Sunday Afternoon Spooning

Trying out a new Wordpress app to see if I can do this on the fly.
I'm using a spoon to pin baste a table square, am going to do some stippling and thought I'd give this kind of basting a whirl. I can't see doing it for a full sized quilt - it takes just as long and frankly I don't see the attraction. I'll have to watch them closely as I stipple around, removing them as I go, right? I still see broken needles in my future!

Dueling Saints

Today is the Feast of St. Joseph so my husband Joe  is celebrating his feast day. Since he had Sicilian parents and their heritage included a tremendous devotion to St. Joseph,  the observance involved emptying the furniture out of a main room,  constructing a huge altar with 3 tiers, draping it with the colors for that year (kind of like a prom theme) and then loading it up with all kinds of lamps, candles, flowers, statuary, etc. Once the novena began the house would fill up nightly with Italian ladies who would sit in the rented folding chairs before the altar, pray the rosary and singing feast day songs at the top of their lungs, all in a  pre-WWII Sicilian dialect. At the end of the hour they moved to the kitchen and had coffee and pastries and chatted. It was a thing of beauty.

[caption id="attachment_2908" align="alignleft" width="225"] Small but Sincere![/caption]

The feast itself was a consummate tribute to Sicilian culture and cuisine.  Maria's version of Pasta di San Giuseppe was a marvel of cauliflower, fava  beans, chick peas, and other ingredients that made a chunky, creamy white sauce served over  homemade pasta.  It was not for the faint of heart - you either loved it or hated it. (I loved it.) The rest of the dishes were largely seafood based (it being Lent and living in a fishing community) and side dishes included battered artichoke hearts and stuffed, sun-dried tomatoes - long before those became "popular" here in the U.S.  It was no wonder my Irish heritage was largely ignored as St. Patrick's Day got lost in the shuffle.  As the years passed, and Maria did likewise, the festivities moved to other houses.  St. Patrick's got back on the map, but not in ways I ever anticipated.

I love my Irish heritage and I'm a bit of a purist.  My grandma, Margaret Carroll McGill,  was born and raised in County Kerry and she told me I never had to wear green on St. Patrick's day because I had true Irish blood. (Somehow I got it in my head that my blood turned green on St. Patrick's Day and I always wanted to prick my finger to see it bleed - and see if it was green.)  My mother never made corned beef and cabbage because 1) she probably didn't like it and 2) it really isn't an Irish dish.  Irish bacon and colcannon are more proper, and I"m not a big fan of any variation of colcannon I've ever made.   My observance of St. Patrick's Day centers around using my Belleek china or having a pint of Guinness (no proper Irishman would be caught dead drinking green beer).  My husband? The Sicilian prince?  Loves corned beef and cabbage. When I say "loves" corned beef & cabbage, I mean "would marry it". He has a serious problem.  This really happened:

Joe:  I went to the store and picked up some groceries.

Me: Good, we were getting low.  What did you get?

Joe: Well, I bought a nice slab of corned beef!

Me: Really?  (Jokingly) Just one?

Joe:  Well, actually I bought two and thought I would freeze one....

Me:  Seriously?  Two?

Joe: Well (pointing to the refrigerator) .... there might be three in there.

Me: THREE?  There MIGHT be three?  Are you serious?

Joe: Well, we never have leftovers to make corned beef hash and I know you like that.

Oh yes, I'm sure he bought it for me.  He does that a lot. He will come home with a ham and say, "Look what I got you!" (Ham = oxygen to him.) In Sicilian culture, food is love. He shows his love for me by bringing home food he loves. Whatever. He cooks it (I refuse to) and enjoys it with as much relish as he does his feast day pasta.  March is his favorite month.

These days our altar is small but very sincere. We used to have a little silver tray to hold the mass cards of people we had lost, but as years passed we graduated to a lovely crystal bowl. After this round, I think we need to find a bigger bowl.  In twenty-five years we have collected a lot of those little cards. It is with great love and many tears we go through and review  them, but we always try to remember how lucky we were - and still are - to have loved so many wonderful souls. We pray for them, for families and friends, and this year for the new Pope Francis on whom the future of the church hangs in precarious balance. He will need all the help he can get.  I have set aside many of the beliefs taught to me in my youth, but I have hope in him. Besides, who better than the spirit of St. Francis of Assisi to guide us going forward?

The Internet Wins

Part of having officially arrived at "Old Fart" status is coping with my hyper awareness of the lack of research, accuracy and useful information disseminated by the media. The demands of a 24 hour news cycle have made it impossible to give a story it's due and move on.  It has to be whipped into a frenzy and subject to all kinds of speculation by "experts" who clamor for attention and air time. Most troubling is how hard it has become to watch the news without frequently hearing, "according to unconfirmed reports" and "X Network News reports" when you are on a different network than X News and they don't have a clue if it is accurate but the teleprompter rolls with it anyway.   I understand how the Internet has conditioned us to expect instant access to events, but without any practiced eye reviewing them for content, factual accuracy or relevance? In doing that it has also made many of the people who bring us that news incredibly lazy.

This morning was a case in point.  For the second time in as many days, my husband (who serves in elected office) was misquoted regarding a city issue.  The really sad part?  I listened to him patiently  explain -  point by point - to the reporter how he was misquoted the day before, yet after all that the reporter went ahead and published the same damn misinformation for the second time.  Joe even attempted to help the kid out by recommending he call someone else connected with the story, to the extent he gave him the name, place of work and street the guy lives on to help him out.  The reporter's response?  "Oh.... I'll just Google it."  In the process of "just Googling it" the reporter came across some clearly outdated interviews and presented that information as current. Additionally, he didn't bother to "Google up" the one person who could clarify the information and make this article oh, I don't know, ACCURATE?

[caption id="attachment_2861" align="alignright" width="300"] Bass Rocks, Gloucester[/caption]

One of the things I love and admire most about Joe is his thick skin, his security in his own ego and his incredible ability to roll his eyes and shrug off the number of inaccuracies in newspaper ink.  My Irish soul rails up and demands action - he just shrugs it off as young-reporter-inevitable and goes peacefully on with his life. I admire that ability more than I can express. He is eleven years older and a diabetic, but he will surely outlive me because I will expire of repressed rage and angst. He is so "glass half full" that sometimes I want to strangle him. In fairness, he has wisely (and accurately) stated that if we were both of the same ilk, "We would have thrown ourselves off the rocks a long time ago."  Thank heavens for balance in the universe.

