tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-169881772024-02-19T00:11:57.309-08:00The Mermaids Chair"I'll note you in my book of memory."
-William Shakespeare King Henry VITigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-75800098603229302092011-12-10T18:42:00.000-08:002011-12-23T20:30:18.352-08:00I Remember Momma<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix4BBJiSZn3-vzxjko_VkGNWMnmi9fMhw1aBqTr4NdF0pbYDHSP0ikmkcAeQmIE1d6muym2ADuhfkUBw2iOUKyYdeZGh0Um6g1CmjoPsZ9VWwizL-Jbr5qUjCEhLhIimTkandRTg/s1600/home_at_christmas.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 244px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix4BBJiSZn3-vzxjko_VkGNWMnmi9fMhw1aBqTr4NdF0pbYDHSP0ikmkcAeQmIE1d6muym2ADuhfkUBw2iOUKyYdeZGh0Um6g1CmjoPsZ9VWwizL-Jbr5qUjCEhLhIimTkandRTg/s400/home_at_christmas.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689537543222528226" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Christmas - that magic blanket that wraps itself about us,</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">that something so intangible that it is like a fragrance. It may weave</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">a spell of nostalgia. Christmas may be a day of feasting, or of prayer, but always it will be a day of remembrance - a day in which we think of everything we have ever loved."</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> -Augusta E. Rundel</span><br /></div><br />Only two more sleeps till Christmas, and like everyone else my mind is brimming with memories of home and family. Good or bad, our childhood memories have a profound effect on us, and this is never more true than the memories we have of the holidays. Traditions. Culture. Family. Food. For me, the memories of those times were what I thought the holidays would always be. But life has a way of moving on, no matter how much we wish it wouldn't. Divorce. Death. Even the very city that surrounds me continues to evolve and change. The very house I grew up in is now unrecognizable thanks to urban renewal. The memories then become even more precious. More sweet in the glow of Christmas past. And so this blog, so very long in coming, is dedicated to my mother and the memories she made for me. I hope that I made some for my own children that they will look back on with some fondness themselves someday.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr26r35MT7OYU3sZc1mMUqJZAayJEIZalS8iLKWb0QTj-1O8Erw-hU4ATcsMTX-2bW_7vd3kEWgH0SfpGGNC7Vjr15gEKuDAs1wqKY0A4DUZmW7LRUuzoXRO_g5j7yDiFLaKngaQ/s1600/6a0133f21181cb970b0134854b07a6970c-800wi.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr26r35MT7OYU3sZc1mMUqJZAayJEIZalS8iLKWb0QTj-1O8Erw-hU4ATcsMTX-2bW_7vd3kEWgH0SfpGGNC7Vjr15gEKuDAs1wqKY0A4DUZmW7LRUuzoXRO_g5j7yDiFLaKngaQ/s400/6a0133f21181cb970b0134854b07a6970c-800wi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689520159687229410" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I remember Momma most in the kitchen. Always in an apron, always cooking, canning, baking. At Christmas she started early in December. The old red Betty Crocker cookbook would come out, the one with the images I knew by heart. The old mixmaster mixer with the white glass bowls would begin to hum. Glace' cherries, candied citrus peel, Hershey's baking chocolate. Brown sugar, white. Chocolate chips, butterscotch chips. She started early and stored the goodies in tins on the cold back porch. In the evenings as we watched television she would appear bearing a tray of our favorites. Russian teacakes for me. Peanut butter fudge for my dad. White chocolate bark. Chinese noodle candy. Spritz. I think my mothers favorite were the white sugar cookies. Melt in your mouth, crisp and buttery. I remember coming home from school to find her baking them, cookies lined up in rows cooling on her big bread board. I sat on the stool that sat between the stove and refrigerator, enjoying fresh cookies and milk, watching Momma flatten each round ball of dough with a buttered glass and then press a candied cherry into the center of each cookie.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_D_REhDfTCNUXZY_hvUYkfFGsI59UDXroj8mIHpEFEaWWfOhv7-ColrE-YBWtyoci88JltCfWjSucmffhRzYsoMcMCm_W8X64qU4Nq1AxhF3CPlHPelMKqVnGGDKJ3wjkgOY5Hg/s1600/julaftonen_av_carl_larsson_1904.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 277px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_D_REhDfTCNUXZY_hvUYkfFGsI59UDXroj8mIHpEFEaWWfOhv7-ColrE-YBWtyoci88JltCfWjSucmffhRzYsoMcMCm_W8X64qU4Nq1AxhF3CPlHPelMKqVnGGDKJ3wjkgOY5Hg/s400/julaftonen_av_carl_larsson_1904.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689538912700328482" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I remember Momma taking me to see Santa. Going to the Westland Shopping Center was a big deal at Christmas. It was swanky by shopping center standards back then, in the years before malls as we know them now. The decorations were fancy and there was a little train that took kids around the whole center. I suppose it was Montgomery Ward or Sears Robuck where I visited Santa. My child eyes were blind to the locale. All I saw was him. I remember that too hot crowded feeling of being forced to shop in your coat, boots, hat and mittens. Stumbling along in your snow boots, hot and sweaty, your socks wrinkled up and falling down. Getting so tired and thirsty and bored. And mom in dress and heels and everything that goes with it. How did she ever do it?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqga4l-WwKfQ1qYT-Wul50NtvYCdQ14dU_3TNbiCJM98D45PXzki1Ee6A9gVIEfTLxs7Tr_GjrgCfq9-EAR2qZIZNIc5wv3vV4XkEVJXHFyMyHvjv-GKmKjLC8IPLjrhe_7D23Jw/s1600/19592.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 272px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqga4l-WwKfQ1qYT-Wul50NtvYCdQ14dU_3TNbiCJM98D45PXzki1Ee6A9gVIEfTLxs7Tr_GjrgCfq9-EAR2qZIZNIc5wv3vV4XkEVJXHFyMyHvjv-GKmKjLC8IPLjrhe_7D23Jw/s400/19592.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689546890130657330" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I remember Momma decorating the tree. Tinsel trees with rotating lights were the thing back then. Ours was done with multicolor lights and all red satin balls. One night after a walk to see the neighbors houses my mother declared it the most pathetic and moth eaten tree she'd ever seen. She came home and took it down. My poor father must have been in shock. After that we had real trees for a while. Free ones that my Dad got from the school where he worked as as janitor. At that time every classroom got a real tree of its own and when Christmas vacation started they went in the trash. Dad would keep his eye out and find the pick of the litter. I'd go with him back to the school in the evening after the big party and we'd bring our tree home. Eventually we got a new "lifelike" green artificial tree. As embarrassed as I was about our hand me down trees, I liked them better than the bristle brush fake one, but momma loved it. None of the old ornaments survived those fifty plus years of marriage, but I can still see the silver tinsel tree and hear the grinding hum of the spinning colored disc.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_kI27YNIFc0fkId3HW7laBOVZA_9eUF10OY_ihpnqjqIYCpd0keUAD7nISfgG3ijgf4HY-oZHC4K1FWrU8138bj6cbp-ZO3aWdsXoXNiWcACCL73a6yAnIVNCgULxyV4F2bqtVQ/s1600/a2005-001-100-sw-broadway-and-morrison-south-1965.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_kI27YNIFc0fkId3HW7laBOVZA_9eUF10OY_ihpnqjqIYCpd0keUAD7nISfgG3ijgf4HY-oZHC4K1FWrU8138bj6cbp-ZO3aWdsXoXNiWcACCL73a6yAnIVNCgULxyV4F2bqtVQ/s400/a2005-001-100-sw-broadway-and-morrison-south-1965.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689544951989808674" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I remember how much Momma loved Christmas lights. There was always a drive into downtown Denver to see the store window decorations and the decorated city and county building. On the way home we'd drive down streets to see lights on houses, trees in windows. She loved those outings! In later years son in laws would do the driving and one year there was a carriage ride as a surprise. The old city is gone now, and the city and county building now sports LED lights instead of the big old fashioned bulbs. The manger scene is gone and Santa's sleigh is behind chain link fence and locked up from vandals but my memories of those special sparkling nights will never dim.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvKfY3fROqHUkvs9v-j0vwfbBiBPN7jqY_bdzxzkTVEKfVcVaUr3vaP6Sk3GcgyHUaMGR54adxjwTsCBhZSX2EU4T1mdH2GYkj-Ba3ol3iKxrku4gmvUqmtkeTW-BsjmxgUeMjjw/s1600/denver-downtown-xmas-lights-3-b.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvKfY3fROqHUkvs9v-j0vwfbBiBPN7jqY_bdzxzkTVEKfVcVaUr3vaP6Sk3GcgyHUaMGR54adxjwTsCBhZSX2EU4T1mdH2GYkj-Ba3ol3iKxrku4gmvUqmtkeTW-BsjmxgUeMjjw/s400/denver-downtown-xmas-lights-3-b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689545600995133074" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I remember Momma always making oyster soup on Christmas Eve. Buttery milk broth with that sea salty taste. I never liked the oysters but I loved the broth and oyster crackers. On Christmas Day it would be roast turkey again, just like Thanksgiving. There were pies; cherry, rhubarb, pumpkin. And often fried bread or cinnamon rolls. Pickled herring and always Momma's cranberry relish. It was my job to sit on the breadboard and hold it down while she cranked the handle on the grinder. Beneath the opening sitting on a chair was the big bowl that would catch the crushed cranberries and all that juice. I was not allowed to put things into the grinder until I was much older, she was so fearful of twisting my fingers inside, but I so loved to feed it cranberries! I loved the pop as they were crushed. Grind, grind, feed, feed, until at last the beautiful crushed cranberries began to emerge along with the bitter juice. Chunks of orange, rind and all went in too. My father loved it and piled it on top of his turkey, mashed potaotes, rolls, everything. Every year we did it. In the future other little ones took my place on the breadboard, and I was jealous. Eventually a food processor would make us board holders obsolete. She made it right up until the year she died, smaller batches as the family dinners shrank until it was just her alone. I have her old hand written recipe card for cranberry relish and when I hold it I bring back those days in the kitchen on Dover Street.<br /><br />There was dinner and church service, and Christmas Eve seemed to last forever. Momma must have been so tired by the end of the day. All that cleaning and cooking and washing up by herself and me being a pest about opening presents and Santa. I remember the year Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer premiered. I remember Lawrence Welk. I remember Bing Crosby's and King Family's Christmas Show. Bing Crosby and Perry Como were Christmas in our house and to this day I only need a few notes of White Christmas or Home for the Holidays to send me over the bend of nostalgia, down the road of childhood, when Christmas was magic.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMCUjRXL_uW5Jh5F4JdxUZOMUdmCigdhQk9HptlLEg7W31RKy6suWl65DCK2Gz4JGZBTtoOONNnNpw9kvADnIy0moqxCzkyEVjtWaveHupDnmgslfoovQEmuxX5iq9YVhaq6I8Pw/s1600/rudolph-red-nosed-reindeer-001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 271px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMCUjRXL_uW5Jh5F4JdxUZOMUdmCigdhQk9HptlLEg7W31RKy6suWl65DCK2Gz4JGZBTtoOONNnNpw9kvADnIy0moqxCzkyEVjtWaveHupDnmgslfoovQEmuxX5iq9YVhaq6I8Pw/s400/rudolph-red-nosed-reindeer-001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689538193474260370" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I remember Momma the year my father gave her a string of pearls for Christmas. Dad didn't often get the gift giving thing right, but that year he did big time. She loved those pearls. My mother never had any fancy jewels of precious stones. She didn't have furs or diamonds. Those pearls were a precious possession to her. And of all the daughters, I was the only one who remembered that Christmas and the giving of the pearls when she died. It was the hardest thing I gave away, those pearls. But I was not the only daughter, or granddaughter who remembered her wearing them, nor was I the only one who loved her, and I had the memory of Momma and year she got that special gift. Every string of pearls conjures the memory, especially at Christmas.<br /><br />I remember the year I got a snow saucer and my father took me out in the snow to play. He pulled me so fast the icy wind bit my cheeks. He must have had as much fun as I did, because I remember it turning dusk and we were still out. I remember begging to go again and again. Dad took me up the steep embankment where they were building a highway by our house. I went down the slope and picked up so much speed that when I hit the ice at the bottom I shot across the street and just kept going. By the time I hit the sidewalk and ice on the opposite side, I did a complete flip and landed in a snowbank. Poor Dad must have thought hed killed me. I was fine. Scared but all in once piece. To this day when I watch the saucer scene in Christmas Vacation I can still remember that thrill. I wonder if Dad had sprayed my saucer with Pam if I would have kept going for a couple blocks.<br /><br />For me the lingering memories of those days are of all of us together. The faces. The voices. The paper. The tree. The love. I don't remember years by the gifts I did or did not receive, I don't remember being disappointed that often though we were not rich and I'm sure their weren't many gifts. Gifts were small and simple. It was truly the thought and the season and the love, not the size, or quantity. For me it is the fabric of the years themselves that I remember most, not one year or one toy or one memory alone that defines my childhood Christmases. It is th time I long for, when life was still simple and we thought it would never not be so. The years with all of us together before we all began to marry and move away. Before our own families demanded our time and attention and the old family home was gone. Before divorce and death would separate us from one another. There in the glow of time we live on as before, gathered together in laughter and love. Thank you Momma.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_D9Poa_himnJBf6JQMnto1k9hDwT5MgUM8oHV-F78Gg0bOQ6gDxukz-42-KkcNs-N2bl8uCwkf7k4soOBy0GGS4GoaZO1jtTBY48MqQg2XMtAofaU-jejJYpWCym61qgfjYFVrQ/s1600/christmas_carolers.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_D9Poa_himnJBf6JQMnto1k9hDwT5MgUM8oHV-F78Gg0bOQ6gDxukz-42-KkcNs-N2bl8uCwkf7k4soOBy0GGS4GoaZO1jtTBY48MqQg2XMtAofaU-jejJYpWCym61qgfjYFVrQ/s400/christmas_carolers.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689518757055939234" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Tigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-34033580832454034812010-09-18T11:29:00.000-07:002010-09-26T08:09:55.316-07:00Goodbye Summer Girls<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSLEpNW5C6wb73dPJjKfXRNxN4UifRyrKYGJvVKbMP3MOoMagtAptTxLZSYc5EGIDJ7ZQAJIbHFEfnN2JsrUWSl3nreBW6eivOU7feN8BvCOo0uyCm_BUfQlMhu4eGeSnulLCcAg/s1600/ocean+breeze.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 301px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSLEpNW5C6wb73dPJjKfXRNxN4UifRyrKYGJvVKbMP3MOoMagtAptTxLZSYc5EGIDJ7ZQAJIbHFEfnN2JsrUWSl3nreBW6eivOU7feN8BvCOo0uyCm_BUfQlMhu4eGeSnulLCcAg/s400/ocean+breeze.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513546072781580658" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Summer Breezes by Paula Nightengale<br /></span></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;" >Summer Girls</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >I see summer girls in splendor</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >Walk footbare on fields of green</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >Sea-wet hair dried by warm breezes</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >Swirling through an open screen.</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >I see summer skin sun-ripened</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >Under flowing loose white gown</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >Mound of freckled salt-stiff breast</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >Hair at nape of neck like down.</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >I see summer girls in laughter</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >After yellow ball spins round</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >Voices murmur in the twilight</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >Fever rising with the sound.</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >I see summer rain on faces</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >Sleep-soft bodies stir in morn</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >Stain of virgin seed and berry</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >Strut of sainted youth reborn.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >I see you summer girls and dread</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >The day veils will turn heartless</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >No more to open on blue hills</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >When I lie down with darkness.</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">~Joeseph Dunphy</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ3HfoDCW-AhCfm7YaGIsIwL8sJQryo6W325PlZUKYovpuYChOZCRH5b7I2_6a36a3mnANeZQ2avaztcFs65Duf2ccEXsZgeNe-YDfeBTuW8_VNTeWn7xteH8a-rH_ahhhC529pg/s1600/1914l.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 331px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ3HfoDCW-AhCfm7YaGIsIwL8sJQryo6W325PlZUKYovpuYChOZCRH5b7I2_6a36a3mnANeZQ2avaztcFs65Duf2ccEXsZgeNe-YDfeBTuW8_VNTeWn7xteH8a-rH_ahhhC529pg/s400/1914l.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512870282687757042" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPaI90mNbnCdrYdXB-kLI9FU7z2f8F09roYb3jGbOiV4V1a0O0zhM85xI02grK_E_AdVVvIAdvIcV16kBMGWlZnHII5KxGR7WK2Q_wZwhwg9l40yq5M9zwxTjnMQ5v0Fg2wjhkdg/s1600/1914e.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 229px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPaI90mNbnCdrYdXB-kLI9FU7z2f8F09roYb3jGbOiV4V1a0O0zhM85xI02grK_E_AdVVvIAdvIcV16kBMGWlZnHII5KxGR7WK2Q_wZwhwg9l40yq5M9zwxTjnMQ5v0Fg2wjhkdg/s400/1914e.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513546434509971186" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I know I am but summer to your heart<br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:verdana,geneva,helvetica;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">I know I am but summer to your heart,</span><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > And not the full four seasons of the year;<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > And you must welcome from another part<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > And I have loved you all too long and well<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > To carry still the high sweet breast of spring.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums,<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > That you may hail anew the bird and rose<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > When I come back to you, as summer comes.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > Else will you seek, at some not distant time,<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > Even your summer in another clime.<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"> ~Edna St.Vincent Milay</span><br /></span></div><br />><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg49pxiXb6SzQ8EfPByVv_2RfrgCM5_olvn2Dn9AjGuI4wqeQg9V1gPJZF-ff9NMx4jaClkvO-4GKeIAEbFX19rZJ52ZUf1Lm_x5apLEDI1jE2hJWxOnsaQr-cKF9W6Nm6NatyOSw/s1600/1914g.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 224px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg49pxiXb6SzQ8EfPByVv_2RfrgCM5_olvn2Dn9AjGuI4wqeQg9V1gPJZF-ff9NMx4jaClkvO-4GKeIAEbFX19rZJ52ZUf1Lm_x5apLEDI1jE2hJWxOnsaQr-cKF9W6Nm6NatyOSw/s400/1914g.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512870732735392002" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Does the Song of the Sea<br />end at the Shore<br />or in the Heart of Those<br />who listen to it?</span><br /></span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUzm_3G5d5DkRjNJGqm9J31SWRb0ze4kA-btv4mZKNSDYP2AESarGUwy1qEKQv_gTa3IPI06c3rc5b7MO6c0rB6JWJ500Cdbarg7vEuMHxPBVIN_b5dxCu3HWwX9bKwSEaCFLXxA/s1600/no11.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUzm_3G5d5DkRjNJGqm9J31SWRb0ze4kA-btv4mZKNSDYP2AESarGUwy1qEKQv_gTa3IPI06c3rc5b7MO6c0rB6JWJ500Cdbarg7vEuMHxPBVIN_b5dxCu3HWwX9bKwSEaCFLXxA/s400/no11.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512871588194204386" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Goodbye Summer Girls....<br /><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:85%;">(photos courtesy of Sense & Sensibility patterns) </span><br /></span></div></div>Tigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-35156564978888953122010-08-18T13:26:00.000-07:002011-04-16T09:29:04.610-07:00One Little Home in the West<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCljAmtoK-Ffuf1m0RP99SASoHySOGSC16K_-xgHYkeWOF_A31mQjs0fHyv3mqGWFGtahlyjcK-i4PnkXVesUi4O2EtqpLR2Gq4vNSw8olYLwBnXiyQE21F1BSF3fYFBGYRAO6wQ/s1600/pioneerwom.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCljAmtoK-Ffuf1m0RP99SASoHySOGSC16K_-xgHYkeWOF_A31mQjs0fHyv3mqGWFGtahlyjcK-i4PnkXVesUi4O2EtqpLR2Gq4vNSw8olYLwBnXiyQE21F1BSF3fYFBGYRAO6wQ/s400/pioneerwom.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506787683270736978" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The Prairie Is My Garden by Harvey Dunn</span>
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<br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Father and Sister Mary and I walked to the church thru the beauties of the sunny spring Sundays. I have forgotten what I was taught on those days also. I was only a little girl, you know. But I can still plainly see the grass and the trees and the path winding ahead, flecked with sunshine and shadow and the beautiful golden-hearted daisies scattered all along the way.</span> </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" > Ah well! That was years ago and there have been so many changes since then that it would seem such simple things should be forgotten, but at the long last, I am beginning to learn that it is the sweet, simple things of life which are the real ones after all."</span>
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<br />Summer is passing over now. The flowers have all grown leggy. The tomatoes are ripening at a rapid pace. The morning light has a different look, softer and more diffuse. Evenings are coming on a bit faster, a bit cooler. That feeling you have in April, to uncover, open up and empty shelves; to let in the light and breath of summer is being replaced by the desire to stock up, tuck in and hunker down. Too soon the winter winds will howl. Too soon will summer be lost again for another year.
