not big enough for them to slide a copy of my bill beneath it (enabling rapid checkout) but I'm guessing big enough to slide under  a Sunday edition of a newspaper without having to expend much effort.) Just sayin'.

All of that and more is why today is going to be just for me.  I'm tired - mentally and physically.  I need to be left alone for a while.  I want to soak up some quiet and take a ridiculously long shower and do girlie stuff like scrubbing and buffing and putting nice moroccanoil on my feet and sliding them in to clean, cotton socks.  I want to be pink and fresh and centered.   I'm going to snooze, read, pad around in my socks and let the world turn without me. I'm always better after I do, and that makes life easier for everyone around me.

PS - I will also be enjoying as many cups of coffee as I like, from my coffee pot that is not located remotely close to a toilet.

Melancholy Meteors

The annual Perseid meteor shower is underway but I won't be watching this year.  I'm away from home (and too surrounded by city lights) to get a glimpse of the magic. It's probably a good thing as my dark Irish side kicks up and I go into a full "have a pint, dear" funk.

I didn't know it at the time, but the last time my parents came to Gloucester for a visit was during the Perseid meteor shower of about 1998.  We had friends who were members of a local beach club so we were able to troop down to the beach with a hibachi, wine, dessert and sand chairs to make a perfect evening in a perfect setting even more....perfect.  We had a marvelous supper, topped off by peach pie made by my mother from peaches picked in our own backyard.  Dad was the official peach peeler (he's a hound dog for peach pie) and Mom could whip up a pie so effortlessly it was all done in a blink.  I can still remember the setting in vivid detail, but I can't conjure up the taste of Mom's peach pie.  It's been too long and while my own peach pies are pretty good (from good DNA) they aren't hers.  They aren't from peaches in our own backyard, they weren't peeled with love by my Dad, and ..... well, you get the idea. We watched the sun set and the stars come out, the moon rose perfectly between the twin lighthouses of Thatcher Island, and the meteors began.  It was an experience we all talked about for years to come - but especially during the annual event.

I woke up this morning and listened to the news about the meteor shower.  I got a little weepy - I'm up here for the Lowell Quilt Festival and I thought about how perfect it would be for my quilt-making mother to come out for the show, see me working at a museum of quilts, and then go home and enjoy the meteor shower.  Some things aren't meant to be - but at least I know Mom has a fabulous view of the Perseids, and that helps.

Strap on Your Quilting Liver - It's Festival Time!

We've been very busy at work getting ready for this year's Lowell Quilt Festival.  The FedEx and UPS trucks have been making two stops a day to deliver the juried quilts, and believe me - there are some spectacular quilts to be seen.  It is a tremendous project,  undertaken by a core group of volunteers from the New England Quilt Museum Auxiliary, museum staff, and supportive spouses!  I include them because they won't see much of us for the next several days - events all day and in to the evening will occupy a lot of time and energy.  The auction on Friday night is my favorite part (click on this link) because of the wonderful variety of quilts and quilt tops available.  Bonus -  we have the opportunity to bid on quilt blocks (some very old) to create something of your own.  I have my eye on a couple of quilts - but there is one lot of antique quilt blocks that I might just have to tackle a few people to outbid and get them for myself!  There is no discount or special treatment of museum staff - we bid like the rest of the folks - so I will square my shoulders and go easy on the pre-auction champagne and chocolates so I keep my wits about me and bid responsibly.  The  auction proceeds benefit the New England Quilt Museum, so it is a win-win evening.   Wish me luck!

'Scuse Me While I Miss the Sky

It is Sunday night and it is  happening.  Again.  You wouldn't think so after this long, but it is definitely happening again.

This Labor Day marks the 26th anniversary of my moving to Massachusetts. I was 26 when I moved here, so my time-life  pendulum will officially swing to this part of the country in a few short weeks.  You would think after 26 years I would not still get the August blues but I do.  I have them now.  Neck deep.

August is always the time of year I am most homesick. I'm not sure why - the change of seasons, the memories of school starting  and that fresh new start feeling you'd get purchasing textbooks and notebooks and wondering what (and who) the new year would bring.  It always seemed to me the new year began in the fall  when the last bloom of summer dies and the whole process begins again. Football season starts - college ball, what's not to love? It is also thee best time to be outdoors and see acres and acres....of sky.   I miss the sky terribly. I am surrounded by dense populations, buildings, wide stretches of  concrete highway.  There is very little sky - it is either blocked by buildings or by trees. I need sky - serious sky - 360 degrees of sky.  It is nowhere to be found out here.   I need to get out where I  can breathe and walk or drive for miles and just see open space and sky.  I need to go home. I am homesick.

When I fly in to the Lincoln, Nebraska airport (my favorite airport in the world) I begin a ritual.  It starts with crossing the street from the 4-gate terminal to the parking lot (yes, across the street) and getting my rental car.  There is a ticket stub you feed into the machine so the arm at the gate will swing up and let you pass.  But get this - written in beautiful scroll across the gate/arm is the phrase "WELCOME HOME."  I burst into tears every time I see it. I am weepy just writing about it - I am so homesick.

Then I'm out on the road, flying along (speed limits are much higher!) and the whole sky opens up.  My head unzips and my shoulders relax and I can't begin to express the  feeling of weight lifting  off my spirit.  I am most at home under the sky.  When I was little I used to stretch out in the grass for hours and watch clouds to see if,  from heaven, my Grandma McGill would peek over the edge. (Okay, I was very little.) Then I'd find shapes of things and wonder where the clouds blew off to and whether I'd see distant lands myself someday.  My mom was a huge fan of a good sunset - I think I have loved the sky since I was a fetus.

I feel saner and calmer under a wide swath of sky than just about anywhere else.  I miss the Nebraska sky, the slower pace and the kinder people.  I don't know that I could move back there, but I definitely need to go home and recharge the batteries of my psyche, inhale my family, sit with my Dad  and maybe eat some  proper hash browns.

The picture above is of the Platte River (a mile wide and an inch deep) which will be my final resting place someday.  I want to be cremated and have my ashes scattered somewhere  along that river.  I hope to be near a cottonwood tree (it exemplifies my "if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be" spirit) and bonus -  I'll have an eternal view of wide open sky.  Heavenly.