I bet a lot of "reporters" rely on Wikipedia "The Free Encyclopedia that ANYONE Can Edit!" and Google to do 95% of their job for them. Equally lazy college students are picking up material for term papers off the internet and then getting busted for plagiarism because there are software programs specially developed for colleges to combat such rampant abuse. Fast and easy trumps accurate and intelligently researched every time.

Let's end on a high note. One of the best commercials EVER made is this one by State Farm Insurance:



Yup, the internet wins.

Just Keep Snowing...Just Keep Snowing

We are just starting out on the most recent "snowpocalypse" to be forecast with the typical accompanying hysteria and panic shopping.  This one is different, however, because the Weather Channel saw fit to give it a name - NEMO.  This makes it easier to track on Twitter & other social media - I get that - but NEMO?  Seriously?

I'm sitting here writing this fresh out of the shower and with wet hair. After listening to

[caption id="attachment_2848" align="alignright" width="219"] Note Use of Local Dialect[/caption]

sustained winds HOWL for the past hour I thought it would be prudent to scrub down, shampoo and dry my hair while we still had power.  I'm not one for panic shopping (bread, milk and eggs are de rigueur out here) because we keep a pretty well stocked pantry and I've never had a craving for French toast during a blizzard.  If it weren't for the nagging fear of losing power I'd be happy as a lark.  I love a good blizzard as long as I'm safe, warm and have access to charging devices like my iPad.

Not sure how this storm will shake out but all signs point to "very bad" and I worry about people who are not safe or warm. Let's all worry about them instead of preempting TV shows to announce another inch of snow has fallen and that everything closed is still closed.

To Tree or Not to Tree - Update

This past January I reflected on not having put up a Christmas tree for the past 10 years,  ( To Tree or Not to Tree ) so I thought I should begin the holiday season with a happy update.

We have a tree!

It's a small one, but it's lovely and full and vintage and smells sooooo good!  It takes up gallons of water and sheds needles and tinsel every time I come near it so it's perfect. Wait - TINSEL?  Oh yes, I did the tinsel thing. I bought it as a joke - the packages were $1 - but when I finished trimming the tree in those lovely vintage 40's and 50's ornaments I thought, "What the hell - try a little!"  Well, a little became a little more and while it does not look like the tinsel fairy threw up on the tree, it is tinseled and it looks wonderful.   Normally I loathe the stuff but for some unknown reason this year it just seemed... right.

When I come downstairs in the morning and saunter into the family room with my coffee and my iPad,  I smell the tree's fragrance and I smile. I sip coffee and unlock the Angry Birds Seasons episode of the day and look at my tree and feel peaceful. Evenings are good, too, with the teeny blue tree lights that make the silver tinsel look blueish. It soothes me to see that icy blue in winter because it brings back a favorite childhood memory.

While driving home from a visit to Grandpa and Grandma Major, the sub-zero cold of a Nebraska night made for a spectacular, star filled sky. The clear, dark sky made the white snowy fields turn a kind of blueish tint.  It was like a fairyland, and to a young girl at Christmas it was magical. Everyone else would fall asleep, Dad would be driving at breakneck speed (it was legal then) and I would ask him to keep making the headlights change from dim to bright - and he could do it with no hands!  I though he was a genius - little did I know the button to toggle  the bright headlights was on the floor by the brake. I thought he was magic. The night landscape was enchanting. Such a simple thing, but I have remembered it - vividly - my entire life.

Many, many years later I was driving around Gloucester looking at Christmas lights, feeling homesick and miserable. Then I saw it - a big house with a massive front lawn lit entirely by....blue lights.  The snowy front lawn had that same blueish tint. I pulled over, got out of my car and snuck around the hedge and just stared at the whole scene. (It was very late, no one was up.)  I got a little weepy.  Happy weepy. I felt better.  I got back in my car and went home. *

I'm one of the fortunate few who aren't driven to distraction by the holiday shopping  and the stress of holiday cooking.  I love to cook - so does my husband - and we really have limited resources so gift buying is at a bare minimum.  It's very liberating to take such control over the holiday madness. It is a gift unto itself. Light those Advent candles and enjoy every ritual of the season.  I truly am, for the first time in many years.

*Happy Update #2 - I later met the owner of that house and he has since become one of my dearest friends. He still puts up the blue lights but now I enjoy them with a cocktail in my hand beside a roaring fire - he is also a kindred, pyromaniac soul.  Every year, every time - it's magical.

Getting "IT"

It's never a good sign when I'm playing around with the look of my blog. It is an indicator of  one of two things: brain freeze ( I got nuthin')  or time-out (when I'm stressed, heat stressed, anxiety stressed, etc. and anything I put on the internet would be of the shock and awe variety, and not the "good" shock and awe, either. ) So there you go.  I'm playing with the look of my blog.  (Okay, I'm in time-out.)

In the meantime I have an amazing labor of love to occupy my hands.  A very good friend has one of the wall hangings made by my mother. We used to sell them in our store here in Gloucester and then mail a check back to her where she would cash it in and buy more quilting fabric.  (Mom kicked ass that way.)     Linn  has had this beauty hanging in her home for many years and recently asked me to take it home and give it a wash - she was nervous about doing it herself.  Okey dokey.  Washed. Line dried in the approaching scorching heat.  When I took it down I noticed that the sleeve on the back of the hanging had some places where the threads had just let go.  Age happens.  I found a spool of black thread and a sharp needle and I'm redoing the entire sleeve.  It is a miracle that I'm able to do it without clutching it to my chest, crying, and refusing to let it go.  (Eleven years later I think I'm finally making progress with my  grief.)  I'm actually enjoying the process, loving the chance to work on something my mom made, and grateful for the fact that Linn GETS IT.

There are not a lot of people out there who "get it" when it comes to quilts or, for that matter, anything hand crafted.  Paintings in galleries are found "worthy" but quilts, knit socks, hats or scarves are just KRAFTY with a K and not "worthy" of being looked at as serious creative expressions that require time and talent.  It has been an uphill battle for years.  To show my serious intent I was going to start a quilt guild here in Gloucester and call it "Quilt Bitches" and we'd all get Harley-Davidson tattoos (but the motorcycle would have a quilted seat.)  Cool, right? 'Cept I'd never get a tattoo.

A quilter's quest for street cred is apparently a life-long venture.  This is made more difficult by The Learning Channel's newest program, Craft Wars, hosted by..... TORI SPELLING.  Seriously, TLC?  I personally believe the only time she's had a hot glue gun in her hand was when she was replacing some hair extensions that had fallen out. A Twitter peep of mine remarked that  while she did watch the debut show,  she found "Tori's  clown-like makeup distracting."  TLC needs to learn (oohh, how ironic...) that credibility is an important part of attracting an intelligent and respectful audience who - when given intelligent content from creditable sources - have a way of going out and spending money with the show's sponsors to recreate those ideas in their own home.  It's a concept.