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<br />It has been a glorious summer here, hot, sunny, green, the flowers lush. I've enjoyed every minute and really hate to see Summer go. I've spent the season much as I did as a child, letting the days slip by in lazy succession while I drowned myself in books. I found myself rereading The Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. It's been 35 years since I read them, and my perspective has changed considerably over the years. I was a young woman full of romantic notions then, vastly different from the woman I am now. And as the years pass I find the memories of those long ago days come more often and are twice as sweet.
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<br />Like Laura Ingalls Wilder, I've lived in many little houses in the West, and my mind often returns to the ones I loved best. One in particular is very dear to my heart, a little white clapboard house in Loveland, Co. It was 1974 and I was 14. John Denver was on the radio, Nixon was about to be impeached and magazines were filled with quilts and granny square afghans. The "back to the land movement" was at its zenith. Natural was the way to be and live.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEt8cIOsr9XXHlFSxAMDioz69820KIMvJdDLBcMqd4BCSxnp_T_BEkI8MLOBjtjwHDRsc3k6-MPFwgAC33XThEz96I5v4R7Er3cptP9dMVMiOIpq3IlsPygN1BaNRWiupxl_kVSQ/s1600/895005-1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEt8cIOsr9XXHlFSxAMDioz69820KIMvJdDLBcMqd4BCSxnp_T_BEkI8MLOBjtjwHDRsc3k6-MPFwgAC33XThEz96I5v4R7Er3cptP9dMVMiOIpq3IlsPygN1BaNRWiupxl_kVSQ/s400/895005-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506430338221254514" border="0" /></a>
<br />The house was old, how old we never knew, but we found postcards in the attic dating to the early 1900's. It was just 2 bedrooms, an oil stove, a pantry made over into a bathroom with a claw foot tub, and a real Wizard of Oz root cellar. Poppies and raspberry canes lined the white picket fence, and the entire backyard was garden. I remember my father coming home to find Mom barefoot and knee deep in mud, a straw hat on her head, pulling bind weed. He said she looked like a Chinese woman at work in her rice paddy.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpAbMpHF3m7Nmj-KTRiLQLnBoAoVX2khnMyp4o_tTQwo4mbNYv0FbWXNd8IvvZcbF6LHfzNaWw6YfuTeqPCk4d9xPmEnJB-6JjIlgosmo7I1YycIrSHxk_xRppJJkTI8jIj0V6lA/s1600/lydia.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpAbMpHF3m7Nmj-KTRiLQLnBoAoVX2khnMyp4o_tTQwo4mbNYv0FbWXNd8IvvZcbF6LHfzNaWw6YfuTeqPCk4d9xPmEnJB-6JjIlgosmo7I1YycIrSHxk_xRppJJkTI8jIj0V6lA/s400/lydia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506431458521378978" border="0" /></a>
<br />Mom never conquered the bind weed, but she did cultivate a peach tree. We canned everything from pickles to peaches that fall, and mom carried every dishpan of peelings and pits out to mulch her garden. Hence the tiny peach tree that sprouted the following spring. I can still smell the damp dirt of that root cellar and see the rows of jars on the old crooked shelves. String beans, corn, tomatoes, bread & butter pickles, peaches, pears, applesauce. Jelly jars of raspberry, strawberry, plum and tomato jam. That plum jam was something that dreams are made of, and I have never stopped craving the taste of sweet tomato preserves, ruby red with bits of lemon rind spread on toast. To this day nothing gives me greater pleasure than stocking my pantry. Mom called it my full larder syndrome, some holdover instinct from those long ago days of stocking up in preparation for winter I guess.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3j-CgEaJIQA-gLyYRUfLlP8NgMsCyDORvEcv3xsSnfmGzAWNq7i3jIqYNj6rh_1sVjiRvu_mnFk8Xm8JRNpm9BC0YECxrHkslhtC7z2F4togUM3R4F43TQd9m8N0OE0EGgeIw7Q/s1600/vegetable_garden_8-300x225.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3j-CgEaJIQA-gLyYRUfLlP8NgMsCyDORvEcv3xsSnfmGzAWNq7i3jIqYNj6rh_1sVjiRvu_mnFk8Xm8JRNpm9BC0YECxrHkslhtC7z2F4togUM3R4F43TQd9m8N0OE0EGgeIw7Q/s400/vegetable_garden_8-300x225.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506468018705210114" border="0" /></a>
<br />It was in the little house on Harrison Street, that I came to know the Ingalls family. I was smitten, entranced. Maybe it was the house. Maybe it was my romantic, impressionable age. Maybe it was the times we were living in. But something about all of it came together in a very special way there when I began to read those books, and it changed me, molded me, impressed me in a way nothing else ever has. I feel as if I've been on one very long journey back to that time and place and girl ever since. Rereading about Laura and her family took me back there to that little white clapboard house at 309 Harrison Street and my years within its walls and those that came immediately after.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCUA0ifSENxoZr7FIMOpcY7BUH_1SlPN7KQM3Nrn3wjjDHKNRjIaqyZcPqBbPi4ZJrJdTfZnUxAcMgCZbvHhWLtlgjK4JZ6UK-MqwGlwEgtmmIFFhA1JrtPvlIe3xqWwp2oxmoqw/s1600/10604r.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 305px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCUA0ifSENxoZr7FIMOpcY7BUH_1SlPN7KQM3Nrn3wjjDHKNRjIaqyZcPqBbPi4ZJrJdTfZnUxAcMgCZbvHhWLtlgjK4JZ6UK-MqwGlwEgtmmIFFhA1JrtPvlIe3xqWwp2oxmoqw/s400/10604r.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506789155217540818" border="0" /></a>
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<br />We'd left the only neighborhood, home and friends I'd ever known and started life over in a small tightly knit town that had remained nearly unchanged for decades. Change was slow in reaching Loveland, but change was coming and in a big way. Those little front range agricultural based towns with their one block main streets and one local high school, where everyone knew each other and no one ever left and no one new ever moved in, were on the verge of disappearing forever. They would meld into one very large sprawling suburban entity where all bits of individualism were lost, the mom and pop stores became Walmart out on the 4-lane and farmland became rolling hills of cookie cutter homes painted taupe. I nearly wept the last time I saw Berthoud, Colorado. I had always dreamed of owning one of the big turn of the century homes that made up the tiny town square, but it was gone, swallowed up by housing developments and nothing I recalled from those days when I'd attended the livestock auctions with my friend Irene remained.
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<br /><p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal">“I began to think what a wonderful childhood I had had. How I had seen the whole frontier, the woods, the Indian country of the great plains, the frontier towns, the building of railroads in wild, unsettled country, homesteading and farmers coming in to take possession. I realized that I had seen and lived it all—all the successive phases of the frontier, first the frontiersman, then the pioneer, then the farmers, and the towns.<span style=""> </span>Then I understood that in my own life I represented a whole period of American History. That the frontier was gone and agricultural settlements had taken its place when I married a farmer. It seemed to me that my childhood had been much richer and more interesting than that of children today even with all the modern inventions and improvements.”</p><p style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:georgia;" > ~Laura Ingalls Wilder, October 16, 1937</span>~
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<br />Library's were good friends to me back then. Some of my best book memories come from my loneliest leanest years. Why after years of passing up Laura Ingalls Wilders books, I suddenly decided to give them a try I have no idea. And at what point it went from being a singular experience to my reading them aloud I can't answer either. It just happened. I have never forgotten the night Mom and I stayed up till the early morning hours as I read The Long Winter aloud. We just had to know that Pa, Ma, Mary, Laura, Carrie and Grace made it through all right. Or how we cried at Mary's blindness and the death of Jack the brindle bulldog.
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<br />Money was very tight for us, but Mom understood why I just had to have my own copies of the Little House books. I hold those tender paperback copies in my hands now, the covers worn, the pages falling out, each marked $1.50 on the cover, and I remember the nine months or more it took to buy them. Mom tucked those quarters away for me, and we'd make a trip to the bookstore downtown once a month or so for the next book, and then we read them all again. I can even remember catching mom reading them on the sly when I came in from school. I'd find her sitting at the kitchen table, book in hand, wiping tears from behind her glasses.
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<br />I don't think I ever really realized how hard my parents were having it financially during those years. I remember good times more than bad. Laughter. Love. Good food. I don't remember wanting for anything. Mom bought a winter coat for me at the old downtown J.C.Penny's and paid on it all summer. That was the first I'd heard of "lay away." I brought that coat home just in time for the first snowfall. (later that coat would be stolen from my locker, but that's another story). Mom and I took trips to collect pine cones, yucca and milkweed pods in the hills, packing sandwiches and our schnauzer, Buttons along with us. Mom spent long days and evenings crafting them into wreaths she sold to pay for new glasses. I picked cherries for a day in the summer of '75 and all I earned was a sunburn so severe I was physically ill. I baby sat for a young mother with two little girls who drove a Volkswagen bug with no heat, her guitar tucked in the back seat. She'd left her husband and gone back to college and I thought she was utterly fascinating. Probably the closest I ever came to a real life hippy. We watched the Watergate hearings on television an lived through the Big Thompson Canyon flood in July of 1976.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQUWA4lz7HYav6-zBB7lA3C9v1JoIXAYdeoFo0MrRLUrDh49ipnukgE7lC1pyo_PSTWICqBH5UUdDNLgOePcDlgtN3FugmA0DH4cxhicSLz8GEF3WTng2oXJuIvD_GuXMokjjuQ/s1600/20090214172226.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQUWA4lz7HYav6-zBB7lA3C9v1JoIXAYdeoFo0MrRLUrDh49ipnukgE7lC1pyo_PSTWICqBH5UUdDNLgOePcDlgtN3FugmA0DH4cxhicSLz8GEF3WTng2oXJuIvD_GuXMokjjuQ/s400/20090214172226.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506798758953642594" border="0" /></a>
<br />My oldest sister, Gloria and her husband Bill, left Colorado for the wilds of Montana to make a living off the land. Bill worked skinning logs and running a small welding business, while Gloria tended goats, rabbits, and a huge vegetable garden. I still remember her Blue Hubbard squash with skin so thick they could break a knife anf her kohlrabi that my mother dubbed Sputniks. She and her chickens worked side by side unearthing grubs and pulling weeds.She baked bread and made butter and grew her hair in braid that reached down her back. I remember her letters home and Mom reading them aloud at the kitchen table. Another sister was living on the plains of Kansas and the third raising a brood in Buena Vista.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY-gyujhYajKzylL4Xe0lIec_ZoVS4M6TVVD9JgepVkTPwiOGKFCHhSjJwNSQ_htHkjFTnKqlJk7qPvW6Y7lx7gcYcPZ6UjI0A7wynRd_asrWMZ2nwuh2ZGWeipctHsd7wG1y73w/s1600/hens.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY-gyujhYajKzylL4Xe0lIec_ZoVS4M6TVVD9JgepVkTPwiOGKFCHhSjJwNSQ_htHkjFTnKqlJk7qPvW6Y7lx7gcYcPZ6UjI0A7wynRd_asrWMZ2nwuh2ZGWeipctHsd7wG1y73w/s400/hens.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506428377248031186" border="0" /></a>
<br />Letters were a big deal back then, photos too. Who knew how all that would change? You sat there at the kitchen table, beneath a light bulb buzzing with summer insects or windows blocked with blowing snow and held in your hand those pages filled with a loved one's handwriting, maybe a couple photos too. Phone calls were expensive. There were no cell phones in your back pocket. I can't imagine what the phone bill was then, but I'm sure it never came close to the one I pay today.
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<br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Before long the lure of Montana called my parents too, and the next thing I knew we were packing up and leaving that little white house and heading over the Rocky Mountains to a little green house near Hamilton, Montana, that came complete with its own cat. But Montana didn't stick. Dad couldn't find work that paid enough, my parents savings was diminishing and I think Mom and Dad grew fearful they might lose everything. In less than a year we were headed back to Denver. </span>Back to a house in the suburbs. Back to familiar locales. But things were never the same after that. Some dreams died back then I think. The years flew by and Dad was gone by 1989. Mom's gone now too. Rereading the Little House Books I was there again at that kitchen table in Loveland, with zuchini bread and a glass of milk. Buttons asleep in the old blue chair, and plenty of food down cellar in a teacup as Pa Ingalls would say.
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<br />Those may have been hard years for my folks and sometimes lonely ones for me, but they were also filled with excitement, promise and adventure. And lots of love. We touched again that pioneering spirit that was not only part of our family heritage but seemed to permeate those times as well. I think back and wonder what in the world my sixty year old parents were thinking uprooting like that. We moved five times in rapid succession and I attended 3 high schools in one year. And then I read about Pa and Ma, Mary and Laura again and I see the American Spirit at work. The looking to better times, to starting fresh, hard work and the rewards it brings. Maybe Mom and Dad were just looking to the simpler times they remembered as farm kids growing up in Minnesota. Simpler times before the world became so very big and full of itself.
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<br />I remember those years with great fondness. I was convinced I'd find my own Almanzo Wilder in Montana and end up a ranchers wife. I remember long letters written and received from friends I left behind. I remember being the big city girl in a tiny town where ladies still dressed up to go shopping, no one had heard of John Denver, the Captain and Tennile or feathered hair. There was a lifestyle there that appealed to me. The pioneer spirit was certainly alive and well in places like Hamilton, Montana. Life was about hard honest work, caring for your neighbors and community, value of family. Things that I'd never experienced except in books. There was also a backwardness and distrust of outsiders, the being made to feel odd that was hurtful,. But always there was Mom and Dad, the security of home wherever we were together and it didn't matter where that home was.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhku1jC8YbJ02LfUNS1YyjiwQaUq5kDMCErdgKn10Jl-0rk-mqgFBa5BuFQHLHak0xNjM-XKguXKvJ4pKQLoLJdMIbAOxk3wecuJEfyMIuDNOjkCpHd_dyJa21Q_3W3nKHieyOBEA/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 182px; height: 277px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhku1jC8YbJ02LfUNS1YyjiwQaUq5kDMCErdgKn10Jl-0rk-mqgFBa5BuFQHLHak0xNjM-XKguXKvJ4pKQLoLJdMIbAOxk3wecuJEfyMIuDNOjkCpHd_dyJa21Q_3W3nKHieyOBEA/s400/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506807654152116978" border="0" /></a>
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<br />They were years filled with an abundance of love and laughter. I was growing up and those times molded me into a woman who would continue to love adventure and suffer wanderlust. That woman who loves parks with evergreens and swings, root cellars, the smell of barns and sheds with dirt floors, old libraries with stain glass windows and real card catalogs. Country fairs, quilts, canning jars, orange cats, picket fences, painted porches, windows you prop open with a stick, wainscoting and squeaky stairs. Maybe there was a me that lived once before, a long time ago, and that's why it felt so right and so familiar in so many ways. I am thankful for those little houses and those days, and I cherish the memories I carry of those late summer days all over the west.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCbsMg8BuREm-YbF-jFJEFHxxf3wRJc9Q6_UGAsfA5CTNzlSJEyVoWzybEhKlM6mgth80-hHXOXXrPeNuO-L_Ph6wwRtgUCQGWgYRKgd7PlAx56Z8EGS7-r7cAAwzwMw7Ys_Ffsw/s1600/madonna.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 310px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCbsMg8BuREm-YbF-jFJEFHxxf3wRJc9Q6_UGAsfA5CTNzlSJEyVoWzybEhKlM6mgth80-hHXOXXrPeNuO-L_Ph6wwRtgUCQGWgYRKgd7PlAx56Z8EGS7-r7cAAwzwMw7Ys_Ffsw/s400/madonna.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506793794056946178" border="0" /></a>
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<br /><p style="font-family: georgia; font-style: italic; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">In one of her final Missouri Ruralist columns published on August 1, 1923, Laura expressed her gratitude for the home of her childhood and its love, which still nurtured her as an adult.</p> <p face="georgia" style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;" align="center">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;" align="center">Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;" align="center">Old time is still a-flying<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;" align="center">And this same flower that smiles today,<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;" align="center">Tomorrow will be dying.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;" align="center">(Herrick)</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" align="center"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">“Out in the meadow, I picked a wild sunflower and as I looked into its golden heart such a wave of homesickness came over me that I almost wept. I wanted mother, with her gentle voice and quite firmness; I longed to hear father’s jolly songs and to see his twinkling blue eyes;I was lonesome for the sister with whom I used to play in the meadow picking daisies and wild sunflowers.