Time to get back to sewing the sleeve on this wall hanging.  Linn was skittish about  washing it herself because she wanted to make sure it was done carefully and properly because she loves this thing as much as I do.  She respects the time, effort, labor and creativity that went in to producing it. She gets it.

To Tree or Not to Tree

Along with the  Feast of the Epiphany comes the time to take down the Christmas decorations, dispose of the tree, and ....wait.

We didn't have a tree.

To be honest we haven't decorated a tree in 10 years. I can remember exactly how long because Mom died mid-November, 2001 and that Christmas kind of came....and went.  I've always loved having a Christmas tree - a REAL tree - as the centerpiece of the house during the season. I have lots of vintage ornaments from the 40's and 50's that are either from Joe's childhood or those I've collected and found.  LOVE them. So why the 10 year drought on Christmas trees?

I have thought about it at great length and cannot come up with a reasonable answer.  We are both tied up at the store most nights through December so  it seems silly to come home exhausted at 9PM, plug in the tree, be awake for another half hour and then unplug the tree, crawl upstairs and fall into bed. This year I wasn't working 2 jobs and was actually home to enjoy the tree in broad daylight....but I still didn't do it.

I'm a little honked about that because thee best time of the year is the week between Christmas and New Year's.  There is a stillness that settles over everything. Joe is home by 5:15PM (heavens!) and we can have meals that are 1) hot and 2) at a normal hour. We settle in with whatever we are reading, watch a movie - just like the normal people do.  It's the best. It's also the time we used to just soak up the tree and the lights and gently mellow in to the whole holiday atmosphere.

That's it.  I think the reason I'm feeling such post-holiday "meh" is because I didn't have that week of peace and simplicity and have not had it in 10 years.  I'm ready to have it back. Earlier today I even thought about buying a tree and setting it up and dragging the ornament box upstairs from the basement. Hell, I'd do it if there was a tree left to be bought. (I even eyeballed the ones out in back  to see if one of those could be surreptitiously cut down and dragged in to the house. What the hell, the election is over and the police won't go out there to stop the mobs of underage teenage drinkers with bonfires, are they gonna mess with a menopausal woman on a quest?) Hmmm. It's a thought.

PS - Don't tell me about fake trees, how "good" they look and how you can't tell the difference.  They don't and I can.  I want the real thing, the fragrance, the dropping needles, the whole ball of wax. This year, this December - I'm going to have it.

Black Friday Fail

About three weeks ago I "hit the slide" at work and gave my notice.  I've been juggling 4 different jobs for some time now and the mental and physical toll it has taken has proven to be WAY. TOO. MUCH.  When you find yourself standing at the front door of your house trying to get in using the remote door opener for your car - it's time to step back. When you collapse in tears because it isn't working and you can't figure out how you will get inside your house....well, desperate times call for desperate measures. (PS I've still got a part-time bookkeeping job and I work at my husband's store, so it's not like I'm really free......)

I'm cashing in the 10 hours a week I spent on the road for some sleep and rest. I've had a few days at home to begin the process of uncoiling my tightly wrapped head and body and I have the following observations to make:

1. I can still sleep for hours like a champ.


2. There is an unbelievable amount of CRAP on TV.


3. What the hell is going on with "Black Friday"?

I'll say right up front:  I think stores should be closed on Sundays. Period. With the extended hours and 24 hour openings of most drugstores, there really isn't any urgent reason for stores to be open on Sundays. Seriously. With that in mind, you won't be surprised to hear me bitch about store openings on Thanksgiving. When did it become a matter of life and death for stores to be open ON Thanksgiving Day?  Or at 4am?  or 6AM on Black Friday? Target I think you should be horsewhipped.  Do you hate your employees that much? I'm boycotting you for the foreseeable future.  WalMart? Oh hell,  I stopped shopping at your stores years ago so I'm not wasting my breath acknowledging your existence and continued scorched-earth policies. I really don't get the whole "thing" about getting up early to go shopping but then I'm not a recreational shopper.  For me it's a chore. Besides, I can't think of a single thing that would move my tail out of bed at 4 AM on a cold, dark November morning. Not. A. Single. Thing.

Ever hear that expression, "Money is like manure - you've got to spread it around"? I choose to spread my fertilizer around where I live. Area shops have the most wonderful (and unique) gifts. There is a new toy store that has the coolest things I've ever seen. They also have an art supply store! I'd go nuts in there, but I'd be buying for myself. There are a couple of great locally owned, non-chain coffee shops for when you need to rest and refuel. I'm betting your town has the same kind of deal going but too often people overlook the local shops or take the time to go and see what is there to choose from.   (Most of them haven't set foot in downtown for years and have no accurate clue about what is or isn't available.)  To these people I say, "STUPID. STUPID."  You must have time and money to burn.  Good for you.  I don't.

There is the argument that you'll save money if you go to malls, but I'm concerned with more than that -  I'm looking at the time and effort and the cost of gas it takes to get there.  Spend $10 more for a sweater in town or save $10 and go to the mall.... let's see,  it is a 46 mile round trip, about 3 hours (including driving and shopping), working my way through the crows, waiting in line or ..... for $10 more I'm home in 5 minutes?  Bonus - a local small business owner gets a little help?  For me - that's a no brainer. Win win.

There is a wonderful campaign called Small Business Saturday that encourages people to shop locally once a month.  The impact would be absolutely life changing for your town, your community and your friends.  Support local artists - buy handmade.  Do it often, not just once a month.  Change the world. Tell the big banks to suck it.  OCCUPY MAIN STREET.  Do the right thing, do it as often as you can. Everyone wins and for that we can all give thanks - hopefully from the  peace and quiet of our own snug homes.

My Quilted Consolation

A few days ago while guiding a cruise ship land tour I was in the process of crossing the street when I caught my front toe on the edge of a curb and went flying. As luck would have it my head missed an angled granite flower box by about a half an inch (I'd be getting coloring books for Christmas for the rest of my life if I had connected with that thing) but still managed to land on my right hand, arm and shoulder. One of the other guides came to my rescue (thank you LINN!) and  as luck would have it, one of the passengers in my group was a nurse.   We bagged it with ice & I finished the tour, mostly through gritted teeth. I went home, repacked the ice, took a fistful of ibuprofen, crawled into bed and slept until about 9PM when my husband woke me to eat something and repack the ice.  Since I had a physical scheduled the next day I was able to get x-rays to make sure nothing serious was broken or fractured.