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<br /></p> <p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Across the years, the old home and its love called to me and memories of sweet words of counsel came flooding back. I realized that all my life the teachings of those early days have influenced me and the example set by father and mother has been something I have tried to follow, with failures here and there, with rebellion at times, but always coming back to it as the compass needle to the star...</p> <p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">...For when tests of character come in later years, strength to the good will not come from the modern improvements or amusements few may have enjoyed, but from the quiet moments and the “still small voices” of the old home. </span> <p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Nothing can ever take the place of this early home influence and, as it does not depend upon externals, it may be the possession of the poor as well as the rich., a heritage from all fathers and mothers to their children.</p> <p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">The real things of life that are the common possession of us all are the greatest value; worth far more than motor cars or radio outfits; more than lands or money; and our whole store of these wonderful riches maybe revealed to us by such a common, beautiful thing as a wild flower.”</p> <p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5tor7tQdpx2h_LvVQ7y5NPh_-b7jSD4aoiLVIKJdSVa8c5E4uw8gG753xiiBU-aMqnFf1b3glsMRrpUsqCrrmenTkD0arZ70qW4x9v1CKcCJ564AgDRXwqrB3BC5xAE00y6Zp4g/s1600/history_header_a.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5tor7tQdpx2h_LvVQ7y5NPh_-b7jSD4aoiLVIKJdSVa8c5E4uw8gG753xiiBU-aMqnFf1b3glsMRrpUsqCrrmenTkD0arZ70qW4x9v1CKcCJ564AgDRXwqrB3BC5xAE00y6Zp4g/s400/history_header_a.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506793294698352834" border="0" /></a>Tigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-20142634948135211732010-02-04T14:56:00.000-08:002010-02-15T10:58:20.267-08:00The Chemistry of Love<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivc8EeMOf9vGV6RIofk0cWEp-qPC9ThNp6In8To-8oJOJ7FD_c0Ln_iU4GxuzL0hBVUxFCD38FYYe1NZQsGJz85MG0OTnBtE8MLyPXBoiBwSCFN85ku0JMv6v0nstzNA5sPx5sDg/s1600-h/victorian-card.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivc8EeMOf9vGV6RIofk0cWEp-qPC9ThNp6In8To-8oJOJ7FD_c0Ln_iU4GxuzL0hBVUxFCD38FYYe1NZQsGJz85MG0OTnBtE8MLyPXBoiBwSCFN85ku0JMv6v0nstzNA5sPx5sDg/s400/victorian-card.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438533332941393634" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Love </span>it turns out is a drug.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2010/02/14/sunday/main6207203.shtml?tag=contentBody;featuredPost-PE"></a><a href="http://http//newsroom.ucla.edu/portal/ucla/can-thinking-of-a-loved-one-reduce-112176.aspx"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">A recent UCLA study shows that the very sight of a loved one can ease your pain.</span></a><br /><br />"We indeed found that women holding their partner's hand reported significantly less pain than holding a stranger's hand or inanimate object..."<br /><br />"It's amazing to me that<span style="font-weight: bold;"> love</span> can have the same effect as Acetaminophen, as Tylenol."<br /><br />Antropologist Helen Fisher says <span style="font-weight: bold;">love</span> is better than Tylenol! Fisher, who has looked at love for years, says affairs of the heart are often functions of the brain.<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"> </span>"In simple terms, one of the parts of the brain involved in rewards and cravings - the ventral tegmental area (or VTA) - is flooded with the chemical dopamine when you do something pleasurable (like, say, eat chocolate) or see someone you're in <span style="font-weight: bold;">love</span> with . . . no matter how many years you've known them."<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"The brain is built to respond," Fisher said. "We are an animal that is built to love."</span><br /><br />Fisher and neurologist Lucy Brown of the Albert Einstein College of Medicine in New York also scanned college students in the throes of <span style="font-weight: bold;">young love</span>, and found that the part of the brain that makes <span style="font-weight: bold;">true love</span> so durable also makes rejection so agonizing. "When you've been dumped, you're still <span style="font-weight: bold;">madly in love</span> with the person," said Brown. "As a matter of fact, looking at a picture of the person still brings you some reward. And that's part of the problem. I wish it didn't!"<br /><br />Science can't completely save us from heartbreak, but according to author <a href="http://www.taraparkerpope.com/">Tara Parker-Pope</a>, it can help. "I think science teaches us the <span style="font-weight: bold;">value of love</span> and can help us make better decisions," said Parker-Pope. Her upcoming book <a href="http://www.taraparkerpope.com/">"For Better: The Science of a Good Marriage" </a>(Dutton) describes the science behind relationships. "...there's a whole lot going on beyond the conscious mind, beyond conscious decision-making, when we find ourselves drawn to another person and attracted to another person."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">But beyond animal attraction, there's a mathematical ratio that can predict whether love lasts: 5 to 1. Five positive interactions to every one negative, like a critical comment, said Parker-Pope:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"A pat on the shoulder or a squeeze of the hand or a 'Honey, you look pretty today' or 'Gosh, I'm proud of you' or 'I like you in that suit.' Those little moments are highly protective of a marriage, and good marriages have them at least on a 5-to-1 basis.</span><br /><br />What does all this have to do with me?<br /><br />Life took an unexpected turn for me. A turn toward a younger more innocent time. Towards happier days of long ago. And because it did, the life I have now became more pleasant. I walk around with a smile on my lips nearly all the time, and my head full of conversation, jokes, and wit. To share so much with someone is stimulating. Enticing. Euphoric. Addicting.<br /><br />Apparently, if the above studies are to be believed, this connection has triggered my dopamine levels. I realized I haven't felt like this in a very long time. To someone for just a little while, I am interesting, funny, smart, and amazing. It's been a long time since I felt anyone gave a damn about me that way. It is eye opening. It makes your heart beat faster, your step lighter. It's like I put glasses on. Not rose colored ones, but big magnifying ones so that I can see all the nuances of the life I'm living. How stifled I am. How psychologically harmful this life has been. I don't have a 5:1 ratio in my relationship. Mine would probably be the opposite. Five negative to one positive. No wonder I spend so much time apologizing.<br /><br />A door has opened and on the other side is a secret garden. I can see through a little crack into the life that might have been. And the life that might yet be if I let myself move on. I don't know yet if I can open it all the way. Don't know if I have the strength to break the bonds that bind me to this side. I'm so afraid. I've lived like this for so long it seems normal. That world out there is very foreign and frightening. There is safety in the shelter of continuity and repetition. Comfort in the arms of the everyday. It too is a very strong drug.<br /><br />But from this new self-discovery, I've learned other things too. That I could bloom again in the right environment. That there is sun in freedom. Fresh air if I open the window, and how wonderful it feels!<br /><br />My life is a journey. My journey. A series of lessons on humanity. The good, the bad and the ugly. Kind of like a choose your own adventure book. You pack your backpack and pick a road. As obstacles and opportunities arise you make choices. A shortcut. Down a cliff or over a mountain? Proceed with caution or leap without looking. You must live with the consequences. All of them. And there will be fallout, that's a given. And there will be guilt, loads of guilt. Never look back with regret but learn from your mistakes. Put the bad choices behind you, and don't carry the guilt. It's far too heavy. Let it go. Take only the <span style="font-weight: bold;">love</span>.<br /><br />I think of God as my traveling companion. He gives no opinions, doesn't lesson the fear, prevent the sorrow or carry a map. But, he does hang on to the rope! Recently, he and I had a conversation about my life choices.<br /><br />I thanked God for connecting to my past again. That if tomorrow it disappeared back into the mists of time, that for a while I had laughed out loud again with joy. My loneliness had been eased. That I felt like that 18 year old girl again, when life was brand new and fresh with no mistakes in it. I told my parents I loved and missed them. That I hoped I wasn't a disappointment. That I was trying hard to be strong but it was hard. The road I was walking on was terrible rocky at the moment, and causing me much pain. Why Mike? Why this life? I wasn't angry, just sad and confused. I felt cheated. I had a bad case of the "what ifs". I was missing my father's counsel, comfort and wisdom.<br /><br />In the early morning hours my father came. I have not seen him smile like that in such a very long time. He gave me his whole body to lean on. I woke crying with his arms around me and one of his very large hands cradling my head as if I were a little girl again. He said that I should remember that I had Elisabeth and Sarah. They were the reason it was Mike. They needed to be exactly what and who they were right now. It's enough. For now.<br /><br />My journey has placed me in a precarious position. My life ship is lost at sea. I can see the shore but I am unsure of how to reach it. Do I stay the course? Or do I chart a new one?<br /><br />-Tigerlily<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ4g89sHayNwroluJ5z07OXT6Pq8TW8kj7_GcXyOi_tiFEwiIVEpZ_x_tvsEeoAbRH69BePyVF98UdPMWW-55h8DD_4ONQRLwl2vRgCqahRuVbj74kqGliAKp93wCnVS-1_mNdnA/s1600-h/CD050_pp.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 398px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ4g89sHayNwroluJ5z07OXT6Pq8TW8kj7_GcXyOi_tiFEwiIVEpZ_x_tvsEeoAbRH69BePyVF98UdPMWW-55h8DD_4ONQRLwl2vRgCqahRuVbj74kqGliAKp93wCnVS-1_mNdnA/s400/CD050_pp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438531859845147650" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"Looking for a Mate. </span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Sail with me through life my dear, </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Hope shall guide and love shall steer," </span></div></div></span></div><br /></div>Tigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-92003929042350571632009-12-20T10:55:00.000-08:002009-12-22T14:10:51.560-08:00Christmas with Bing and Rosemary<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-2X7CbwPt2Em__UH0hH1c5qiG55jDLX8SKLU0HoG5bugypkHgQmTsZQarCZS_cfl7hAnarC2Y07-TDuVA0CJLHEhOanUykYokgfZfGlRWjaK8EN2VFXOHZiezNUkEtPV8vk2Jog/s1600-h/51335135.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 384px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-2X7CbwPt2Em__UH0hH1c5qiG55jDLX8SKLU0HoG5bugypkHgQmTsZQarCZS_cfl7hAnarC2Y07-TDuVA0CJLHEhOanUykYokgfZfGlRWjaK8EN2VFXOHZiezNUkEtPV8vk2Jog/s400/51335135.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418135065070112002" border="0" /></a><br />This year my Christmas season has had very little spirit. I've always loved the holiday, and considered it my favorite. I love Nativity scenes and baking cookies. I love advent calendars. I love to wrap packages and decorate the tree. But I don't love the family drama. My kids keep telling me that everyone has dysfunction, but it is very hard to believe that when it feels like you're on the outside looking in. Everywhere there are families shopping together, getting on airplanes, piling into cars. Everyone at the grocery store is buying the makings for goodies and planning meals with family. Everyone is on a cell phone making plans. Everyone seems conspiratorial and full of giggling secrets. The radio is filled with touching Christmas miracle stories and people calling in with their holiday traditions.<br /><br />I sit at home and watch Christmas movies about perfect holidays, love, and laughter and wonder what is that like? I don't remember. These days I identify more with Riggs than Murtaugh in Lethal Weapon. My attitude is more like Bud White in L.A. Confidential, and my heart feels more like Sandra Bullock in While You Were Sleeping. My life has more in common with a sound stage full of fake buildings covered in soap flake snow than it does with all the people swept into the arms of loved ones in Love Actually.<br /><br />It easier to watch Danny Kaye dance along a boardwalk beneath a false Florida sunset, or Bing Crosby sing White Christmas amidst the cardboard buildings on an imaginary war front in Europe than it is to deal with the mine field that is my life. I want to twirl around in a frothy dress and imagine that the best things really do happen when your dancing, or sing about love gone wrong on a supper club stage dressed in a black dress that outlines my curves. Everything always works out. Everyone finds their true love and the future is rosie with perfection as the camera pulls back and we leave our substitute family. The darkness closes in until all that is left is that paned window aglow with firelight and we get a final glimpse of the lovers embracing, dancing, opening gifts, or walking hand in hand up the stairs and out of sight. Its the Christmas movie equivalent of cowboys riding off into the sunset.<br /><br />But for those detractors who tell me that I spend too much time living a life of fantasy. (I say if it wasn't for fantasy I wouldn't be able to survive my real life), I counter with the statement that films really can answer the big questions, solve problems and give comfort. If The Godfather is the Iching, the answer to any question (at least for men), then maybe Bing Crosby is the Iching of Christmas. He provides me with the warmth of childhood memories and the fatherly advice that I am so longing for as his voice soothes Rosemary Clooney in White Christmas.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"> <b><span style="color:#ff0000;">When I'm worried and I can't sleep<br />I count my blessings instead of sheep<br />And I fall asleep counting my blessings<br />When my bankroll is getting small<br />I think of when I had none at all<br />And I fall asleep counting my blessings</span></b> </p><p style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"> <b><span style="color:#ff0000;">I think about a nursery and I picture curly heads<br />And one by one I count them as they slumber in their beds<br />If you're worried and you can't sleep<br />Just count your blessings instead of sheep<br />And you'll fall asleep counting your blessings</span></b> </p><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"> <b><span style="color:#ff0000;">I think about a nursery and I picture curly heads</span></b><br /><b><span style="color:#ff0000;"> And one by one I count them as they slumber in their beds</span></b><br /><b><span style="color:#ff0000;"> If you're worried and you can't sleep</span></b><br /><b><span style="color:#ff0000;"> Just count your blessings instead of sheep</span></b><br /><b><span style="color:#ff0000;"> And you'll fall asleep counting your blessings</span></b><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div>If your feeling alone this Christmas, or dragged down by financial worries, marital strife, troubled children or grief. If its taking every bit of your strength just to get out of bed in the morning. If your feeling more like you've been scrooged than blessed. Go watch Emmit Otters Jugband Christmas or Little Women. Go visit Father O'Malley in the Bells of St Mary, or Going My Way. Go spend Christmas with Bing and Rosemary.<br /><br />-TigerlilyTigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-45800091918683551382009-12-03T09:26:00.001-08:002009-12-03T11:41:57.557-08:00Lost in the in-between<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijDCTLC1gHqHcDOSPkvuDU6mAKm9GRRqDIxH4gGlRVscjAaAgQJlA7fVR5jmbHcyGt-wXSbBVHEgKKnfvRirQa6kKqazNsNrUKNpYNaIxSVzW_XHlZm_wWoxaDA9X6I2qSXG8UHw/s1600-h/north-pole-moon2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijDCTLC1gHqHcDOSPkvuDU6mAKm9GRRqDIxH4gGlRVscjAaAgQJlA7fVR5jmbHcyGt-wXSbBVHEgKKnfvRirQa6kKqazNsNrUKNpYNaIxSVzW_XHlZm_wWoxaDA9X6I2qSXG8UHw/s400/north-pole-moon2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411073422420244402" border="0" /></a><br />Early December and the temperatures have dropped below zero. The cold is coming in, creeping on soft cat feet across the floor and under my nightgown. I can feel the icy folds of it laying about my shoulders. Its too early for such cold as this. Only 22 more sleeps till Christmas and I haven't even pulled out the tree.<br /><br />I have entered a phase of deep ambivalence in my life. The world is going on around me and I'm floating somewhere over a vast sky of stars trying not to be afraid, trying not to worry. Trying to relax, let life move on and take me with it where it will. Like the ebb and flow of the tides, I am at the mercy of the moon.<br /><br />What is this place?<br />I wake up, I go through the motions of the day. I feed the dogs, I cook the meals, I do the laundry. I knit. I pray. I wish fervently that my mother were here. I kick myself for not listening more, not asking more questions. Not preparing myself for a life without her, when I would be the aging woman. We've traded places she and I. I look in the mirror and I hate the face there. The lines that pull my mouth down to an ugly line. What does Mike call me? Hang dog? The frown wrinkles deeply embedded between my brows. I look down and see my mother's hands, the hands of a middle aged woman and I weep.<br /><br />What if I remain in this in-between like the poor girl in The Lovely Bones, unable to move on, unable to let go. What if I wake like Rip Van Winkle, ten or fifteen or twenty years in the future and I have no idea how I got there or what happened in those intervening years?<br /><br />Where did I go?<br />I buy cookbooks in an attempt to inspire me to cook. Fabric to inspire me to sew. Books and magazines to inspire me to read, travel, craft. I tear out pictures, recipes, patterns. Bags of wool sit waiting to be spun. Sick of looking at the wheel I have moved it out of sight. Nothing works. Only the knitting is still there and even it has slowed to a snail's pace. It is my anchor to the earth, that line of wool as I float here uncaring, just moving my hands.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;">Mrs Moon<br />sitting up in the sky<br />little old lady<br />rock-a-bye<br />with a ball of fading light<br />and silvery needles<br />knitting the night<br /></div> <div face="georgia" style="text-align: center; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> <br /> <span style="font-weight: normal;"> -Roger McGough</span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxmRLdAkDpW03e0ApRyjho7XBKAauFhKA1D_cP3uwBllPZcog6lMoPGzzr2oPvTV2KTYUG_h35mGPeEEU_cNVVjoZY2Mxk8KbJYeFsrYH2sIkv9FleM6mV2cKVPSXmTiBOd3M_A/s1600-h/full_moon_2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxmRLdAkDpW03e0ApRyjho7XBKAauFhKA1D_cP3uwBllPZcog6lMoPGzzr2oPvTV2KTYUG_h35mGPeEEU_cNVVjoZY2Mxk8KbJYeFsrYH2sIkv9FleM6mV2cKVPSXmTiBOd3M_A/s400/full_moon_2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411097028199763586" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">*Roger McGough is a well known English performance poet, born in Litherland in the north of Liverpool. Much travelled and translated, his poetry has gained increasing popularity, especially from its widespread use in schools. A prolific writer, he is twice winner of the Signal Award for best children's poetry book and recipient of the Cholmondeley Award. McGough is an Honorary Fellow of Liverpool John Moores University and an Honorary Professor at Thames Valley University. He has an MA from the University of Northampton. </span>Tigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-70317569710170973432009-09-01T11:16:00.001-07:002009-09-01T11:18:23.903-07:00Time left yet to play<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiizFv8WPU9D6iCntDOzkmUQpVoovE4giwgIuus5FNmU0GS79GSixAUGpUSzUMw7jPl35jpiFFm8qSupJIuOPuEjpxcrVz8EeaYz4KhZNcACbxAZPxXl6f6BeO-QhdNQ77yH6cmfw/s1600-h/autumn_reds.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiizFv8WPU9D6iCntDOzkmUQpVoovE4giwgIuus5FNmU0GS79GSixAUGpUSzUMw7jPl35jpiFFm8qSupJIuOPuEjpxcrVz8EeaYz4KhZNcACbxAZPxXl6f6BeO-QhdNQ77yH6cmfw/s400/autumn_reds.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376564903651802178" border="0" /></a><br />Summer is fleeing without really having stopped here in Colorado long. She seems to have had other things on her mind this year, like me. She's on the run now, Autumn chasing her across the days. The prairie grass heads have turned brown and crisp like ripened wheat. The wild roses have lost their blooms. The thistles have finished and been replaced with black-eyed Susan's. Autumn is waiting just over my shoulder. I can smell her in the crispness of the nightly breeze and see her in the red tipped leaves of my maple tree. The morning sun is slower to make an appearance and lost a great deal of strength. Darkness is coming on quicker of an evening and I have already found myself slipping to the closet in search of another blanket at night.<br /><br />It is frightening to see a season pass so quickly and not know how you spent it. It feels as though I just flipped the calendar page to June and here it is the first of September. It made me heartsick to pack up summer. The shell boxes, the trays of scallop shells, the bits of things I tuck here and there to make it feel like a summer cottage. I realized I hadn't seen a body of water all summer, not an ocean not even a pool. And yet, as I tucked the treasures away to wait out another winter, I was beginning to get used to the idea of autumn. Summer fades slowly to let you get accustomed to the idea of her leaving. You find yourself reaching for a sweater without thinking, or sorting through recipes with soup in mind. Summer is slow and seductive as she changes her green for gold. She tantalizes you with peaches, then pears. Apples and then pumpkins. And by the time that first drizzling autumn day arrives you're ready to greet winter with knitting and books. The urge to run away in the sun is gone, or at least curtailed for the time being.<br /><br />Since money was tight and I couldn't have a real getaway, I had to get away the best way I could, escaping into films and books. In fact, this is the closest summer I've had to the ones of my childhood, when I lugged home great bags of books for the summer reading program.<br /><br />I just couldn't wait to see the film Julie and Julia. Had to see it opening weekend. I'd read Julie Powell's book. I'd watched Julia Child for years on PBS. I love to cook. Besides, my name is Julie, how could I not want to read the book or see the movie? I walked out of the theater hungry. I walked out wishing I could see more Julia Child, or I guess Meryll Streep as Julia Child. I walked out wishing I'd read Julia Child's memoirs because the whole love story between her and her husband Paul was just wonderful.<br /><br />So, I took myself off for a trip to France with Julia's memoir. Suddenly I found myself yearning to visit a country I'd had no interest in before. Even if I couldn't pronounce all the French, the food sounded wonderful, and Provence was now as appealing to me as Tuscany has always been. I'm feeling very <span style="font-style: italic;">Julia Childish</span>, and inspired to spend long periods of time in the kitchen. Beth came home from a set visit with a recipe for grilled brie & pear sandwiches with carmalized onions in basalmic vinegar on walnut bread. I canned peaches and remembered the summers of canning with my mother. I feel like clutching my new bread book, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=16988177&postID=1805363236390403574">The Bread Baker's Apprentice </a>to my chest just like the girl on the cover.<br /><br />I spent time with The Ugly Truth and time on the Moon and wondered if I would ever see a time with a real District 9? I bought a wand at the Renaissace Fair and wished J.K. Rowling would write a book of spells after seeing Harry Potter six. And I rediscovered my love of vampires with True Blood and Sookie Stackhouse. I spent a lot of time this summer somewhere else. With other people in other places in other worlds.<br /><br />And how many times have I longed for the ability to time travel? To fix things or change things or just spend more time appreciating those times I had taken for granted? I even tried to revisit my childhood home, but that visit just proved you really can't go back. My afternoon in the dark with the Time Traveler's Wife had me rethinking that while sobbing into my purse. The book is allowing me even more time to travel or travel through time...<br /><br />Tears have been a big part of my summer. Tears of anger. Tears of hurt. Tears of reminiscence. Tears of revolt. There's been no lack of water around here this summer. The hills around me are uncharacteristically green. I easily imagine myself away to almost anywhere and often have.<br /><br />But now Autumn is calling me. Plying me with apples and sweaters. Whispering in my ear to come and play. Enticing me with a new box of crayons. For a while she, Summer and I will walk hand in hand, for there is time yet to play. We'll call to each other across the yards of our houses, playing hide and seek in the fading light.<br /><br />-TigerlilyTigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-41007977406143673952009-06-11T11:00:00.000-07:002009-06-17T09:11:47.969-07:00Saltwater Heals<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpM656uMHbe9BwwbJlf0QReETQkqpZGw5v8S3IbwVexsEyW1SIFNkqjpsmAn_28aRPRFIVEan7jA3kv4nymtOcRyvfbvqP1rh226bmSwOVoEzhV0MZ7bJt4Xbeie5Ld7t7XqjwVQ/s1600-h/39032842.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 318px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpM656uMHbe9BwwbJlf0QReETQkqpZGw5v8S3IbwVexsEyW1SIFNkqjpsmAn_28aRPRFIVEan7jA3kv4nymtOcRyvfbvqP1rh226bmSwOVoEzhV0MZ7bJt4Xbeie5Ld7t7XqjwVQ/s400/39032842.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346137174239939058" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Saltwater heals, healing referring to its various forms; tears, cleanses and heals the soul; sweat, cleanses through labor; the ocean, heals in all its forms. " </span><em style="font-weight: bold;"></em> <em style="font-weight: bold;">~Rabindranath Tagore</em><br /><br />Yeah, I know, I seem to have dropped off the planet. I haven't forgotten I have a blog, in fact it has been nagging at me for a while now. Having spent the last several months sick and not feeling interested in much of anything, I've been rather lacking in post material. In desperation I posted twice about Sheldon the knitted turtle. I know there are people who blog every day about any old thing and they are often quite brilliant. I can't seem to do that. Either I'm just too Martha Stewart in my need for a theme and appropriate photos or its my lack of brilliance and clever reparte'. (I think its the latter) In any case I've set myself a high standard with cleverness and photos and sometimes its just too exhausting to contemplate.<br /><br />Perhaps if I had a huge readership like <a href="http://www.yarnharlot.ca/blog/">Yarn Harlot</a> , <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/">Smitten Kitchen</a>, or <a href="http://knitspot.com/">KnitSpot</a>, where fans wait breathlessly to hear from me, I might feel more motivated. The weather hasn't helped much. It is officially June and Colorado still hasn't quite said goodbye to winter yet. Very cold, damp, wet spring. All of this has me with no energy or desire for anything but sleep. I have no lungs left to cough up. This nasty bronchial bug came right on the heels of several months of intestinal trouble that at long last has a name: Ulcerative colitis. Now I'm researching ways to relieve or reverse it. During the chest x-ray to see if I had pneumonia, the radiologist said my heart shadow didn't look right. Now I've got to have an echocardiogram. I'm due for a visit to the Denver Arthritis Clinic and my mammogram, but more parts of me keep falling apart. I try not to let real life get too much of a grip on my blog life but sometimes it can't be helped. That which doesn't kill us makes us stronger, right?<br /><br />I'm still knitting of course, just slowed up a bit in order to fit in time for spinning and sewing (and coughing and running to the bathroom). I've finished nearly 2 pair of socks and 1/2 of a shawl. And of course there was all that work on Sheldon...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3nvURQBVaBWfMyQWR6UdkuL9XAS2OF4uMFY-DKO6Neaq3KL2DWkmoOHHrtOUu8FrxA1nzjED8q0s4n1aLz5J4XP4rn_IZDI1Sgtn4NrPW2Y5Kp0mkD3whrTiiF4fPYvIUdNrEyQ/s1600-h/hedgerow+sock.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 307px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3nvURQBVaBWfMyQWR6UdkuL9XAS2OF4uMFY-DKO6Neaq3KL2DWkmoOHHrtOUu8FrxA1nzjED8q0s4n1aLz5J4XP4rn_IZDI1Sgtn4NrPW2Y5Kp0mkD3whrTiiF4fPYvIUdNrEyQ/s400/hedgerow+sock.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338313717546138210" border="0" /></a><br />Here's the Hedgerow socks, one on and one off. I used a skien of OnLine super sock cotton in a green blend from my stash and they came out really nice. The pattern is fun and easy and I think the striping made lovely hedgerows in colors from winter to spring. The socks fit great and this is the most comfy sock yarn ever. I try to keep one pair of socks on the needles all the time. Either a plain or a patterned one and my sock drawer is full to bursting. Guess I'll be gifting socks next, I just hope everyone wears my size. I just finished <a href="http://knitspot.com/"> Anne's</a> Tidelines socks. The yarn cost me a small fortune, but the colors really do look like the colors of the sea and foam as it washes upon the sand creating tidelines.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj03yMEQ5V0VGEfmB86gHzGMHRtRoqjBwsk4BrxAfhHeY-C62K98vwgvnMp9iU16ZsK3NLY8HLgm-xHHF7ieCX42urXqfDR9GDI0XccYRJ5OymCf5ZJuLKHD7tPRHy4_5gsJTeGeA/s1600-h/tidelines+sock.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 390px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj03yMEQ5V0VGEfmB86gHzGMHRtRoqjBwsk4BrxAfhHeY-C62K98vwgvnMp9iU16ZsK3NLY8HLgm-xHHF7ieCX42urXqfDR9GDI0XccYRJ5OymCf5ZJuLKHD7tPRHy4_5gsJTeGeA/s400/tidelines+sock.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348328140670277970" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Tidelines Socks</span><br /></div><br /><br />And speaking of the sea, I'm working my way through a scarf book that is completely themed around the ocean. I finished the first scarf, the Adriatic Sea.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiVleyJ3DKGqZC7pBiMX2vOupu7_VcqFHYj5d8IDwVOb7bdk4oCeM-F6Y1mcOLA2O0z0aLRGmXlyE7QpVvCloIBOaWze5SmsovNc_da35X8_zxncnd01H_dl65uihgAHmLLQo3PQ/s1600-h/adriatic+scarf.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiVleyJ3DKGqZC7pBiMX2vOupu7_VcqFHYj5d8IDwVOb7bdk4oCeM-F6Y1mcOLA2O0z0aLRGmXlyE7QpVvCloIBOaWze5SmsovNc_da35X8_zxncnd01H_dl65uihgAHmLLQo3PQ/s400/adriatic+scarf.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344993559091093010" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Hated the yarn, actually a ribbon called Zen by Berroco. That ribbon made this project painful. Slippery, snaggy and the finished scarf is a bit too scratchy and bouncy to be comfortable. Sure looks pretty though...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2YF10DY1fP8VY6D70wtkJvLHH5bU47wa8l7nDyfw7uijSsfxcp1M-v9Sb-2mHmzaOnzyHJz9M3fubcyYyuNrMJ1shhRwlJ8b6eqqG5hKolejC-VZT39jOa-ZI1cFC06WoMQXkug/s1600-h/adriatic+scarf+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 315px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2YF10DY1fP8VY6D70wtkJvLHH5bU47wa8l7nDyfw7uijSsfxcp1M-v9Sb-2mHmzaOnzyHJz9M3fubcyYyuNrMJ1shhRwlJ8b6eqqG5hKolejC-VZT39jOa-ZI1cFC06WoMQXkug/s400/adriatic+scarf+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348328816234357858" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Adriatic Sea Scarf</span><br /></div><br />The Cluranach shawl is 1/2 finished. You can see how long it is, and that's without blocking. There will be plenty of this to wrap around my bulk and keep me very warm. The yarn is kitten soft and the variations in the shades of purple are beautiful.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9OQc8ZCRCaT3qvVvOZ-gqZvk7gaDsR7GHhbxJigfs_yQkzSHbzB_wmzy3FNB3kTPPx7O3QcT1_9N5Sy75iqrCSoErUBpMZ7w0F7efIyY1wYkrrWKMP4DSxS-R36YjPd6GFOng_g/s1600-h/thistle+shawl.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9OQc8ZCRCaT3qvVvOZ-gqZvk7gaDsR7GHhbxJigfs_yQkzSHbzB_wmzy3FNB3kTPPx7O3QcT1_9N5Sy75iqrCSoErUBpMZ7w0F7efIyY1wYkrrWKMP4DSxS-R36YjPd6GFOng_g/s400/thistle+shawl.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344993874317712866" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Cluranach Shawl (Thistle Shawl)</span><br /></div><br />It is hard to see the subtle shade variations in the photos. In fact this shawl is very hard to photograph in general. No matter how I drape it or light it the photos just come out terrible. This is the best yet, the thistle design is actually visible<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_u900dXTyKSsniTcFoPRnaRlcyT8DhO2NeRizFBxxg2yF7Vip0wk04jEXgB-BKRnjEdaoY1wou7hElfmVubmqEF1ZUh8Crrv6yo-USC63wxEq3EDcCFEp3TAWGUwuXSwNZq_4Q/s1600-h/Thistle+Shawl2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_u900dXTyKSsniTcFoPRnaRlcyT8DhO2NeRizFBxxg2yF7Vip0wk04jEXgB-BKRnjEdaoY1wou7hElfmVubmqEF1ZUh8Crrv6yo-USC63wxEq3EDcCFEp3TAWGUwuXSwNZq_4Q/s400/Thistle+Shawl2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338314613262504562" border="0" /></a><br />I finished spinning my very first yarn! Yep. Spun the singles into a 2 ply. Washed and tied it up into skiens and gifted the yarn to Sarah for her knitting. I think it would make fantastic scarves or some fingerless gloves. Its a bit thicker than I'd imagined and bit lumpy but nice. Really nice. The Romney wool is incredibly soft, not a prickle in it. You could wear a sweater of this next to your skin and it would be lovely. I'm so proud of it. I'm working on my second batch of Romney, a lighter gray and spinning it much thinner.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKoHQk2f_Q-58qOJcqijmXl0p0dAQzClsoM9ohLncfAOBsYQ64JpoINiHSa0qrXKg-A70vyqE2wL9E8TAmHEXy8OFndfesOtodl0anL0LlitjDp-JHg8T2HIwiWPeXnrb5OL-HDw/s1600-h/Romney+Wool.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKoHQk2f_Q-58qOJcqijmXl0p0dAQzClsoM9ohLncfAOBsYQ64JpoINiHSa0qrXKg-A70vyqE2wL9E8TAmHEXy8OFndfesOtodl0anL0LlitjDp-JHg8T2HIwiWPeXnrb5OL-HDw/s400/Romney+Wool.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338313477932680130" border="0" /></a><br />I also made a huge investment in 30 ounces of Cormo cross wool from Kate at<a href="http://knaackflock.com/"> Knaackwool</a>. I fell in love with a sweater in Spin Off magazine called The Cloisters. And, in my usual obsessive way I became determined to knit it in the same wool as the model or as close as I could get. I sent out several inquiring emails and Kate answered back right away. Her wool had just come back from processing and she had some that was nearly identical to the original.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzh6eps-8XxbM8ZCJvTWv3myHOLqvQ8_yaFIDGhoFiTz2HPv0Nbet8dUl2DE7_MvOEMXjhQ7kN2FDJk7WQyBRVCPc50MVTY3_px9RQyEpRy7qpiEdqrf_Sp0ForpMyx49qEP1gdw/s1600-h/Cloisters.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzh6eps-8XxbM8ZCJvTWv3myHOLqvQ8_yaFIDGhoFiTz2HPv0Nbet8dUl2DE7_MvOEMXjhQ7kN2FDJk7WQyBRVCPc50MVTY3_px9RQyEpRy7qpiEdqrf_Sp0ForpMyx49qEP1gdw/s400/Cloisters.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346132530617899474" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOUDUSAV7faDcGVar1wyw4ZP5jvw_KsevWIdVZ8gyUfKcB9XopWvlvdkIJteeNT9qDJd30iaISbNfGVAIxfVV6iwZQZOEmPrN0Lv2F79gAE4oV4TjJom7FjSfO3JCLgDCjoH-L-Q/s1600-h/Cormo+wool.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOUDUSAV7faDcGVar1wyw4ZP5jvw_KsevWIdVZ8gyUfKcB9XopWvlvdkIJteeNT9qDJd30iaISbNfGVAIxfVV6iwZQZOEmPrN0Lv2F79gAE4oV4TjJom7FjSfO3JCLgDCjoH-L-Q/s400/Cormo+wool.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346132118732072770" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The balls of roving arrived last week along with a sample of the original yarn from Sarah Swett. I'll take that as a sign that it was meant to be. I've also made a new friend in Kate. We exchange emails every few days.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Now if I can just spin something remotely similar. Then I'll have to dye it and then I'll have to knit it... Gee, no pressure or anything. Actually it doesn't feel all that overwhelming, it just feels exciting and fun. Something for me to sink myself hip deep into. I have hours of relaxing zen/healing time ahead of me.