I'm sporting a ghoulish bruise that extends from the palm of my right hand to almost halfway down my arm - eeewww.  I have it wrapped for support and camouflage. I can type for about an hour and that is IT.  Fingers, wrist, elbow just ACHE.  I carry around one of those little blue picnic bricks of ice like an accessory clutch purse, but covered by a zip lock bag so it doesn't sweat or drip. It's a look.

I can't dry my hair or put on makeup without looking clown-like.   When I forget the injury and try to pick up an empty  coffee cup or plate I drop it and thunk the edge on my granite counter tops. ( I now have a matched set of chipped Dansk Bistro dinner plates.) I can't begin to hold a needle or  sew, and frankly I'm starting to spiral up in my head about if or how much nerve damage is going to be part of the prize package that comes with me being such a klutz.



I am bitchy, crabby and sore, so you can imagine my happiness when my treasure arrived in the mail. Not long ago I decided to gift myself with one of  Dave Grunenwald's  QuiltBoxes.  He donated one to the Lowell Quilt Festival last year and when it arrived it stayed on my desk for an embarrassingly long time before I was forced to give it up to the committee.  These boxes are made by a talented, master craftsman who appreciates the art of quilting and surgically duplicates the perfect points and curves in a natural and beautiful medium. He is truly an artist.

I wanted to come up with something that would serve as a  bit of a commemorative piece. My mother, the quilter, has been gone ten years next month. My dear dad,  the hobby woodworker, has only been gone for six months.  I needed something that was a bit of both of them and a bit of me. Hence, the beautifully handcrafted wooden box with a quilt block design.  But which design? Dave makes it nearly impossible to choose - you want all of them.  After months of indecision I chose the mariner's compass block as an homage to my life by the sea in Gloucester, Massachusetts.  So all 3 of us are here in this one magnificent treasure. I'm not sure what I will put inside it yet - the bottom of the box is lined in black velvet so it must be something special. I had him add a little knob to it because my well-known OCD "issue" with hand lotion would gum up this little beauty in a NY minute.

I feel better just looking at it, touching the top, marveling at the silky smooth finish. It smells like wood and a bit of varnish, kind of like my dad's hardware store.  Within my limited means I try to support artists and craftspeople like Dave so that we continue to have beautiful, hand-made things in this world. Do the same - you will not be disappointed, I promise.

PS - It has taken me over 3 hours to put together this post. See how we suffer for our "art"? :)

PPSS -  I took the liberty of using Dave's photo as I can't begin to take a picture or wrestle the cords into the slots with this stupid damn hand all messed up.  Note to all you lurking grammar police and spell check Nazi's  -  I'm doing the best I can so take it elsewhere, m'kay?  A better use of your time would be to go to Dave's website and check these out. Seriously, you know you want one......

Sweet Corn Wars

Indulge me. I am locked in my annual sweet corn battle with my husband and I need to vent.

Growing up in the Platte Valley of Nebraska learned a few things about farming, seasons, and when the hell you eat sweet corn.  My husband (a barnacled coastie from Gloucester who has an umbilical cord that won't reach over the bridge and wouldn't know a farm implement if it rolled over his foot) thinks sweet corn is pretty much available 24/7, 365.  Consequently, he started bringing home this "stuff" from the local grocery stores in May, crowing about how this is going to be a "good batch" and asks me EVERY NIGHT IF I WANT SOME CORN ON THE COB.  Every night I say NO I DO NOT WANT YOUR FAKIE, TASTELESS YELLOW JUNK.  Does he stop?  No.  Does he give up?  No.  Will this be the cause of his death someday?  Highly likely.

I have an almost religious fervor for authentic sweet corn. Even the proper way to cook it is a bone of contention at our house. Joe boils (yes, boils) his fake yellow pellets-on-a-cob while the chicken is still on the grill.  I am serious. I am not making that up.  I explained how the water should be simmering and everyone seated at the supper table before you even SHUCK the corn, but my vast experience is lost on him. It is apparently his culture; it seems to be a big problem out here because I see people at the grocery store shucking their sweet corn AT THE STORE and then putting it in their nasty produce bag to cart it up to the register.  This effectively starts the dehydration process before they even pay for the corn, insuring by the time they reach home it is suitable for feed corn (that's for animals, people) and nothing else. Let it sit in the frig for a few days before you cook it and....well, I can't even go there.

One of the last times my parents flew out here was in August, about the time of the Perseid meteor showers.  I remember when I went to Logan Airport to pick them up I saw them come off the plane with luggage and nothing else.  I shrieked, "Dad, you didn't bring sweet corn????"  He stopped, turned to my Mother and said, "You know, we drove past all those farm stands on the way to the airport (180 plus miles) and we didn't think to, did we?"    I wanted to turn around and leave them both at the airport.

I recently found the blog of a classmate who talks about living and working a farming operation in 2011.  It is unlike anything many of you would imagine.  His Platte Valley Farmer blog gave me a huge lump in my throat.  It brought back so many memories, made me terribly homesick, and positively despair over ever tasting proper sweet corn again.  I've pretty much given up on consistent sweet corn it out here - every store in town calls it "local corn" WEEKS before anything planted locally could be ready to eat.

At least now can visit my friend's blog, watch the corn grow and learn more about how positively amazing the science of farming has evolved.  Every August I enjoy looking back on the night of the Persieds with my parents, my mom's peach pie & cobbler,  and  pretend that on that mid-August night we  perfected the evening with some authentic and buttery fresh  sweet corn.

PS - The next time Joe tries to get me to eat his impostor sweet corn I am going to buy a really expensive piece of fish, boil it, cover it with ketchup and serve it to him for supper. Maybe then he'll get my point.

Loving French Knots

Long, long ago (1984) in a state far, far away (Nebraska) I spent the summer embroidering French knots on squares of plain muslin.  I liked the process, I liked hand sewing, and I liked doing it while I looked at the map of Massachusetts tacked up on my wall.  I spent the summer making knots and thinking about my new life to come,  waiting for Labor Day weekend to arrive and my big move to Boston.

The finished muslin squares were put away and forgotten about for a long time.  When Mom and Dad flew out for our wedding in 1988, Mom found the squares in my sewing room and chastised me for letting them gather dust.  I never thought about it again until 1989, when this arrived on my doorstep:

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You could have knocked me over with a feather.   This was the quilt responsible for me getting in to quilting myself - I didn't think I was capable of creating something that could wind up (with a LOT OF HELP) this substantial.  The label is one of Mom's typical gems - done in left handed calligraphy:  " Candlewicking: by Joan Ciolino, Gloucester Mass. Quilt: by her  Mother, Mary Ann Major, Lexington, Nebraska. 1989."   How absolutely wonderful is that?