<br /><br /><br /><br />Beth is busy with work. She was in New Orleans for 3 days for a visit to the set of Jonah Hex. She's the first friend or family member to visit the city since hurricane Katrina, so it was great to get the perspective of someone familiar with what the city had been like previously, and how she was now. Much of that special aura is gone, lost with the buildings that washed away. Still miles and miles of devastation. The new is too new and too fresh, in between are great holes where things are missing. Even parts of the French Quarter are propped up with scaffolds. Where the low income housing sat just outside New Orleans Cemetary #1, there lies a brand spanking new trailer park looking completely out of place. The city is quiet and many shops closed. Still, the city is warm with welcome and the people friendly and eager to chat. The food is still the best on the planet and Beth had her first fried green tomatoes. She had her tarot cards read (with interesting and creepy results) and visited Cafe Dumond each day for cafe au lait and beniets.<br /><br />Sarah should soon have employment at her first salon. A whole new part of her life is about to begin. I suspect total independence won't be far behind and I will miss her very much. I've had an extra long time with my girls at home and I have to not think of myself as losing her but glory in her freedom and be thankful I had a full nest for so long.<br /><br />Time to rest and sleep, maybe dream of a visit to the ocean where I could let the saltwater wash over and through me and heal me inside and out.<br /><br />-TigerlilyTigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-19774230894300368062009-05-18T10:15:00.000-07:002009-05-21T08:48:27.948-07:00The Man With No Name<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgm3jaSzhrHDPPO0rKgmj_qPgZUKbp5l2LEHpeBqDSsZknNaKb_YDq9Ek_qN3FWdv6KHWTAqinWmTRIekOG5xxsT2rY9zmUgqI8_sl5T6ZsZdzBmQXDxoVuHM4m2wifMGicZGxsA/s1600-h/FewDollarsMore_Rep.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 278px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgm3jaSzhrHDPPO0rKgmj_qPgZUKbp5l2LEHpeBqDSsZknNaKb_YDq9Ek_qN3FWdv6KHWTAqinWmTRIekOG5xxsT2rY9zmUgqI8_sl5T6ZsZdzBmQXDxoVuHM4m2wifMGicZGxsA/s400/FewDollarsMore_Rep.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337216473960339938" border="0" /></a>I promised that the Man with No Name would be making an appearance shortly, so here he is: Sheldon the Turtle as Clint Eastwood, complete with Serape' shell. I don't know if the little guy is sneaking down to the kitchen to raid the produce drawer or what, but it seems like his shells just keep getting tighter and tighter. It was painful to have to pull him out of his original and squash him into the new one.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidy33Qu_3zetommIq4fHz-toYCAVcljTYnF7G8HXxX2LVdAVfcBl4RGaPD-2rECs_xMB8LrZZfO1VGd3EU5cj6SYdcbI-EGoknIxxyyYycFF_J2-z18OQI-bQoN4IhCQf1Rvi2FA/s1600-h/Sheldon+cowboy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 252px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidy33Qu_3zetommIq4fHz-toYCAVcljTYnF7G8HXxX2LVdAVfcBl4RGaPD-2rECs_xMB8LrZZfO1VGd3EU5cj6SYdcbI-EGoknIxxyyYycFF_J2-z18OQI-bQoN4IhCQf1Rvi2FA/s400/Sheldon+cowboy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337217351442230370" border="0" /></a><br />He is missing some star buttons, one for his belt and two for his hat, but he looked so darn good in his vintage bandanna I just couldn't wait any longer to post his pics. Well, that and I'm so terribly behind on blogging, I felt compelled to put something up...<br /><br />The pattern instructions didn't go quite so well this time. While knitting the shell and underpanel were exactly the same except for the color changes, the directions fell very short in explaining how it all went together. The serape was to have an open shoulder but I don't think I got that part right. There were no photos of the finished outfit or the hat to help me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtDUSGJxrZ8Gv6y8y5kgv0oVl65rVkRPQ6Q3HIX2kpyxbovWPcuYIDqhDaQwX0snsq2YMtHdZvU9bdWr6QhWt5VIyZY4x_PkTRRbJOljNHeT9KT6-WBVZXVOYWfcru6zCDhtmm8w/s1600-h/Sheldon+cowboy2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtDUSGJxrZ8Gv6y8y5kgv0oVl65rVkRPQ6Q3HIX2kpyxbovWPcuYIDqhDaQwX0snsq2YMtHdZvU9bdWr6QhWt5VIyZY4x_PkTRRbJOljNHeT9KT6-WBVZXVOYWfcru6zCDhtmm8w/s400/Sheldon+cowboy2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337218208173522130" border="0" /></a><br />Without photos and mistakes in the written directions, I really had to wing it on the hat. It definitely has its issues (sagging and shaplessness), so we're looking for a doll sized cowboy hat to replace it with. With the hat pulled low over his eyes he starts to look a bit menacing despite the wide grin. We're trying to figure out how to give him a half smoked cigar.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxw-UkFSQBfKI0r9L3zerKHoBPPYMzAFHs1ECIx27egcFh6NiVGxapC11zF3srbbjC7aNrWfWJ9BXxBjhthW-JCpDvSCDi79KA2bVlE9rHfGjCqSA4DvgNRGA_F64wHGlNwllZrQ/s1600-h/Sheldon+cowboy4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 359px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxw-UkFSQBfKI0r9L3zerKHoBPPYMzAFHs1ECIx27egcFh6NiVGxapC11zF3srbbjC7aNrWfWJ9BXxBjhthW-JCpDvSCDi79KA2bVlE9rHfGjCqSA4DvgNRGA_F64wHGlNwllZrQ/s400/Sheldon+cowboy4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338300252407001426" border="0" /></a><br />Here's a shot of his tummy and you have to admit the designer really knows her Clint Eastwood. The little guy's serape even has embroidered designs that resemble Eastwoods in the film (see picture below)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr8KJRm3h9T6QHczWeME7PwoGr2ljTgFdzC9-D31U0lmWk6t9myvSv023oMjsIsnW_koO9GVUmElFuZCR_BEhcFyFd6OK6MEKKe2Ulb_BxGcogM0D2IMnQmSW-oEmqPbvbBlfMQA/s1600-h/goodthebadandtheugly.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr8KJRm3h9T6QHczWeME7PwoGr2ljTgFdzC9-D31U0lmWk6t9myvSv023oMjsIsnW_koO9GVUmElFuZCR_BEhcFyFd6OK6MEKKe2Ulb_BxGcogM0D2IMnQmSW-oEmqPbvbBlfMQA/s400/goodthebadandtheugly.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337218670038196802" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7HhvPopwYXfK3ztP4VMYGLZdePN-h_Xnd-74VgKQ_Vx_WVXtOr_fdVrj2G9O5-qqa6gs5dwxR-3NnscXguzp2HOiQ2CTwPGZMFgJDaT78C0CfRe24y3tM-qpsMPgJ46F9eJaUsQ/s1600-h/257.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7HhvPopwYXfK3ztP4VMYGLZdePN-h_Xnd-74VgKQ_Vx_WVXtOr_fdVrj2G9O5-qqa6gs5dwxR-3NnscXguzp2HOiQ2CTwPGZMFgJDaT78C0CfRe24y3tM-qpsMPgJ46F9eJaUsQ/s400/257.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337219538979931970" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqGaxuntVc2kSWok8sqqKmJ0vsGvxGpc2G_iRIpH2e6Q7q6xe0TjPIp9oVpp6eK62m4X_eJROujaAJX0qc4n3YVmwqODHGuXy4mtnuYfPsnN8gcS_na14Gc5aXuDr0aP0uGTK7pg/s1600-h/Sheldon+cowboy3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 323px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqGaxuntVc2kSWok8sqqKmJ0vsGvxGpc2G_iRIpH2e6Q7q6xe0TjPIp9oVpp6eK62m4X_eJROujaAJX0qc4n3YVmwqODHGuXy4mtnuYfPsnN8gcS_na14Gc5aXuDr0aP0uGTK7pg/s400/Sheldon+cowboy3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337219901849771362" border="0" /></a><br />One final pose for the camera, the obligatory butt shot. I don't think he needs a body double at all. Next: Sheldon as a super hero. -TigerlilyTigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-55234598369706495402009-03-27T10:07:00.000-07:002009-03-31T09:38:50.460-07:00Anatomy of a Turtle<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj1928jpRSjxwB7o_slQDHZ4WcIcpRrIbiB0PdUYdrFxHW4jU_tbZgPmRWhwZids6NZi6Rwx_Oo9WlBRURrRQacw5YUANAl9VOtpwO3YjAPLR5W9X3vuF7NBtDmcGEaP8K_KLm7Q/s1600-h/Crush640x480.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj1928jpRSjxwB7o_slQDHZ4WcIcpRrIbiB0PdUYdrFxHW4jU_tbZgPmRWhwZids6NZi6Rwx_Oo9WlBRURrRQacw5YUANAl9VOtpwO3YjAPLR5W9X3vuF7NBtDmcGEaP8K_KLm7Q/s400/Crush640x480.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319379076248062770" border="0" /></a><br />News for updating my blog has been scarce. Seems like life has been very full and I'm exhausted by days end and yet full of what exactly? Life and it's accompanying 3 ring circus. This little guy named Sheldon has been coming off the needles in bits and pieces and I thought it might be cute to share his creation story with you. Elisabeth has a thing for turtles. She has turtles of every shape and size, including a bride and groom turtle she is hopes to use as a cake topper some day. Her favorite Pixar movie is Finding Nemo and her favorite part of the movie is the sea turtles. We've owned a couple turtles, Samson who was a runaway we found in our yard, and dear Horatio Hornblower the Sulcata, who ate my sunroom carpet and knocked over the furniture.<br /><br />I found Sheldon on KnitPicks.com and bought the kit for Beth for Christmas. If you can't have the real thing a stuffed one is almost as good. Besides this Sheldon comes with outfits. Cowboy, Super Hero, Pirate... You'll have to wait for those but for now:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">PART I:</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> Sheldon is born.</span><br /><br />The instructions for Sheldon are painstakingly detailed and while tedious, Sheldon is far from difficult. However, he is worked in the round from a very tiny beginning circle that proved a bit much for Beth and she threw him at me. Literally. So in between socks and shawls I worked on Sheldon. It took a bit to get him going and then I sailed along. First to take shape was his body, a funny legless balloon shaped thing. Stuff and add black button eyes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM3DnqaHOGdAlclIu01u66g4Ewux8WcHSgBOeqHabO4ricQ3HdojjCQVgPeDdChdgUZQx37INzXpbkmffkUzP3NAlL8Z7BEI93OSppyfNSnu2dYRU3JdEymD8SwV0Ybo68wzm0wA/s1600-h/Sheldon1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM3DnqaHOGdAlclIu01u66g4Ewux8WcHSgBOeqHabO4ricQ3HdojjCQVgPeDdChdgUZQx37INzXpbkmffkUzP3NAlL8Z7BEI93OSppyfNSnu2dYRU3JdEymD8SwV0Ybo68wzm0wA/s400/Sheldon1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319383353371330834" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Part II: <span style="font-style: italic;">How a turtle grows a shell</span></span><br /><br />The shell is composed of three parts, just like a real turtle. Topside, bottom side and the very bottom, which is essentially a little cup with 4 leg holes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_LymNNLEJ0iJJuW8TOvbDldxe0VKFaKJoe86Q9uhNzLGJwTAqDTFMtw0FTgsT-8a_Q-RdgGUNDqZ3Ng0s25MQdCsl-SK_SNKGATedC_aw29almz1btnKSUgPxCPLL-EKzw5iOGw/s1600-h/Sheldon2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_LymNNLEJ0iJJuW8TOvbDldxe0VKFaKJoe86Q9uhNzLGJwTAqDTFMtw0FTgsT-8a_Q-RdgGUNDqZ3Ng0s25MQdCsl-SK_SNKGATedC_aw29almz1btnKSUgPxCPLL-EKzw5iOGw/s400/Sheldon2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319385061145139474" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Part III: <span style="font-style: italic;">A Shell is sealed</span></span><br /><br />This was the most difficult part of all and one I get to do several more times for each subsequent future shell change. Doing an I-cord all the way around the shell, fastening the parts together as I went and creating that rolled edge that all turtles have around the edge of the shell. Took 4 tries at this to get it right. I had to take it out once because I failed to leave a hole for Sheldon...UGH.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifU-SlCAxvVl-opFpVmvY51k1dCvcoLJar-MgKLxoltKAhV-OC1jEvylZplmRlgsHyVN7vNdd6poioFhaX906TSlBFiI2w9AcqRUJS8YWVBcPA-Giyr0ah-_qZhR4PXvFll53w5Q/s1600-h/Sheldon5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifU-SlCAxvVl-opFpVmvY51k1dCvcoLJar-MgKLxoltKAhV-OC1jEvylZplmRlgsHyVN7vNdd6poioFhaX906TSlBFiI2w9AcqRUJS8YWVBcPA-Giyr0ah-_qZhR4PXvFll53w5Q/s400/Sheldon5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319387998637465506" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Part IV: <span style="font-style: italic;">What do I do with these? Or A turtle learns to walk</span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxt1na5rQKLNqnzfbcIaUpH8GQladEzM-cec3PNpijb9k2d2g_U8VKd3IQlDIK8cPN9bxzj16uMiKoM82MiAQZ9t8aHJ0lffM14zIJW553g99ZgpOX21A9WdvAvspNk2Ah3XdKrg/s1600-h/Sheldon3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxt1na5rQKLNqnzfbcIaUpH8GQladEzM-cec3PNpijb9k2d2g_U8VKd3IQlDIK8cPN9bxzj16uMiKoM82MiAQZ9t8aHJ0lffM14zIJW553g99ZgpOX21A9WdvAvspNk2Ah3XdKrg/s400/Sheldon3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319388745243795986" border="0" /></a><br />Four little empty sacks remained, Sheldon's legs. Had to stuff them and then figure out where to place them on his body so they would be in the right place for the leg holes in the shell. Sew them on and stuff all of what was Sheldon's squishy insides into that very overstuffed and a bit too tight shell.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKrhDCp2pJ1UqNk-WGc_Bh_sLUovkv_5lqtKY2mZF1Cx4JtUS0-NT5PeDxogxQdhYWfQlhHvLHvpHpj4nbDCk84dTEKyH7PtVuQfGbkFT-TB-7lzPOu7ykTqbp7_AaFdsOfk1gOQ/s1600-h/Sheldon4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKrhDCp2pJ1UqNk-WGc_Bh_sLUovkv_5lqtKY2mZF1Cx4JtUS0-NT5PeDxogxQdhYWfQlhHvLHvpHpj4nbDCk84dTEKyH7PtVuQfGbkFT-TB-7lzPOu7ykTqbp7_AaFdsOfk1gOQ/s400/Sheldon4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319388998726896626" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Part V: <span style="font-style: italic;">Its a Turtle, let's name him Sheldon</span></span><br /><br />Don't you love his smile? I think he's happy to be here.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjed6EWpLoub0S1e60F28X9XKGApkFALhR57esvEHy4AZlmYgi3g8oV1JVWDlrr4RUwyeClkfEmluHdh9anEMO9X1wnPkV4R6dBt4gkewRBenunM2epVSayC2aDXz2PQs465DgV9g/s1600-h/Sheldon6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjed6EWpLoub0S1e60F28X9XKGApkFALhR57esvEHy4AZlmYgi3g8oV1JVWDlrr4RUwyeClkfEmluHdh9anEMO9X1wnPkV4R6dBt4gkewRBenunM2epVSayC2aDXz2PQs465DgV9g/s400/Sheldon6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319389284324802978" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Coming Soon: <span style="font-style: italic;">Sheldon as the Man With No Name</span></span> <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">OR A turtle in a Serape</span>' -TigerlilyTigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-31447268231220903322009-02-21T13:01:00.000-08:002009-02-25T11:39:31.415-08:00Have you any wool?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfVZi-fwzFJNorRwfTvZWi24A6VgAnoyFo0G8y2F8GciNnZcelNK7sap6mWemE8nkapMmSNmzwMNY8UEn9lF4Qys203xp3ONfKsmFant8b-oNj5bpRZ9eI590Fbj7lLiAlWiUbaw/s1600-h/Schacht6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 272px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfVZi-fwzFJNorRwfTvZWi24A6VgAnoyFo0G8y2F8GciNnZcelNK7sap6mWemE8nkapMmSNmzwMNY8UEn9lF4Qys203xp3ONfKsmFant8b-oNj5bpRZ9eI590Fbj7lLiAlWiUbaw/s400/Schacht6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306817180228759522" border="0" /></a><br /><br />There is a new baby at my house. And before you ask it is NOT another dog. Nor is it a cat, bunny, or even a hermit crab. It is a spinning wheel. I placed an ad for a used wheel on a <a href="http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Spin-Sales/">Yahoo Spinning site</a> and wa la! The Schacht Matchless II. Double treadle. Double Drive.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilgCWF0iW0IWOj4L_5dESy-QsUaP-lKdkLsnNxejyS7g-nEqlWJw0tIhFldF5cyvc10gFCPMQn5c4CVanjMmIjpeob0IK-sTAqKWfur8G4XlNOYii30pgFsdXyrumih7OJ9OL3iQ/s1600-h/schacht1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 248px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilgCWF0iW0IWOj4L_5dESy-QsUaP-lKdkLsnNxejyS7g-nEqlWJw0tIhFldF5cyvc10gFCPMQn5c4CVanjMmIjpeob0IK-sTAqKWfur8G4XlNOYii30pgFsdXyrumih7OJ9OL3iQ/s400/schacht1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306806204752724786" border="0" /></a><br /></div>The woman who sold her to me treated her with tender loving care and it shows. The wheel is in beautiful condition and oiled to a lovely honey gold. After many hours of spinning for Margarete, the little Schacht is now going to teach me how. And, with the help of a couple of Romney sheep named Eve and Franklin, I've spun my first full bobbin of single ply yarn. The Romney is wonderful to work with and I am enjoying the spinning so much I could sit and do it all day. Well for while anyway, my legs do get tired, rather like riding a bike.<br /><br />I draft. I spin. I read about sheep. Corriedale, Romney, Merino, Blue Faced Leichester, California Variegated Mutant... and of course there are all those other hairy things like angora rabbits, alpacas and llamas. And there are batts, tops, rovings, even entire fleeces!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYtaILGcFYbE4fmTZ_hU3wUSsdLU1I6swyofNLvJY949xlnZPnq2LUvCfWsZ0g1msjWKP6Lt0KwgMqRF01sIz5jYadzu4DsHmNGbkpqWJ42Mxa9MpuuhzLhjrDGwYdHdotrUdMrg/s1600-h/Schacht2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYtaILGcFYbE4fmTZ_hU3wUSsdLU1I6swyofNLvJY949xlnZPnq2LUvCfWsZ0g1msjWKP6Lt0KwgMqRF01sIz5jYadzu4DsHmNGbkpqWJ42Mxa9MpuuhzLhjrDGwYdHdotrUdMrg/s400/Schacht2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306807731832252146" border="0" /></a><br />On <a href="http://ravelry.com/">Ravelry</a>, I put out a request for women in my area who were spinners, and might like to get together to spin and help each other learn. We are now meeting twice a month at the Highlands Ranch Library to spin.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc_X4RiQqGU094b_Arx59XsO0AXL6iernSjNquDSdnlFsvxHe9IUbqDN3foskBt4GywTnsoafl64A-S0is58BndceJL0jk7SYq33RF7Fyk8PFkaJUI6cpMcr2uCPyM9UB8ANOcjQ/s1600-h/Schacht4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 319px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc_X4RiQqGU094b_Arx59XsO0AXL6iernSjNquDSdnlFsvxHe9IUbqDN3foskBt4GywTnsoafl64A-S0is58BndceJL0jk7SYq33RF7Fyk8PFkaJUI6cpMcr2uCPyM9UB8ANOcjQ/s400/Schacht4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306808818279139634" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRlIsrr8criagZ8qPHFUb6E-4cO601_mOYbSNEOxQmy7kTm9Wss52pI7L0E-zzw44h1IE-21PMR28F2JaVlaFY4ecIrMX-uMqqaz-wRShByNhM4Q32zx2AriGT50f8N_Oq7WdXIQ/s1600-h/Schacht3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRlIsrr8criagZ8qPHFUb6E-4cO601_mOYbSNEOxQmy7kTm9Wss52pI7L0E-zzw44h1IE-21PMR28F2JaVlaFY4ecIrMX-uMqqaz-wRShByNhM4Q32zx2AriGT50f8N_Oq7WdXIQ/s400/Schacht3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306810881405781858" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii6HsfmhsKD8OPemke5Dn86n-gMgYiHzWfW6a8v3eGkuB8z25EAlww-rUinkVQD4eFXySsS18PEegV06JJeN92e5dW3pSP9TTF0y0m1ATmK2N9cLz4nzzxZ9ATcY3EefynK6X7uw/s1600-h/schacht5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 378px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii6HsfmhsKD8OPemke5Dn86n-gMgYiHzWfW6a8v3eGkuB8z25EAlww-rUinkVQD4eFXySsS18PEegV06JJeN92e5dW3pSP9TTF0y0m1ATmK2N9cLz4nzzxZ9ATcY3EefynK6X7uw/s400/schacht5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306811856970814386" border="0" /></a><br /><br />While I certainly did not need another hobby, or something else to keep me busy, the thought of creating my own yarn and then knitting with it is incredibly exciting. Besides, I need all the help I can get with relaxing. If knitting is good for the heart and soul, spinning must be even more so. You find yourself just sinking into the rhythm of the wheel. Even the dogs find it hypnotic, and collapse around the wheel in a heap, watching the wheel turn or just sitting with their eyes closed listening to the hum and feeling the breeze created by my pedaling.