We use the quilt mostly in the fall but when we put it on our bed we have to put it face down - dragging your arm across those bumps in the middle of the night is not a pleasant experience.  It still serves a useful purpose, and the other months it hangs beautifully on our bedroom quilt rack. The colors are dated,  the whole thing is tired from many uses and washings, but it's the only thing my Mom and I made together.   In short, it's exactly what a quilt should be.

Check out this new site:  We Love French Knots.  It promises to be an interesting and informative place to learn how to create beautiful heirlooms.  As the weather gets hotter here in Gloucester, I find myself needing portable hand sewing projects I can take to our family room where trusty R2D2 (the mobile AC) makes my life bearable.  Happy 4th of July - I met my husband 24 years ago today.  He REALLY makes my life bearable....

Bridal Etiquette and the Lack Thereof

It has been a while since my earlier installment of wedding and guest advice/etiquette.  I am reminded of this because as I wound my way around Gloucester's beautiful back shore this morning  I saw some of the hotels setting up those tell-tale white wedding chairs on the front lawn.  I felt sorry for all the people who had to spend the money to schelp to Gloucester only to find out that much of their holiday weekend would be spent not sitting on a beautiful beach, but  sweltering through yet another insufferably long and self-absorbed couple's wedding.

We used to do a booming business in printing formal wedding invitations at my husband's gift shop.  Now people do them on their computers.... you know, the same way you  would for a 3rd grader's birthday party.  As a 22 year veteran of marriage and about 20 years in business working with bridal invitations, I will take up my magic wand, put on my etiquette tiara and bestow some wisdom on engaged couples.

"Why do I have to have printed invitations?  Why can't I do them on my computer - people just throw them away anyway.  Besides,  an e-invite is greener and we really believe in that."

If you are sending invitations to people who are immediately throwing them in the trash you should probably not have invited them to your wedding in the first place, just sayin'.  Also - can you use that same argument about what to feed them?  After all, they are just going to poop it away the next day, so why spend the money on something delicious? Email invitations are lovely - if your guests like helping out Nigerian millionaires or need to buy prescriptions drugs in Mexico, because an emailed wedding invitation should go right in to the spam file.

We have been together for a long time and we just want money for wedding gifts.  How do we put that on the invitation, or let people know?

Send them an invoice.

My mom and my future mother-in-law don't want to wear (insert color here) for the wedding.  I have tried to tell them how important this is, but they say  they look terrible in that color and want to choose their dresses themselves. It's MY wedding and they should wear what I want them to wear, right?

No.   Google the earthquake in Japan, look at some pictures of starving children, check out the situation in Darfur. Those are real problems. These are grown women who are perfectly capable of dressing themselves and have done it for years. Shut up already.

Some of my bridesmaids need to lose some weight - and one of them has a bad dye job.  What is the best way to tell them what I need them to do to get ready for my wedding?

Tell them whatever you like, but follow it up with, "And I promise to get my tubes tied and never reproduce."  Knowing that the BS will die with you will help them grit their teeth and push through the day.

Do I have to write thank you notes?  I am very busy and my boyfriend absolutely refuses to help!

No, you do not have to write thank-you notes. Seriously.  Just return all the gifts. Problem solved!

Okay, but I want the gifts.  How about those pre-printed notes that say something lovely like, "Thank you for sharing our special day - Love  X and X " ?

Nice. Really? Nothing says "screw you" like a form letter. 

We want to have a really lovely dinner for our reception and we're a little nervous that people won't know how much to give to make sure the cost is covered. 

Okay, once again - send them an invoice.  Better yet,  contemplate the proper definition of "guest" and realize the dinner is your gift to them.  While I have your attention, whatever they choose to give you is their gift to you.  You will receive some lovely things, some not-so-lovely things.  The mark of maturity and true love is to acknowledge them with equal enthusiasm and grace.

Okay, that's enough for today.  I am fatigued by answering questions that have no place in civilized society.  Let's all work together to return to the days when weddings were a joyful occasion for everyone involved, m'kay?  Next time we'll talk about leaving your guests waiting for 3 hours while you go take your stupid pictures and show up at the reception half in the tank.

I Need A Genie

When I was a kid I loved watching I Dream of Jeannie  because I thought it would be so COOL to be able to BLINK BLINK and the housework would be done, BLINK BLINK and the laundry, cooking, etc. would all be finished in a flash.  Even then I knew that Jeannie was a dumb broad if she thought the way to Major Nelson's heart was doing the vacuuming and cooking all by herself.  Everyone knows the  real way to a man's heart, and it is NOT by being an immaculate housekeeper, just sayin'.

Instead of enjoying my new fabrics and my Alabama Beauty  INKLINGO patterns  I have spent the last week-plus  cleaning my BUNS off.  I've thrown out, de-cluttered, smuggled bags out of the house for Goodwill (my husband still has his original diapers....) and spent today balancing on a chair cutting the trim in and around the bathroom cabinets, mirror, tub and closet.  There must be 9 miles of trim in that bathroom. Normally I love to paint, but my husband got a hold of my (yes, MY) cutting brushes and wrecked my favorite one, leaving me with a sub-standard brush to cut 9 miles of trim (French Linen Gray, BTW) in this bathroom. (Note: If anyone from Pittsburgh Paints is reading this, you guys have GOT to get your act together.  This stuff is not covering well and frankly, it's a little drippy.  I used to love you guys but I have 3 rooms that need paint and this is the last gallon of P.P. that is going up in my house for a long time.)

I guess this would all be okay if MY relatives  were coming to visit ( hell, I'd make them paint ) but it is HIS cousins.  We haven't seen these people since our wedding almost 23 years ago so I'm not sure what we will be talking about, but there you go. They are coming for a 4 day festival that I avoid like the plague.  St. Peter's Fiesta used to be a lovely novena-based celebration of faith that culminated in the blessing of the fishing fleet and some fiercely good Sicilian cooking.  It has degenerated into a 5 day drunk complete with a sleazy carnival and a baby boom 9 months from now when all the babies will be named "Peter".  It saddens me to see something that was once so beautiful become such a nightmare.  Note to Gloucester Italians:  "Fiesta" is not even a word not found in your language. Be authentic - your grandparents and great-grandparents had the right idea.

I need to get back to cleaning.  Sometimes you just need impending house guests  to light a fire underneath your slovenly self and git 'er done.  Joe will be handling the cleaning of all the floors, including the Chernobyl-like kitchen floor that is original to the 1975 house.  An uglier floor never lived.  These folks are arriving on Thursday and leaving on Monday morning.  I'm following them out the driveway and heading downtown to the flooring store where I will put a blindfold over my eyes, swing a cat and whatever it lands on is the new kitchen floor.   BLINK BLINK.  I'm on a roll.

Inklingo Good, Verizon Bad

I spent most of yesterday  beating the hell out of my Verizon modem (vintage 2006) trying to maintain an internet connection at home - to no avail.  Three phone calls and numerous gymnastics later I threw in the towel and  vowed online revenge at the store today (where I have a working internet connection).  Verizon offered me a new modem for $14.95 but  since I'm paying about $79 a month for long distance and not-working  internet I told them I wasn't interested in paying for ANYTHING else.  After yet another Verizon tech support FAIL  I called back and that same modem was now $69.95, but I "qualified" for a monthly rate reduction, getting the same services for $45.00 a month.  Seriously Verizon?  Don't you at least want to take me out to dinner first?

Back to last night - I gave up with Verizon and resumed some serious de-junking of my house.  We have house guests in 2 weeks and since we have not had anyone for about 5 years.....a lot of JUNK has accumulated in the guest room and elsewhere.  We are blessed and cursed with a large house - 4 bedrooms, 3 1/2 baths, 2 floors, full basement.  WAY.TOO. MUCH. ROOM. FOR. JUNK.   And since I am married to the man who inspired the TV show Hoarders, it piles up like crazy. I have made more trips to Goodwill than I can tell you about (and more than my husband knows about....) and I'm not done yet.  The actual cleaning is still ahead of me, oy you could vanish in some of the dust.  Wish me luck.

The UP SIDE is that I actually WON SOMETHING!  I never win anything.   I have craved and coveted this Alabama Beauty block (I poached this one from a wonderful blog called Postcards From Panama).  Aren't the colors fabulous? The first time I saw it was on the Quilt Obsession blog by Cathi.  She uses Inklingo, and I always assumed it was some kind of computer program.  Cathi just owns piecing, she makes the most beautiful things and is extremely productive in her output.  I marveled at how she did all this  so I  checked out Inklingo for myself.  You won't believe this -  it's PDF files!  No software to buy! You need an inkjet printer and some freezer paper (butcher paper, where I come from) and the pattern PFD files.   It takes a little reading to wrap your head around the concept, but once it clicks in it all makes sense.

So I send huge blog love to  Cathi  and encourage you to do yourself a favor and take a few minutes to check out  Inklingo.   Poke around and download the freebies.  I won a gift certificate from Cathi's blog so I went ahead and got the pattern for the Alabama Beauty block. ( I  have loved it so long that it was a no brainer, although there are many patterns to choose from. )  I'm not being paid or persuaded in any way to promote this,  I just found something I really loved and BONUS - it will make my quilt piecing easier and more spectacular.  So what's not to love?  Verizon,  THAT is what's not to love.  I'm an Irishman married to a Sicilian for 22 years,  I can "do" vendetta with the best of 'em.  Vendetta and Verizon - they just go together. Stay tuned.

Saddle Sores

Yesterday was my first day back in the saddle (for reals) with my Bernina.  After about $400 worth of cleaning, a motherboard re-build and repairs (and messing around with a few small projects) I strapped on my courage and took out a languishing UFO that needs to be finished because it is a long overdue gift.

The first couple of hours went well - amazingly well.  I was sailing right along,   the machine was making all the right sounds.  Life was good.  I love that machine,   I love sewing,  it was all good.

This is such a large quilt  I had to spread the blocks out on my king-size bed. I did about 3 miles of walking,  looping the long hallway between my bedroom  and the sewing room.  On one trip  I placed some connected blocks next to the long row they would be attached to and realized - I goofed.    Not a little "opps" goof,   but an EPIC FAIL GOOF.   A sit-down-on-the-bed-and swear goof. To make matters worse,   I did some periodic reverse stitching  to strengthen a few places where the seam allowance wasn't quite (ahem)  1/4 inch.  As I looked even closer,  I saw a single row of half square triangles on one block that was....going the wrong way. Four little half square triangles.....would anyone notice? I did, and my mother's voice in my head did, too.

Long story short,   I spent most of the rest of the day parked in my favorite chair with a seam ripper.   I put a movie in the VCR - ironically, The Agony and the Ecstasy.  It seemed appropriate for the task and besides -   I loves me some campy Charlton Heston movies.  I managed to separate the scofflaws but had to sacrifice two entire  blocks as the surgical separation necessitated some fabric amputation.  It pained me deeply.   I will push on and finish this thing but the next time I even THINK about doing a Lady of the Lake quilt I want someone out there to beat me about the head and shoulders with a blunt instrument.   This quilt will never lie flat or square up well.   I don't think even Charlton Heston as Moses  (another fav campy flick) could pull something that biblically epic out his hat.

Happily Ever After

I really love it when serendipity happens.

Recently, a very loving and thoughtful man  from Gloucester brought some of his wife's quilting things to the museum to be donated for whatever purpose they could serve. Wilbur loved June very much - as shown here in her brief but perfect obituary:

Born in Beverly, she was the daughter of the late ........ June and Wilbur had a beautiful wedding and returned to the house that was to be their home for the next 53 years. And just like the children's story, they lived happily ever after.

Among the lovely items was a pair of quilt frames, one style of which I did not know existed but was always the quilt frame of my dreams.  I have always loved feather quilting motifs but have never been able to master the technique. My mom always told me I needed to learn to hand quilt in all directions, toward me, away from me, at angles - and I always resisted.  I'm a two-directional hand quilter at best and was pretty much resigned to the fact that I would never conquer feathers.  Enter my new quilt frame:



We had the donated frames for sale in the museum shop for a few days before I took the plunge.  (The other frame sold in the same day!)   I am so glad I made the purchase  as this is the most miraculous thing ever.  The engineering behind it is remarkable - even my husband was impressed.  The quilt hoop is on a gimble, so you can whip it around - much like you handle the steering wheel in a car.  This makes sewing curves (aka the curves found in feathers) so much more manageable.   Big bonus - the whole thing kind of collapses on itself so I can slide it under my chair and it takes up (practically) no space.   I can't tell you how much I love getting back to hand quilting - it never fails to calm my spirit and soothe my heart.

I am so thankful Wilbur decided to donate June's lovely things that  I  sent him a little thank you note.  I'm even happier I could bring one of them back to Gloucester.  I think of them both every time I sit down to sew, and marvel at the great love I have seen, known and witnessed in my life.

I Think I .....Can't

It has been three weeks since the loss of my Dad and while the initial numbness is easing, the hard parts are not.