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />So I'm learning something new and expanding my horizons. I'm touching the past, reaching back even further than knitting, to the first time someone sheared a sheep, cleaned and carded the wool, and twisted it into fiber using a drop spindle....<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.</span> -Tigerlily<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmQCnkAqLBg5duIXSH_End9VRsiej9b8VCuMEx2JfJxyfg8vQvOsA0k6Y2BwVkvp3a0btMuKBb0In5ixQKhKCxV50gPq1eTH4lLz41ujXQ7AKna7BbvaHHYkVdEcGhyzM8FmPp2A/s1600-h/Schacht+and+Elliot.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmQCnkAqLBg5duIXSH_End9VRsiej9b8VCuMEx2JfJxyfg8vQvOsA0k6Y2BwVkvp3a0btMuKBb0In5ixQKhKCxV50gPq1eTH4lLz41ujXQ7AKna7BbvaHHYkVdEcGhyzM8FmPp2A/s400/Schacht+and+Elliot.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306818338956511394" border="0" /></a>Tigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-12063731121410340952009-01-19T15:17:00.000-08:002009-01-24T23:20:50.825-08:00Living in a Brownelly Haze?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRCxI8X2U_1ZRCB-I3r1JpzxS9XNj1PIjAXBzv_J16rmv8_v7IqYcx5ujiXMs1cwMOV2KLsGuV2IO7cddwetewrE3wBRPmQmVfQn99GBU5DFmUBIx83TYe1gf5UAfGfcaYoQKBDw/s1600-h/hemlock+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRCxI8X2U_1ZRCB-I3r1JpzxS9XNj1PIjAXBzv_J16rmv8_v7IqYcx5ujiXMs1cwMOV2KLsGuV2IO7cddwetewrE3wBRPmQmVfQn99GBU5DFmUBIx83TYe1gf5UAfGfcaYoQKBDw/s400/hemlock+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294175411467092178" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Love the moment. Flowers grow out of dark moments. Therefore, each moment is vital. It affects the whole. Life is a succession of such moments and to live each, is to succeed.<br /></div><br />No, I didn't post a Christmas entry. The holidays did not pass well. 2009 has opened in gloom and depression and the month of January has been lousy. Everywhere you look the world is brown and crisp. Even the bird feeder, which brings such joy to my life was taken from me. A violent wind blew down into our neighbors yard. She refused to answer the door, so I was unable to get into her yard to retrieve it. After dragging out a ladder and a mop handle to try and catch it up by the hanger, I discovered it was shattered to bits. I guess the mess is hers. My poor little Red Polls have been devastated by the loss and tried to make do with thistle seed during the last snow storm. Yesterday we hit the 70's and the sun and warmth was so wonderful I threw open the windows and basked in it. How I long for the color green and the light and warmth of the sun!<br /><br />And why is it when you are at your most vulnerable the world seems to smell blood in the water and descend upon you like sharks? When things get like this I hole up. I've tried to keep my head down, my mouth shut and my hands busy, to do the things that need doing and those that make my heart sing. Finding laughter is a daily scavenger hunt. I got this in the mail, and it makes me laugh. Bigtime.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiByXf0uqUNU4jPWXB2U6PmcywJy_q7M-7hiMiAe1PH0hDykkiyci6BJ1gFqN2fZsmeePnqxx8W4ngFUxrhWjEMAyOinKL1Zy6pkT7b1G8L1lfOteZiCdMXDJ_P2Mz8yRzEYposQ/s1600-h/pig+teapot.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiByXf0uqUNU4jPWXB2U6PmcywJy_q7M-7hiMiAe1PH0hDykkiyci6BJ1gFqN2fZsmeePnqxx8W4ngFUxrhWjEMAyOinKL1Zy6pkT7b1G8L1lfOteZiCdMXDJ_P2Mz8yRzEYposQ/s400/pig+teapot.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294964439451462322" border="0" /></a><br />And when your living in a brown L.A. haze, (I always thought Buffet was saying brownelly haze) even your creativity takes a hit, and I seemed to have problems with everything I did. Knitting, the salvation of my personal sanity turned on me. Sarah's slouchy beret came out looking like a muffin, I ran short of yarn at the very end of a second sock, so the toe had to be patched together with whatever I could manage, therefore ruining the "look" of a lovely pair of black licorice socks. And I hit scrapbookers block on Beth's England photos. Work on her England album has come to a complete stop.<br /><br />But what did go right came out beautiful. First, there's these socks. I don't have a name for them yet, but the yarn is lovely and makes me think of woods or chocolate. Do you see I made the toe and heel in solid brown? I'm so proud of these!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB4GoyZenv5CMNnq5OKU90PVZ6v3z9dQ3B4pva2IjBI_-R2YZFm5bIY291eMCUhEgUAwK02cikmzICnD9hKtcsKDowQl8rujY-x9XMzZwwfQHaUANOr5nEM4IV788L6LfFUOaEyQ/s1600-h/brown+socks.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 343px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB4GoyZenv5CMNnq5OKU90PVZ6v3z9dQ3B4pva2IjBI_-R2YZFm5bIY291eMCUhEgUAwK02cikmzICnD9hKtcsKDowQl8rujY-x9XMzZwwfQHaUANOr5nEM4IV788L6LfFUOaEyQ/s400/brown+socks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294965147536210466" border="0" /></a><br />And then there is this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIudq7jHD5zJLEx-KEalE0xTXFXft0cCMlAgNg7NHqG_9oXlYqcXPJpxx8_GM-nJpt42ibF7k3hyy7Ir62KBQVDAPdOa_k4Zu2YmEW3NTzFUiZIZhza8nbegXnofc0YKQTGDNS8Q/s1600-h/Hemlock+4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 324px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIudq7jHD5zJLEx-KEalE0xTXFXft0cCMlAgNg7NHqG_9oXlYqcXPJpxx8_GM-nJpt42ibF7k3hyy7Ir62KBQVDAPdOa_k4Zu2YmEW3NTzFUiZIZhza8nbegXnofc0YKQTGDNS8Q/s400/Hemlock+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294177227192250466" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://brooklyntweed.blogspot.com/2007/08/hemlock-ring-blanket.html">The Hemlock Ring Blanket</a> designed by Jared Flood. Knitted in <a href="http://www.cascadeyarns.com/cascade-eco.asp">Cascade Eco Wool</a><br />in a lovely shade called Latte. A perfect match for the color of the world outside, my mood, and my favorite beverage. Brown.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9sXee_S4N5IJqF7z5EpePR5A1PqNx_WBvG0kKOmQgLkvQyJmU16q8Vjrg5bQA1cFKMUmoJVZ6pHABmI98KqtQcrL6PbxNjP1QsAFr7LD3NqgsaM-Z41vpHwfObArUSeIRIDVq7A/s1600-h/Hemlock+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9sXee_S4N5IJqF7z5EpePR5A1PqNx_WBvG0kKOmQgLkvQyJmU16q8Vjrg5bQA1cFKMUmoJVZ6pHABmI98KqtQcrL6PbxNjP1QsAFr7LD3NqgsaM-Z41vpHwfObArUSeIRIDVq7A/s400/Hemlock+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294177611372331506" border="0" /></a><br />A lap blanket designed from a 1930's doily pattern. Just under 4 feet in diameter it is perfect for laying over your legs when you curl up to read or knit. Or lovely to drape over a couch or even across a table as I did for the photos. Living in brown is not an altogether bad thing.<br /><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUCrXRmKNojgNhyphenhyphenW4koGlldHc3NFPtxEdVDqgg3bRZ32JSYduIcEvp5LWGZSMs_tyADEPPtJDyMSLZI69fKBVKVDZ9qwNcQs9y75HsLVYF6pXRIsxCgO5DDKM08a6TbYnJLhssqg/s1600-h/Hemlock+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUCrXRmKNojgNhyphenhyphenW4koGlldHc3NFPtxEdVDqgg3bRZ32JSYduIcEvp5LWGZSMs_tyADEPPtJDyMSLZI69fKBVKVDZ9qwNcQs9y75HsLVYF6pXRIsxCgO5DDKM08a6TbYnJLhssqg/s400/Hemlock+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294182639495589426" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"></span> </div><h3 style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center; font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;"><span><span style="font-size:100%;">"A cheerful heart is good medicine..."_--(Prov 17:22a)</span></span></h3> -Tigerlily<br /><br /><p><br /></p>Tigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-33171466310509931392008-12-08T10:10:00.000-08:002008-12-10T09:11:57.371-08:00A Time For Tea<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfF6w2KzeS7MMfHJdrTQCdaM6DrI8cBcD-Ksfo1GeVCSMAT1jcM1XT0jAk_G9OWXuaUtIsQYQdihPwetUHmJPCnE4xozCChvgNsIYwFuWNQ9qXyPeVFEpkA_GMN3UnXZkK8RuW0Q/s1600-h/teatime.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfF6w2KzeS7MMfHJdrTQCdaM6DrI8cBcD-Ksfo1GeVCSMAT1jcM1XT0jAk_G9OWXuaUtIsQYQdihPwetUHmJPCnE4xozCChvgNsIYwFuWNQ9qXyPeVFEpkA_GMN3UnXZkK8RuW0Q/s400/teatime.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272994892559240114" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thank God for tea!</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">What would the world do without tea? - how did it exist?</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">I am glad I was not born before tea.</span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Rev. Sydney Smith</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">LADY HOLLAND'S MEMOIR</span><br /></div><br />Life at our house has been very full. Full of activity, full of stress and typical of holiday time everyone is a bit cross. But then everyone in the U.S. is a bit cross right now. When Anderson Cooper reports to you that this could be the worst economic crisis since the 1930's its a bit hard not to get upset. Beth and I have given our gifts to <a href="http://www.heifer.org/site/c.edJRKQNiFiG/b.204586/">Heifer International</a> again this year despite economic setbacks. And, while I'm still partial to the<a href="http://www.heifer.org/site/c.edJRKQNiFiG/b.2699397/"> knitting basket</a> myself, (for obvious reasons), this year I chose a share of a goat, share of a sheep, a flock of chicks and a gift of bees. Beth chose trees and a share of a water buffalo. It feels good to know somewhere someone will receive a crate full of fluffy yellow chicks, a bee hive buzzing with bees to pollinate crops, or maybe with the help of people like you, a water buffalo to provide a family with milk and cheese.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ButGWVT3jrgAzCLRZnp1xLBc5-RvgxVB2s7CZ6M0DoffPrJM6y0p0iQ-sK0XupIjUnB_qEDGNn8_4pX5btp5Wu4l6fakMTTU1xJN5kpyktnDAOcZ3NwdZJUFrd3o9XeXZ6W68g/s1600-h/tg_teacup.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 308px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ButGWVT3jrgAzCLRZnp1xLBc5-RvgxVB2s7CZ6M0DoffPrJM6y0p0iQ-sK0XupIjUnB_qEDGNn8_4pX5btp5Wu4l6fakMTTU1xJN5kpyktnDAOcZ3NwdZJUFrd3o9XeXZ6W68g/s400/tg_teacup.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273364067127607634" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;font-size:130%;" >There is no trouble so great or grave that cannot be much diminished by a nice cup of tea. ~</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;font-size:130%;" >Bernard-Paul Heroux</span><br /></div><br /><br />Winter's cold is creeping in and the holidays brings thoughts of auld land syne. What better time to think about the comforts of home than now? And in times like these that try the soul, what comfort is drawn from a hot cup of liquid! No, I'm not talking about coffee, I'm talking about that stuff we once threw into the Boston harbor. TEA.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;" >When the news reporter said "Shopkeepers are opening their doors bringing out blankets and cups of tea" I just smiled. It's like yes. That's Britain for you. Tea solves everything. You're a bit cold? Tea. Your boyfriend has just left you? Tea. You've just been told you've got cancer? Tea. Coordinated terrorist attack on the transport network bringing the city to a grinding halt? Tea dammit! And if it's really serious, they may bring out the coffee. The Americans have their alert raised to red, we break out the coffee. That's for situations more serious than this of course. Like another England penalty shoot-out. ~</span><span style="font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;">Jslayeruk, as posted on Metaquotes Livejournal, in response to the July 2005 London subway bombings</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwA41SzWW85e2wWW6i-eGSTlIC6VyNmMJOQ4R76L-EKHhr6OgIOtaByY8JmdRjRIAl1SY_wFz0-PBcPRgnnXUE_TMzd_4jiYuBoz2RyRU4zFSAqaQ2n9MgzrO0Kd_kUQJmAEok5A/s1600-h/victorian_lady_having_tea.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 298px; height: 366px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwA41SzWW85e2wWW6i-eGSTlIC6VyNmMJOQ4R76L-EKHhr6OgIOtaByY8JmdRjRIAl1SY_wFz0-PBcPRgnnXUE_TMzd_4jiYuBoz2RyRU4zFSAqaQ2n9MgzrO0Kd_kUQJmAEok5A/s400/victorian_lady_having_tea.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273096932598786898" border="0" /></a><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">I believe it is customary in good society to take some slight refreshment at five o'clock. </span></span><span>Oscar Wilde, THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0XSG6ZuzWVrZOI969r6As_1wZazFrn0r6ZM7gjE6JJksPrhhUJPgM-la63HLLupom3y1AZDcHJYHR5UOpqthyphenhyphen1hnaYCgqMZycoxWVLjrLcjIM_L620btE0hXJVQo6ktCaZGY6nw/s1600-h/childrentea.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0XSG6ZuzWVrZOI969r6As_1wZazFrn0r6ZM7gjE6JJksPrhhUJPgM-la63HLLupom3y1AZDcHJYHR5UOpqthyphenhyphen1hnaYCgqMZycoxWVLjrLcjIM_L620btE0hXJVQo6ktCaZGY6nw/s400/childrentea.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273442002535453922" border="0" /></a><br /></span>In the more than sixty years of Queen Victoria's reign, the afternoon tea had become a national pastime in Great Britain. When the clock struck four, every kettle in the empire began to whistle and every tea table was set with all manner of delectable's to appease the appetite and restore the flagging spirit. The observance has become a treasured custom, a moment best described by Charles Dickens as one "in which we were perfectly contented with ourselves and one another."<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">The first cup moistens my lips and throat. The second cup breaks my loneliness. The third cup searches my barren entrail but to find therein some thousand volumes of odd ideographs. The fourth cup raises a slight perspiration - all the wrongs of life pass out through my pores. At the fifth cup I am purified. The sixth cup calls me to the realms of the immortals. The seventh cup - ah, but I could take no more! I only feel the breath of the cool wind that raises in my sleeves. Where is Elysium? Let me ride on this sweet breeze and waft away thither.</span> ~</span><span style="font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;">Lu Tung, "Tea-Drinking"</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSNi-Rs9isbax8HBWkyFub31BLRsRo36gaOdv8VI-Kf5TBr9HX2jnuGnar8Q8cnFfBekSt9JN6FqKtbsIvluLNUqRBr2khUQ6xbUrCvWVc-480RgLC8_0Jv-1sZw5XTy90qqlsSQ/s1600-h/orangecozy2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 326px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSNi-Rs9isbax8HBWkyFub31BLRsRo36gaOdv8VI-Kf5TBr9HX2jnuGnar8Q8cnFfBekSt9JN6FqKtbsIvluLNUqRBr2khUQ6xbUrCvWVc-480RgLC8_0Jv-1sZw5XTy90qqlsSQ/s400/orangecozy2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273434723072863922" border="0" /></a><br />We love tea at our house. We love coffee too, but hot cups of tea throughout the day have become standard around here ever since we tasted our first cup of P.G.Tips. And now with snowstorms becoming a regular occurrence, and Castle Moscow back open for business, those hot cups of creamy tea will sustain us in our darkest hour. And with all that tea comes tea pots, and with the collecting of all those tea pots, the need for tea cozies goes without saying. I've lately become obsessed with knitting tea cozies. You may remember the orange cozy pictured above. I've now knitted a silly pineapple cozy to befriend it.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD9KUbYmDIkl41V7t3JrUQgomq7ZutLDaDRbOWhfKuwzovG1dZpanFad-o9JyADmmvhzK7ruWA28S12soIfxunDtIj7dbXTRyhiuBoKeqzU4aDINYVMNXomGRHoV2wudPiK6Kc8A/s1600-h/pineapple+cozy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 252px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD9KUbYmDIkl41V7t3JrUQgomq7ZutLDaDRbOWhfKuwzovG1dZpanFad-o9JyADmmvhzK7ruWA28S12soIfxunDtIj7dbXTRyhiuBoKeqzU4aDINYVMNXomGRHoV2wudPiK6Kc8A/s400/pineapple+cozy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273436995879355186" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></span></span><span><span>Four layers of thickly gathered ruffles wrap around the pot, their edges dotted with brightly colored beads. This cozy reminds me of Carmen Miranda's ruffled skirts. All it needs are a bunch of grapes and some bananas to sit atop its spikes.</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span><span><span>Those darn spikes were tricky, and even knitted double took some ingenuity to get to stand up.</span></span><span><span> My layers were too wide and so thick after gathering that any water put in this pot will probably stay hot for an eternity. I left gaps in the skirt to allow the spout and handle to peek through.</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4FMT8VQZHvzdnbzdNmRcyap9UBq6tuU4ZPKX8u-yKx3lnfRpoWmGGirYQtgnnyP37Mp2i5qKgUyyEB5k2fQ-R0YhmV_uYTDOUCABRzIw965BtdVqv4fTEOAg6CuLeF1SDczzq2w/s1600-h/pineapple+cozy+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4FMT8VQZHvzdnbzdNmRcyap9UBq6tuU4ZPKX8u-yKx3lnfRpoWmGGirYQtgnnyP37Mp2i5qKgUyyEB5k2fQ-R0YhmV_uYTDOUCABRzIw965BtdVqv4fTEOAg6CuLeF1SDczzq2w/s400/pineapple+cozy+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270424407670651234" border="0" /></a><br />I'm not sure when I became obsessed with tea. I think it goes back to all those books I read in my childhood. I've always loved everything to do with Britain. To love Britain is to love tea, or at least the idea of tea, and who can resist terms like jam pennies and Victoria Sponge? Cucumber sandwiches with real butter, bangers and mash, beef pasties and fish -n- chips. Battenburg Cake, sticky toffee pudding, treacle tarts. My desire to try Paddington's sticky buns has been an life long obsession.