When in the thick of a crisis  I tend to say to myself,  "If I can just get through X, I'll be fine."  X being a tough day, a week, an event.   I have a way of breaking things up in to manageable mental bits so I don't go completely postal and/or collapse.   "If I can get on the plane and get home to my family, I'll be OK.  If I can get through the wake and visitation, I'll be fine.  That's the hard part.  No, wait. If  I can get through the funeral....the burial....the exhausting plane trip back to Gloucester....." .  I just keep making those little goals because the big one is too much to comprehend or manage. Like the little train, I keep chugging along with "I think I can... I think I can..."  but seriously,  right now, I think I can't.

I forgot about the next part.

The aftermath, the physical exhaustion, the mental grief.  Yesterday was a good example.  I am working on a grant for the local library and spent most of the day on my 7-year-old computer (AKA the *#&$^%  boat anchor) trying to wrestle down documents and cope with incompatibilities in software.  I thought I would take a break and sync up my iPad and iPod touch so I can have some commute-worthy books to listen to on the road.

As I watched one device sync I noticed a lot of songs I didn't recall buying.  HYMNS, for heaven's sake.  "King of the Road" by Roger Miller!  Then it dawned on me - I downloaded those on wi-fi at the hospital so Dad could listen to some familiar music.  Dad  loved him some Roger Miller.  I don't even know if he could hear them, but I played them for him.

Then I got an email from my brother with a copy of the death certificate. (I'm going to release the (Sicilian) hounds -  my husband -  on American Airlines for being so heartless.)  When another brother requested the family address book, I (as the keeper of the family minutia,  ephemera, and other stuff) popped open my spreadsheet and saw the list  of addresses and phone numbers.... including the ones for Dad.  Hard to look at that. I  deleted those  before I sent it along, but when I popped open the browser to get back to my email I saw the bookmark for his Caring Bridge website where we kept far-flung relatives aware of his status.  Another thing to delete.  A thousand little things that appear and sting and compound the loss. Even hearing the TV  commercial about "setting up financial arrangements before a loved one goes in to a nursing home" sent me on a brief ,  "I wonder if  Gary got the billing sorted out before Dad moves to.....oh."   A thousand little things.

Mothers Day is thankfully past, but made even  more difficult this year by falling on my Dad's birthday.  Really, world?  Seriously?  Not enough stress for one day?  Then a sister wisely pointed out that we gave them both the gift they have surely wanted for almost ten years - we gave them back each other.  (Can I get a "thank God for sisters" from the choir?)

It helped.  But it is the thousand little things that  rain like  fine, thin shards of glass and fall  without warning  on your head and your heart.  I know it will let up,  I know it will get better.  I went through this when we lost Mom, but I really did forget (or blocked out) this part, and I can't break it up into manageable bits because that is not how it works.  I push through each day. I crave sleep.  I turn on my sound machine app to a quiet rainstorm to drown out the noise of traffic and motorcycles.  I want it to be quiet. I want peace. I want to stop crying at unexpected moments and inappropriate places. I want the roller coaster ride to level off.

I do not want to do this part but I do not  have a choice. Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.   Maybe someday, but I'm not feeling it now. I'm just sayin'.

A Visit to the Mothership

Two weeks ago we left for what  (we thought) was going to be a week-long vacation on Key Largo.  Since Joe and I carry the dubious distinction of being the oldest people from Gloucester that have never been to Florida  it was kind of a big deal.  We had a wonderful time, realized that the ocean in Florida was just like Gloucester (only warmer and with palm trees) and managed to be spoiled rotten by our wonderful host and bestest-buddy ever.  Things came to a screeching halt about four days in to the trip when we got the call that my darling Dad had joined my mother in eternal rest. (That is about all I can say about that right now.... I need some time.....)

We found ourselves at the mercy of American Airlines  ( FYI - they HAVE no mercy) and flew back to Gloucester, dumped all the summer clothes in the dining room, repacked the late-winter clothes and flew off the next day (on Delta, thankyouverymuch)  to Lincoln, Nebraska.  The next few days are a bit of a blur (again,  I need some time here......) but on the day before we flew back to Massachusetts my sister-in-law and I made a visit to the International Quilt Study Center (AKA "THE MOTHERSHIP") in Lincoln.  I always go when I am home  and it never disappoints.  With luck (and the divine intervention of my quilting mother) the Marseille: White Corded Quilting  exhibit was there to give us a fall-down-on-the-floor,  shut-my-mouth-wide-open look into the stunningly beautiful art of French quilted and corded needlework.  I was so blown away I forgot to get the exhibition catalog.  RATS.  (I'll order it from the IQSC because they need the funds much more than Amazon and for pete's sake  you have got to SUPPORT these places, people.)

As luck would also have it, the other exhibit was Nebraska Quilts and Quiltmakers. We have covered (at great length) my goobering admiration of the quilts of  "Amazing" Grace Snyder.  My personal favorite, Mrs. McGill's Cherries, was there hanging in all it's glory:

[gallery link="file" order="DESC" orderby="ID"]

IMPORTANT NOTE:  The IQSC allows photography (no flash) in the galleries.  It is very important to take note of and respect ALL  museum photography policies.  I'm just sayin'......  These are grainy because they were done on my phone, sorry.

It was so nice to have another  up-close  look at Grace's fantastic quilt.  It reminded me that my attempt at copying it has languished, needs to be revived,  and put on the very top of my list.   This was all made very clear to me by the fact that not only was I standing in front of it (duh), but 24 hours prior I was putting flowers on the grave of my Grandpa and Grandma (wait for it......) McGill.  It also marked the 100th anniversary of her arrival on Ellis Island on board the RMS Campania.   How great is all of that?   Jack and Mac are back together and Mrs. McGill's cherries (in the form of her children, grandchildren, great and great-great grandchildren)  were all there in the ultimate celebration of life, love and the Resurrection.

A blessed Easter to you and all you love.

A Valentine for My Teacher

We have all had teachers in our lives who profoundly changed who we are or what we become.  I will never stop seeking out people who can teach me something; the  love of ongoing learning is what keeps us fully alive.

One of my most remarkable  teachers was my high school music teacher.  I was always a back-row soprano, much too tall for anything but the last row of the risers.   I was content with that since I  never had the desire to do anything but sing for the pure love of singing.  That changed in my junior year of high school.

I missed the first three weeks of school hospitalized for a spinal fusion (scoliosis) and being plastered in to a walking body cast that I would have to wear for the next year.  I remember walking into the chorus room and taking a seat in the back, hoping like ANYTHING that no one would notice me, point or gasp at the incredible bulk of plaster that encased my entire  upper body.  Enter the new music teacher - (then) Miss Blecha.  She was a ball of fire with a take-no-prisoners attitude about everyone giving their best and enjoying the music as much as she did.  Then it happened.   She had me stand up, come down and SIT IN THE FRONT ROW.   She  told the entire class that in order to sing properly  they were all to sit up as nice and straight as I did.

Better  a hole in the earth open up and suck me in to the abyss.

No such luck.  As it turned out it was one of the greatest things that ever happened to me in my life.  Being a front-row soprano was a much different deal.  I paid attention for the entire class (imagine that), stayed on task, learned how to breathe and sing properly, and found out I loved singing even more than I thought I did.  I went on to sing in small groups, musicals - you get the idea.  After high school I paid for my college books by singing at weddings and  funerals. I sang at the weddings and ordinations of my dearest friends.  The first time I sang Messiah with my college chorus and a live orchestra the experience so overwhelmed me   I went back to my dorm room, sat on my bed and cried my eyes out.  With joy.

I am fortunate enough to still have her in my life.  When my parents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in 2000, I flew home for the festivities.  I  called Jean (now Mrs. McGee) and sent her the music for the mass - all of the same songs my parents had at their wedding.  Jean was at the church for rehearsal and we got right down to business, tackling Shubert's Ave Maria first.  It's a tough, tough piece to sing.  When I finished,  I turned around to look at her and there was this long pause...... and she said, "Well, are you going to sing it that slow?"   WHOMP.   I was sixteen again, nervous in front of my teacher.  She rocked me through the rest of the music and by the time she was finished with me I was ready for the big day.  My parents renewed their wedding vows with their son, my brother Steve, as the presiding priest.  My brother Gary did the scripture readings.   I sang, as did 3 of their granddaughters.  My mother later told me it was the happiest week of her life.  She was gone from us one year later.

Jean and Dennis came to Gloucester to visit us on their 25th anniversary and she sat in my living room and played on our rickety piano and made all of us (and our guests).....sing properly.  We had a BALL.  It was a howl to watch her teach my husband how to sing in his  "head voice."  Years later,  he still talks about "head voice" singing like he has a clue.  (He was the darling in a boys choir until he hit puberty and so misses having that singing voice.)  Pretty cute. Her gifts keep on giving.

So why the Valentine for Teacher?  I mentioned in my Christmas letter that I had started writing a blog.  Jean wrote back and asked me for the web address so they could read up.  I  immediately reverted back to that nervous, sixteen year old student.  Oh mercy, what would she think of a written "performance"?   So,  I'll send her the link to this blog, but the first entry I want her to read is this one. We both have had a lot of love - and loss - in our lives lately.  I want to very publicly thank her, and to let her  know the gift of what she has taught me continues to feed and sustain me.  When I am stressed out on my long commute,  I sing in the car - it relaxes me.  When I am at dinner with friends, we sing around the table.  When I am too angry or grief-stricken to find words to pray, I sing hymns instead.  (St. Augustine said, "Those who sing pray twice.")  She has taught me much more, but that is for another time.

So a very Happy Valentines Day to Jean,  and to all the great teachers we have had  in our lives. May we all realize the obligation of passing that knowledge on, and teach others what we have been blessed with.  (And may we also remember to tell them to never rest one hand on the piano when we stand properly and sing. )

Make Valentine's Day About Them

Since my Bernina is STILL being repaired  I threw in the towel and acknowledged the existence of housework.

Sunday afternoon I was watching TV and  cleaning up the kitchen when a Hallmark commercial came on and announced something like,  "This Valentines Day, it's not about I love you - it's about I love US."  Luckily I had an empty stomach and was able to suppress an urge to vomit.  I have major issues with Hallmark (details on request) mostly about how they shafted the thousands of women who made them what they are.... but I digress.   I get a little up in my head about Valentines Day, not so much for who we remember - but  about those we overlook or forget. These are the people who really spelled it out and gave us a living example of what real love means. I would like to tell you about a couple of mine.

These four women are the McGill sisters. Three of them (including my Mom, wearing Valentine fuchsia!) are no longer with us, and we had a scare with Aunt Addie this past weekend. She is thankfully home and on the mend, but it got me to thinking.  When my Mom was in her early 20's  she gave birth to a baby girl who did not live for  more than a couple of hours.  Her older sister, my Aunt Helen, was a nurse - and she wrapped up baby Mary, put her in a small box,  put on her coat and carried her down the street to the mortuary. (Aunt Helen later told  me she did it  because she couldn't bear the thought of anyone else but family touching that baby.)  My Aunt Addie (also a nurse) stayed with Mom and Dad.  Can you imagine that?  Can you imagine what it would take to do any one of those things?   I've always sent a Valentine to Aunt Addie - and not because she is all I have left of these four wondrous women and I just love her to pieces. I also honor her for what she represents - lessons of unconditional love and support.  These  four  women overwhelm me with their incredible strength and resilience.

Now meet  John and Emma Major, my paternal grandparents.  They have been gone a long time but every time I look at this picture of them it makes my eyes fill up.  They lived on a farm with no electricity for much of their lives.  Grandma gave birth to five children at home in the same bed they were conceived in.   Severe arthritis sent her to a wheelchair in her 50's.  Grandpa was the caretaker.  Tough sledding, huh. They are shown here on their 50th anniversary - and just look at how they still looked at each other.  We should all be so lucky.  Grandpa died first, and Grandma always said she wanted to die on a holiday because  "her mother died on Easter and that was a joyful day to meet your Lord."  Grandma died on Valentines Day.   While at first  it broke my heart,  I had a wise and loving sister-in-law who observed, "What better day for her Lord to reunite her with the love of her life?"

That's the kind of love I am talking about.  Not just the love we have for our significant others or our children, but for the people who gave us a living example of what it takes to meet the real demands of love.  We all have neighbors, acquaintances,  teachers or relatives who taught us great lessons about love. I'm even tempted to send a Valentine to Mark Kelley, the stand-up, gusty, loving husband of Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords. We all know  it is easy to love when things are good.  It is when things get tough, or ugly, or scary  that real love manifests itself.  I am thankful to have had such wondrous examples in my life.

Sent a note or a card or a flower or make a phone call to those who schooled you in love.  Raise a glass to those gone before us.   Open up that circle of who is or isn't a Valentine in your life and you will quickly  realize you are surrounded by them.  Make  this Valentine's Day about them.

PS - At some point this week either you or someone you know will say,  "I don't need a fake holiday for me to tell people I love them, or take them out to dinner, or buy them a card and say what is in my heart."  Oh yeah?  Go ahead and throw a bullshit flag and call their bluff.   It  does not need to involve a purchase or a night out, but it does need to happen.