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-Iup0hO8SwgNiFJviBsuCa0C7_BC41xt8_SjIGRJmpwFbCXej3JOumg3y2Os_Bq5MUDZgvKjk50zaHBrf2cWeRZcrhHgoSovDHqxLWsI-dWMFnaFI9ACyalq2iSJ5e2B4bAeVg/s1600-h/tea1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-Iup0hO8SwgNiFJviBsuCa0C7_BC41xt8_SjIGRJmpwFbCXej3JOumg3y2Os_Bq5MUDZgvKjk50zaHBrf2cWeRZcrhHgoSovDHqxLWsI-dWMFnaFI9ACyalq2iSJ5e2B4bAeVg/s400/tea1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273095990141407010" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;font-size:130%;" >Tea! thou soft, thou sober, sage, and venerable liquid,... thou female tongue-running, smile-smoothing, heart-opening, wind-tippling cordial, to whose glorious insipidity I owe the happiest moment of my life, let me fall prostrate.</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;font-size:130%;" >~ </span><span style=";font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;font-size:130%;" >Colley Cibber, LADY'S LAST STAKE</span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf_dyjcesimqaYVbWirbowbFVU3nnVOyqnCoQw-eEBRcQdCl_OopsstfjFkYKOubzEXsytbQpfC36BKODB9rGhDcy7IVFJW7vEY1cUbfHeQA8YwiRHogZgEoois9KDW6RINmuugQ/s1600-h/teacake.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 290px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf_dyjcesimqaYVbWirbowbFVU3nnVOyqnCoQw-eEBRcQdCl_OopsstfjFkYKOubzEXsytbQpfC36BKODB9rGhDcy7IVFJW7vEY1cUbfHeQA8YwiRHogZgEoois9KDW6RINmuugQ/s400/teacake.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273444553997123378" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Battenburg Cake</span><br /></div><div class="notes markdown"> <p>“A cake distinctive for the two-by-two check pattern alternately coloured pink and yellow. The cake is covered in marzipan and, when sliced, the characteristic checks are exposed to view. These coloured sections are made by dying half of the cake mixture pink, and half yellow, then cutting each resultant sponge into two long, uniform cuboids, and joining them together with a little cream, jam, or icing, to form one cake. The origin of the name is not clear, but one theory claims that the cake was created in honour of the marriage in 1884 of Queen Victoria’s granddaughter to Prince Louis of Battenberg. The four squares of the cake are said to represent the four Battenberg princes.”</p> </div> <span style="font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaAOcQBJ2e4erchl6jpvcDehKAduY5L7fHutiKi9AryQovNRj3zam4PXzhIx5e_wrw4KA8ZcR9MDIFxubEuj1jZ6iajKkuo2apEYzDaMwvenU6AYQXZFhptg2wcI53d9d7YKf6Kw/s1600-h/battenburg1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 318px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaAOcQBJ2e4erchl6jpvcDehKAduY5L7fHutiKi9AryQovNRj3zam4PXzhIx5e_wrw4KA8ZcR9MDIFxubEuj1jZ6iajKkuo2apEYzDaMwvenU6AYQXZFhptg2wcI53d9d7YKf6Kw/s400/battenburg1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273431060723801122" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">The Battenburg Cake Cozy</span></span><br /></div><br />Inspiration for the Battenburg Cake cozy came from The Gentle Art of Domesticity by Jane Brocket. Her inspiration was the actually edible Battenburg Cake, traditionally eaten in Britain. You’ll need 2 skiens of each color. The beads are optional. This is the same pattern I used for my orange tea cozy and comes from Rowen.<br /><span style="font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEFSQvYuSs72KBogNcG1_g1rkZy92gHTxvVbepnnmK5xuIgWgaH3dbxYq0On1XLbxcwRMxV7R1mxJi9FCfra-mOtR_6SZZQmQlDsGGnxZmmodkJmAQE45juohVcEQfkBp0tFkovQ/s1600-h/battenburg3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEFSQvYuSs72KBogNcG1_g1rkZy92gHTxvVbepnnmK5xuIgWgaH3dbxYq0On1XLbxcwRMxV7R1mxJi9FCfra-mOtR_6SZZQmQlDsGGnxZmmodkJmAQE45juohVcEQfkBp0tFkovQ/s400/battenburg3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273429678152821474" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span><span><br />My own attempt at making a Battenburg cake has had to wait while I search out a source for marzipan...</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGoTJ6impap_-UzLX6beel46n6ILljNYvFv20Wi3pArRdZOPEyHdogmGgZX4q8L7cCrpNFPOAODpbHjiZ5sIhKcs4ovoCrIUifo3c904rtx_RYcI8JwPCpg4anLuw0FKPY5LC9Q/s1600-h/battenburg2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 301px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGoTJ6impap_-UzLX6beel46n6ILljNYvFv20Wi3pArRdZOPEyHdogmGgZX4q8L7cCrpNFPOAODpbHjiZ5sIhKcs4ovoCrIUifo3c904rtx_RYcI8JwPCpg4anLuw0FKPY5LC9Q/s400/battenburg2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278209938073664258" border="0" /></a><br /></span><span style="font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;"><br /></span>Of course the most important part of having tea isn't the cake, but the tea. English Breakfast, Darjeerling, Earl Grey, Yorkshire Gold, Murroughs Welsh tea, Taylors of Harrogate... Hot and steaming from the pot with sugar and milk. It soothes the rumpled spirit and warms the cockles of the heart. We have become tea snobs at our house. We've had the real deal from Britain, and now not just any tea will do. Our tea of choice is P.G. Tips, or Red Rose (which has the added advantage of coming with a tiny china animal in every box.)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR30PC89BA8yhXOvEjn2k90vnb30AkIjooNI14MJIX0wi6yP9KnuB1iOoxKeJJWl47dlvctMJW50Ng6W7b9GWCQPDCYjSnWbCcJ_qBI-Nr6MeG_tY1vcHNLcPh4h1FBldDgi_eSg/s1600-h/teaparty.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 350px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR30PC89BA8yhXOvEjn2k90vnb30AkIjooNI14MJIX0wi6yP9KnuB1iOoxKeJJWl47dlvctMJW50Ng6W7b9GWCQPDCYjSnWbCcJ_qBI-Nr6MeG_tY1vcHNLcPh4h1FBldDgi_eSg/s400/teaparty.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273421667038625522" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea. ~</span></span>Henry James, PORTRAIT OF A LADY<br /></div><br /><br />Did you know that the world is suffering a crisis with honey bees? Its called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colony_Collapse_Disorder">Colony Collapse Disorder</a>. Without bees we won't have food. You can help by attracting bees to your yard with the right plants that provide food for bees. Diverse plants attract different types of bees. You can even start your own hive. This is my bee hive or bee skep cozy. I have some issues with the way this one turned out, so I'm reworking the pattern. The little brass bee buttons are buzzing their way around the outside looking for a way in. I don't think this pathetic hive is going to do much for the bee problem...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMHjs22nNqt_cqm3vULpeKjDr04lCP4vq2BtZWkzZkDlg7c5SyDqEWmC9gpYn5WX2nMsUFeN27tePVN9gu1nxctMGAsG3Pmlxkx6h4jI1MlEAZvzR9vrnQuZPJLC7BF8kDpCGvxw/s1600-h/beehive1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 288px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMHjs22nNqt_cqm3vULpeKjDr04lCP4vq2BtZWkzZkDlg7c5SyDqEWmC9gpYn5WX2nMsUFeN27tePVN9gu1nxctMGAsG3Pmlxkx6h4jI1MlEAZvzR9vrnQuZPJLC7BF8kDpCGvxw/s400/beehive1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273422444438591522" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Bee Skep Tea Cozy</span><br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDrthjeESjCP16W7ln9T1r5JwK-lyMJa-Vn44DHK7bD9nxS5g3f_hQnGoq6gThZRm8QoAD9NVyE1a6e0rbIaAbmQ8zJCv5bZBjmERIAjKuYeFJd8ypC6JWOo2SzAwTPiPUgeWf6g/s1600-h/beehive2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDrthjeESjCP16W7ln9T1r5JwK-lyMJa-Vn44DHK7bD9nxS5g3f_hQnGoq6gThZRm8QoAD9NVyE1a6e0rbIaAbmQ8zJCv5bZBjmERIAjKuYeFJd8ypC6JWOo2SzAwTPiPUgeWf6g/s400/beehive2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273423063381476018" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Stands the church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">Rupert Brooke</span>, <span style="font-weight: normal;">HEAVEN</span><br /></div><div class="notes markdown"> <p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKPpsFSteNTRGWRTuVlJnZMs26FNp3UXSX54izQ-Cr4eLLV6IwcVNErmd5CpLgJedrFZevvJ5kP5SJ4Vq9HXY4s_QnhYxi3EYI67mtfIdQhOtBcWCA0mv1IyZndTRdgAMkjA5Akw/s1600-h/13298_tea_party_1020.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 289px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKPpsFSteNTRGWRTuVlJnZMs26FNp3UXSX54izQ-Cr4eLLV6IwcVNErmd5CpLgJedrFZevvJ5kP5SJ4Vq9HXY4s_QnhYxi3EYI67mtfIdQhOtBcWCA0mv1IyZndTRdgAMkjA5Akw/s400/13298_tea_party_1020.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277459740484401010" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><br />It is very strange, this domination of our intellect by our digestive organs. We cannot work, we cannot think, unless our stomach wills so. It dictates to us our emotions, our passions. After eggs and bacon it says, "Work!" After beefsteak and porter, it says, "Sleep!" After a cup of tea (two spoonfuls for each cup, and don't let it stand for more than three minutes), it says to the brain, "Now rise, and show your strength. Be eloquent, and deep, and tender; see, with a clear eye, into Nature, and into life: spread your white wings of quivering thought, and soar, a god-like spirit, over the whirling world beneath you, up through long lanes of flaming stars to the gates of eternity!" </span><br />~Jerome K. Jerome, THREE MEN IN A BOAT</span><br /></div><p><br />The last cozy is one for Beth, to remind her of all the great tea and scone she had throughout Britain. She mentioned wouldn't it be funny to have a tea cozy that looked like a Scottish thistle? I stumbled on the pattern for the lumpy bumpy tea cozy below and thought it just might work...</p></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkNz_YBnScUT6b3Hiw2wlEDBlZ1OwfIlX5KBVY-kmWyw1B9b4Oand_RCJZq_1JCeCGwDsAUilz4KBJ7NK2gJJnMEgS6c2Y8VkYilMbhEFWRsp1VFgFlja8lhPXNRXaDqqzD25Cyw/s1600-h/thistle1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 384px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkNz_YBnScUT6b3Hiw2wlEDBlZ1OwfIlX5KBVY-kmWyw1B9b4Oand_RCJZq_1JCeCGwDsAUilz4KBJ7NK2gJJnMEgS6c2Y8VkYilMbhEFWRsp1VFgFlja8lhPXNRXaDqqzD25Cyw/s400/thistle1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277447309650317682" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scottish Thistle Tea Cozy</span><br /><br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz7SwnMcDeoY66f2uMjPD1N0gMsS69l8_NhdlN4bQJPH8xwfAvo0hpKHax_dQJ5VZQltCZqzU-ObmWekhEGus-QGrmWsQkNrASHIxWXE-TOGf0KG4ggt7DM4qwy9-sxHGLNS5kUA/s1600-h/thistle2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz7SwnMcDeoY66f2uMjPD1N0gMsS69l8_NhdlN4bQJPH8xwfAvo0hpKHax_dQJ5VZQltCZqzU-ObmWekhEGus-QGrmWsQkNrASHIxWXE-TOGf0KG4ggt7DM4qwy9-sxHGLNS5kUA/s400/thistle2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277447885527337426" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />"Never trust a man who, when left alone with a tea cosy, doesn't try it on!"</span> ~Billy Connelly<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLeiQ4imyw1Su_GjvRprnKfnr6Gv5SeF4XwRnZLSm7bHgNBf8TlTvtrCl9P6EQMViDZia5yZEioMyWl9t3lk3Qeo6CKZyFNqn6XU7sQgJMwmkEQ_hQmGoFxReb1_btlmdBfWgk-g/s1600-h/Scottish-Thistle-00002.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 301px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLeiQ4imyw1Su_GjvRprnKfnr6Gv5SeF4XwRnZLSm7bHgNBf8TlTvtrCl9P6EQMViDZia5yZEioMyWl9t3lk3Qeo6CKZyFNqn6XU7sQgJMwmkEQ_hQmGoFxReb1_btlmdBfWgk-g/s400/Scottish-Thistle-00002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277466685262399506" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />A real honest to goodness Scottish thistle.<br />And the resemblance is uncanny!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><br /><br />Meanwhile, let us have a cup of tea. The afternoon glow is brightening the bamboos, the fountains are bubbling with delight, the soughing of the pines is heard in our kettle. Let us dream of evanescence, and linger in the beautiful foolishness of things.</span> Kazuko Okakura THE BOOK OF TEA<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXRH9-PqkET4LgBrk5FgSxfeK-t7D90xeSQKeGZCc3NuVpa3jXKSrzCyN2QoZwo0-xK4sZl2O9DS0rCLusNgegCnx5S8XzsB5O7etv4Kx3Wn-k2pB4JjmbcIGaidBGGb1VPp8BkQ/s1600-h/tea.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 381px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXRH9-PqkET4LgBrk5FgSxfeK-t7D90xeSQKeGZCc3NuVpa3jXKSrzCyN2QoZwo0-xK4sZl2O9DS0rCLusNgegCnx5S8XzsB5O7etv4Kx3Wn-k2pB4JjmbcIGaidBGGb1VPp8BkQ/s400/tea.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277458833513375778" border="0" /></a>Tigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-72289991140430155472008-11-28T12:34:00.001-08:002008-12-02T08:54:18.533-08:00Truly Thankful<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHLGezuTlkDm-mETfC39I5PEpc-qrC6BUm-fOi7vP3PDGis3Tph8WiOeuOVfyzzL18xSqFN9yMTACn-3RKvPEQiYO6mr-fe-BN7qqHssEIg3lE8bVT1Dv5yJYzmrwj4QuErEuyOQ/s1600-h/autumnchild2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 308px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHLGezuTlkDm-mETfC39I5PEpc-qrC6BUm-fOi7vP3PDGis3Tph8WiOeuOVfyzzL18xSqFN9yMTACn-3RKvPEQiYO6mr-fe-BN7qqHssEIg3lE8bVT1Dv5yJYzmrwj4QuErEuyOQ/s400/autumnchild2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273809757205263746" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Thanksgiving day has come and gone, but being thankful lasts longer than the turkey and pumpkin pie. Last year at this time we were all thankful that Quincy was still with us. And, after another close call this summer, Quincy is just a few days from celebrating his 10th birthday. We had a gorgeous autumn with colors almost as lovely as the picture above. Sarah is weeks away from graduation. Beth is writing for MTV and Cinematical now and went on her first set visit. The year has been very busy and very stressful for everyone, but we're all still here.<br /><br />This was the best Thanksgiving I can remember in a very long time. The weather was lovely, the food was perfect, and I've tried to take a snapshot in my head of the day, to treasure in my heart for always. It was just us 4 and it was like old times. Like my girls were little again, and I thought life was bliss. I heard Sarah laugh at the table, and I haven't heard her laugh like that for ages. The girls didn't fight. No one was sick. No one was missing, except those who have gone on before, and I think they were here too. Life is changing and changing rapidly, and who knows what the next year might bring? We may never be together like this, in just this way, ever again.<br /><br />This is the first year I have ever experienced getting to the table without being completely worn out. Everything went like clockwork. Everything turned out perfect. That's why I thought it was so important to record this, I may never experience anything this close to perfection ever again. This was epic in the annuls of Thanksgiving dinners. I want to thank Martha Stewart for her butter and wine basted turkey recipe. This was the second year I used it and I've never seen a more beautiful turkey.<br /><br />I want to thank Vitamin Cottage for my free range organic turkey. It was the best turkey I've ever had. For once, the house wasn't full of that horrible cooking turkey smell that always makes me ill. I actually wanted to eat the turkey when I finally got to the table. The house just smelled good, like spices and fruit. And speaking of fruit, I want to thank Martha again for the pumpkin challah bread/stuffing recipe that I have tweaked over the last few years. I finally achieved stuffing perfection. Half panetone bread, half pumpkin challah with a bit of chopped red onion, sage, majoram and a whole orchard of dried fruit, this stuff is heavenly.<br /><br />I'm thankful for spilling the ginger into the pumpkin pie because it gave it a real kick, and for Uncle Bud (whoever he is) for the best pumpkin pie recipe ever. I am thankful for the doggies, who lined up in a fat roly poly row and watched all the proceedings without tripping me once. I'm thankful for each and every one of them, and all their brethren that have shared table with us over the years.<br /><br />I'm thankful that Beth was able to kick me in the teeth earlier in the week when I was being a Highlands Ranch snob and bitching about not finding the CD I wanted or the coat in my size, for saying, "be thankful you HAVE a coat." Yes. And a home and food and a wonderful family to share it with. I'm thankful for my health. I'm thankful for the cronic cough, carpel tunnel, fibro myalgia, acid reflux, jaw clenching, teeth grinding, and just plain pain, because I am <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">living</span>, and I still can't wait to get up each and every day.<br /><br />-TigerlilyTigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-90458037515353214912008-10-03T12:00:00.000-07:002008-10-06T08:43:57.032-07:00Charlotte A. Cavatica<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggT1ZPOxxdkF3RQJeSG7IvyZ9Kf-bQG1A1Zyqm9tRAiB3s_0ufgUrttDhI_Ia8T0N47u-rvgojUpUNyAYeRygsEVrwKFUBs54QI8cqWG_Hc690baLClsYvw4DJRKVqFx9P0M2K_g/s1600-h/wilbur_500.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggT1ZPOxxdkF3RQJeSG7IvyZ9Kf-bQG1A1Zyqm9tRAiB3s_0ufgUrttDhI_Ia8T0N47u-rvgojUpUNyAYeRygsEVrwKFUBs54QI8cqWG_Hc690baLClsYvw4DJRKVqFx9P0M2K_g/s400/wilbur_500.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252621702125703026" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"And so, talking to herself, the spider worked at her difficult task. When it was completed, she felt hungry. She ate a small bug that she had been saving. Then she slept. Next morning, Wilbur arose and stood beneath the web. He breathed the morning air into his lungs. Drops of dew, catching the sun, made the web stand out clearly. When Lurvy arrived with breakfast, there was the handsome pig, and over him, woven neatly in block letters, was the word TERRIFIC. Another miracle."</span><br /><br />Late in August, summer before last, some of you may remember, I discovered a very large spider residing in a window well outside our basement. Her huge web was a true traditional spider web round and perfect, the kind one always imagines and artists always draw. She was shy and a champion at avoiding my camera lens. Once it was determined she was not a poisonous spider, I stopped fearing her and just settled down to enjoy her work. We dubbed her Charlotte despite the fact that she turned out to be a "cat faced spider" instead of a common barn spider. We enjoyed her giant webs throughout the summer and it was with great joy we discovered our Charlotte had an egg sack tucked into one of the corrugated valleys of the window well. Our Charlotte guarded her "magnum opus" with uncommon bravery, and as the days grew shorter she could often been seen basking in the late day sun, obviously languishing as summers glory faded.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUU3_RiDiadKFmXJ6B9uQjiC_HVoTmlEHsyyuKhZnv6VD-D4UcEbhvRjB17w-Hi2q72kWcMs2fgBksyPRRTLX8l5vPvWjvwBfeONb_Bp9mVRzCLOUMLz4Mc0UZZvUSGjwSuANvog/s1600-h/Catfacecrop.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUU3_RiDiadKFmXJ6B9uQjiC_HVoTmlEHsyyuKhZnv6VD-D4UcEbhvRjB17w-Hi2q72kWcMs2fgBksyPRRTLX8l5vPvWjvwBfeONb_Bp9mVRzCLOUMLz4Mc0UZZvUSGjwSuANvog/s400/Catfacecrop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252615812953934562" border="0" /></a>Charlotte I<br /></div><br />Our local butterfly and insect museum said cat faced spiders were uncommon in our area, and they would love it if we would bring her in and donate her to the museum. Summer was ending, and she would die shortly anyway. We could not bear to separate Charlotte from the eggs she had guarded so fiercely all summer, and felt she deserved to live out her days free. Charlotte lived long past the expiration date given by the museum, surviving snows in October and November. The last time I'd seen her she was faded and weak, huddled in the folds of the metal. After one particularly brutal storm in late November, she simply disappeared. Her final web fell into tatters and the window well was overrun with disgusting Daddy Long Legs and other insects who no longer feared to venture there.<br /><br />That was the winter of the great snow that crippled Denver for a week, and it seemed as though the snow storms would never stop coming, and we feared for the little egg sac buried so long in frozen ice. Spring came but we never saw any baby spiders, the egg sac still remained moored, dirty, gray and sadly vacant. We mourned the loss of not only Charlotte but the babies she had worked so hard to preserve.<br /><br />Summer passed without the discovery of any spiders as wonderful as our Charlotte and despite some pretty terrific webs and promising spiders, nothing resembling her beauty nor the breadth of her web has ever come to grace our house again. Then in May, as Beth and I potted plants and hung baskets in the courtyard we made a discovery. A small spider and a perfectly formed round web had taken up residence in the corner of our front porch. The spider was obviously not one of the kind we typically see, and the web design looked very familiar. I was positive it was another cat face, but Beth wasn't so sure.<br /><br />"It does look similar, but this spider is so small in comparison to Charlotte, she was really big."<br /><br />"But, I didn't discover Charlotte until August, maybe this is a baby. It has the same brown and white striped legs and the abdomen is shaped the same. Maybe it is a male. Aren't male spiders smaller than their female counterparts?"<br /><br />"Yeah..."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicNZle4MJsQZGeNcELg5UMkCXG3i_wZff_TUwon6-NZB1kE3y0G3Lum81WVEzahN9lfU8zoNlfwTjwJrXvp4Pei8lNYb_7OlDnPWhmM8vCDPeaRYYyKQ0ZWQkYMXuKS1_7uv889Q/s1600-h/charlotte_540.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicNZle4MJsQZGeNcELg5UMkCXG3i_wZff_TUwon6-NZB1kE3y0G3Lum81WVEzahN9lfU8zoNlfwTjwJrXvp4Pei8lNYb_7OlDnPWhmM8vCDPeaRYYyKQ0ZWQkYMXuKS1_7uv889Q/s400/charlotte_540.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252622379554922994" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Well, that small spider was a baby, and she has continued to grow all summer long and her web right along with it. It is a cat faced spider and a female, as the "cat ears" soon became quite visible on the rear. Could this be our Charlotte's granddaughter? In fact, could she be her daughter? I recalled a sunny day in early spring, when I had rounded the corner past Charlotte's window well taking out the garbage, and had run smack into a thin strand of web and noticed several more in the air and on the fence. I had immediately recalled the scene in the film Charlottes Web when the baby spiders emerged and launched themselves into the air. The phenomenon is called "ballooning" and I had walked right into it. I searched, but couldn't find any spiders. I went about my business thinking about what a coincidence that it had happened on the very spot our Charlotte had laid her own eggs.<br /><br />But was it a coincidence? We'd had a terrible winter that year. The following spring and summer were cold and wet. The following winter was equally bad. This spring however, had been exceptional, perfect even. Was it possible the eggs had laid there fallow, waiting all this time? The egg sac had remained glued to its spot looking exactly the same as always. Once we knew for sure that this new spider was in fact another Charlotte, Beth got curious and went to check the egg sac. It was gone, the remaining webbing empty and bedraggled. Could it be? I'd need a spider expert to say for sure.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggghv0NxClJrBSlFJGcy4ksALM2qFCGNVVITOKyj5VKZmi-cky_ib8AbduvZhiqgN0qJ5YMBF0TD3N502-5CWXl0wLPaGcamPqEgRQJBk45HS8kaCmJXIVadLF7Ir85W_wYi1Ibw/s1600-h/Half+a+web.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggghv0NxClJrBSlFJGcy4ksALM2qFCGNVVITOKyj5VKZmi-cky_ib8AbduvZhiqgN0qJ5YMBF0TD3N502-5CWXl0wLPaGcamPqEgRQJBk45HS8kaCmJXIVadLF7Ir85W_wYi1Ibw/s400/Half+a+web.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252620184476520626" border="0" /></a>One Half of a Web<br /><br /></div>With much more scope for the imagination than her mother had in the window well, this Charlotte spreads her webs over the entire porch corner and connects them to the hanging baskets below and on either side of her. This corner is very protected, in even the worst of winds, rain or snow, this little area surrounding our front door remains sheltered and clear. Even in the gustiest of winds, her web rocks back and forth with the baskets, but the web anchor strands remain strong. The web is always full of gnats and moths, and we have witnessed her gobbling down freshly caught fly on several occasions. No saving them up for later, this Charlotte is a vicious and bloodthirsty killer who devours these choice specimens before our eyes. She is an extraordinarily huge spider in comparison to her mother, probably due to her exceptional diet, and her abdomen is easily the size of a dime.<br /><br />Photos of Charlotte II have been impossible because she prefers to stay curled up in her corner, sleeping away her days, and only venturing out in the darkness to make repairs to her web. As dusk falls she creeps out to bounce in the web's center, see the sun go down and watch us water the flowers. It has only been the lightening quick wolfing down of those fresh kills that has garnered us much of a look at her.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Far into the night, while the other creatures slept, Charlotte worked on her web. First she ripped out a few of the orb lines near the center. She left the radial lines alone, as they were needed for support. As she worked, her eight legs were a great help to her. So were her teeth. She loved to weave and she was an expert at it. When she was finished ripping things out, her web looked something like this:"</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVa3LD6V-hsmoG3vCudViV3KZfSaqw0rs8rFbqsnf9gDtFobzZcYVJHGV6pG5vBTX9ilPZJsErgX7nnRF0czeICDfcioKGpAXfLP4Ei_iLDjen9WNv_0-CT3J_fdtsumRCvULeiA/s1600-h/charlotte_410.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVa3LD6V-hsmoG3vCudViV3KZfSaqw0rs8rFbqsnf9gDtFobzZcYVJHGV6pG5vBTX9ilPZJsErgX7nnRF0czeICDfcioKGpAXfLP4Ei_iLDjen9WNv_0-CT3J_fdtsumRCvULeiA/s400/charlotte_410.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5253017833534587810" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></span></span></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><span>It has become a ritual for me to check on her each morning and see her fresh web glistening in the morning sun. New and perfect, free from bugs, it sits poised for a new days catch. Each morning I expect to find "Some Pug" woven into the intricate design. Sadly, neither of our Charlotte's has been a writer.</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi16R1Ygi7i3Jy2s5tuaSeKRniIdCAR9qgz68ewnDMjVQrfQkkF1PbdNWIljm_R6l7mjSEJCAkqt1_0SGiG1rmUvxIKJs4u78GEdX6DwkOumL8YLDdn4LmgOrd3Prxchf-1vs99kw/s1600-h/2006_charlottes_web_wallpaper_012.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi16R1Ygi7i3Jy2s5tuaSeKRniIdCAR9qgz68ewnDMjVQrfQkkF1PbdNWIljm_R6l7mjSEJCAkqt1_0SGiG1rmUvxIKJs4u78GEdX6DwkOumL8YLDdn4LmgOrd3Prxchf-1vs99kw/s400/2006_charlottes_web_wallpaper_012.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252626054545562482" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></span></span></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><span>But now it is fall, and the pots must be emptied and the fountain put to bed for the winter. I carefully and very reluctantly removed the one strand of webbing anchored to the last hanging basket so I could remove it. The web instantly collapsed and I was overcome with guilt. After a night of magic and spinning, I went to fetch the milk and looked up to see Charlotte's new web. Anchored to each side of the L shaped porch roof and eaves, it sits like a trampoline, and I can look up directly at it. Since I had the ladder out so I could reach the hanging planters, I decided it was time for Charlotte to give it up for a photo shoot.</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZy8CfvfNkNER1CMQwOY8q6luHGzq-P8ZvR1Yoyn6Coiu5HRqqHk-MnL3bNzqiNkEOCFA0N0RryGZCl0t9KJtWhpjcKB5MQIPHKDCBFfSCMTVVBBVtHtjL3S0T5HPjN3Nv8D5Gdw/s1600-h/Charlotte+II.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZy8CfvfNkNER1CMQwOY8q6luHGzq-P8ZvR1Yoyn6Coiu5HRqqHk-MnL3bNzqiNkEOCFA0N0RryGZCl0t9KJtWhpjcKB5MQIPHKDCBFfSCMTVVBBVtHtjL3S0T5HPjN3Nv8D5Gdw/s400/Charlotte+II.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252619628180109618" border="0" /></a></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span>Charlotte II</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO7I4j1MS9L44MwmT6sW26vwR89EKD_OXMlncl2E4lqG0cYXDU_QojKerFchq_ZUBK0eP4QDAANS02FN4dEWMXXz6W-sex6PTA2XjrikhTiM1-qmurR64KC9aEQNd9SHi7rUxufQ/s1600-h/catFace6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO7I4j1MS9L44MwmT6sW26vwR89EKD_OXMlncl2E4lqG0cYXDU_QojKerFchq_ZUBK0eP4QDAANS02FN4dEWMXXz6W-sex6PTA2XjrikhTiM1-qmurR64KC9aEQNd9SHi7rUxufQ/s400/catFace6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254065974497273490" border="0" /></a><br /></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><span>This Charlotte A. Cavatica, is unfortunately not as beautiful as her mother, Her coloring is much lighter, the exact shade of our house paint, probably a protective measure provided by nature. And because of this coloration, she lacks the definitive markings that complete the cat face on her rear. She does have the same long delicate hairy legs striped in brown and cream, and sharp beady dark eyes, and like her mother she is shy and quiet. Reclusive.</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><br /><br /></span></span></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM3YpZNLD4tuqBqw-jqZI5xAQsuYm4PPXJSLhXdDqU6Q4r-rnR33sQHBrSTVqdX8o7Svcfn-z2NLTO_HApYjTqB6PV-96Qr_sudomgYd_w8WcJV5AUPz8zpLHzoy6keWpTUT9j5Q/s1600-h/full+web.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM3YpZNLD4tuqBqw-jqZI5xAQsuYm4PPXJSLhXdDqU6Q4r-rnR33sQHBrSTVqdX8o7Svcfn-z2NLTO_HApYjTqB6PV-96Qr_sudomgYd_w8WcJV5AUPz8zpLHzoy6keWpTUT9j5Q/s400/full+web.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5253014542470935394" border="0" /></a></span></span></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><span>A Full Web</span></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><span><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><span>To date there is no egg sac, at least not one we can see tucked anywhere. Perhaps Charlotte II will die an old maid, ending her mother's legacy. I hope not. I hope that come next spring babies will once again launch into the air and when one hatchling asks what was my mother's middle initial, Wilbur can answer A for Arania and that baby will choose to stay behind, finding the porch an ideal spot for catching flies. Perhaps she will even become a writer....</span></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><span><br /><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><span>-Tigerlily</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi45jlotprs45c0VYoTKrAhIMq8-WSPlbrzd8TpRTIQVOIYw5bijmceXsZ6v0kgnPUv9tTs6UB1NXSBQV922_6kWQgX-4XQs0pHQ2CyE49qau3109Gxybp0QnlcHcnIf2GTJFfM2A/s1600-h/apg_charlottes_web_061227_ssh.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi45jlotprs45c0VYoTKrAhIMq8-WSPlbrzd8TpRTIQVOIYw5bijmceXsZ6v0kgnPUv9tTs6UB1NXSBQV922_6kWQgX-4XQs0pHQ2CyE49qau3109Gxybp0QnlcHcnIf2GTJFfM2A/s400/apg_charlottes_web_061227_ssh.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252623726364058002" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span>Tigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-40772960196997164402008-09-22T09:30:00.000-07:002008-09-23T09:05:39.906-07:00The Season of Libra<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjGSpXDN9ZTDdpetSsB2hK4BNfqe7g8eLoEKrGPUAjskmDBpprh0YkqU5vq8k9Rru3AB156rNEJlhu-FZG7IxEUiDp7TjVcgFymdJu8QS8xkrDXEiP-eEafoKjhY8dAN7Sa_hIiQ/s1600-h/Libra.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjGSpXDN9ZTDdpetSsB2hK4BNfqe7g8eLoEKrGPUAjskmDBpprh0YkqU5vq8k9Rru3AB156rNEJlhu-FZG7IxEUiDp7TjVcgFymdJu8QS8xkrDXEiP-eEafoKjhY8dAN7Sa_hIiQ/s400/Libra.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248548893654139922" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;" class="title"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Libra: September 23-October 23</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"> Libra, the only inanimate sign of the Zodiac, is ruled by Venus. Modern-day astrologers often view Libra as the most generous of the Zodiac because it represents the "Zenith of the Year," when the harvest of the spring's hard work is reaped. Because Venus is the goddess of love and beauty, Librans admire beauty in many forms, such as art, music, and even people. Librans are very likeable due to their captivating charm. Being an air sign, Librans are intellectual and continuously seek out knowledge and new ideas. Born under the sign of the Scales, their spirits thrive on balance and harmony and are most at peace when the world around them is orderly and serene.</p><p><br /></p><p>So much has happend around our house in the last couple of weeks, it's been pretty hard to put it all together here. We've been suffering from another bout of bad luck, but now that we have entered the season of Libra, (and my 49th birthday is only days away) the scales seem an appropriate theme for this post. The universe has a great way of bringing things back to level; for every action there is a reaction, for every death a birth, and for every bad; a good. When the days get tough, you have to concentrate on finding that good and being thankful for it.</p><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzKXg_h6cpKkXYV4lVvdYbv6MsldF7BIq5IOtkfneTqtJFaCvBeFPObiVjO1ldhufXGN8OXCtBoO3x_C4h4L3VXTfN5GX3g33bz_2yLYZVRhRuew0Oi6yV34t1SpmU1lq56jpGDg/s1600-h/the+3+stooges+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzKXg_h6cpKkXYV4lVvdYbv6MsldF7BIq5IOtkfneTqtJFaCvBeFPObiVjO1ldhufXGN8OXCtBoO3x_C4h4L3VXTfN5GX3g33bz_2yLYZVRhRuew0Oi6yV34t1SpmU1lq56jpGDg/s400/the+3+stooges+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248873186986649186" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Ruby, Quincy and Forrest (the 3 stooges) at the courtyard gate</span><br /></div><p>For starters, we nearly lost Quincy again. He came down with an infection of the pancreas and intestine, a virus that has been cropping up all over Colorado. We know lots of dogs that have come down with it, and even a couple that didn't make it. Quincy has a strong heart, and a good vet. Despite how desperately sick he was by the time I got him to the vet, he responded quickly to medication, and after an overnight stay with <a href="http://www.homestead-animal-hospital.com/">Dr. Geisellhardt</a>, was able to come home to recuperate with his loved ones around him. While the vet bill was 356.00, the <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">GOOD NEWS</span> is Quincy is well and still with us. He has one strong will to live. How many lives to dogs have?<br /></p><p>The water department red tagged our account for excessive water use and after an inspection it turned out one of our sprinkler system valve boxes was leaking. One 1/2 gallon of water every hour. Ouch! $250.00 repair. The <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">GOOD NEWS</span> is the water company gave us a one time water credit of $569.00 (yeah, that's really what the bill was) after the repair, so we won't be paying for water for a few months.<br /></p><p>Sarah was in a car accident. In trying to avoid a careless driver, Sarah jerked her car to the curb, but hit so hard she completely snapped the right front wheel in half and drove the break into the wheel. The left rear wheel drum was also crumpled into the left rear tire. The <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">GOOD NEWS</span> is was Sarah wasn't hurt. After the necessary repairs of nearly $1,000 to get the PT Cruiser drivable again, it still was having problems and the mechanics felt the frame itself was damaged. In the end, it was necessary for Sarah to buy a new car. She got a great deal and the dealership gave us a great trade in price for the PT Cruiser. I cried pretty hard to see my PT Cruiser go, I loved that car....Yesterday Sarah brought her new baby home, a 2008 Toyota Yaris. It really does look like the Prius has given birth as the two sit side by side in the garage. The same color, the same headlights, the same sloping roof, and yet everything is shorter, stubbier, and rounder, making the car look like an infant. If you've ever seen the television show <a href="http://all-toyota-info.com/vehicles/car/compact/starring-the-toyota-yaris-on-tv.html">Chuck</a>, he drives a Yaris as a member of the Nerd Herd at the Buy More. (Think Best Buy and Geek Squad)</p><p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuiTiZXgCODs8D77M5SjRvxOdk2bvewj8aS-QsX46V9A3VX6avBZSNpNvsZMmvqs0_JUo2fdqpD9VKhyphenhypheniAVlHDrgCy_kDvnmYsUP8PDBkPAfLDZhX_leIsPoheUuQKJoBFSBsI3Q/s1600-h/toyota_yaris.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuiTiZXgCODs8D77M5SjRvxOdk2bvewj8aS-QsX46V9A3VX6avBZSNpNvsZMmvqs0_JUo2fdqpD9VKhyphenhypheniAVlHDrgCy_kDvnmYsUP8PDBkPAfLDZhX_leIsPoheUuQKJoBFSBsI3Q/s400/toyota_yaris.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249236161485333698" border="0" /></a><br /><br />In between disasters I started scrapbooking Beth's photos from her trip to England last year. There were so many photos Scotland has an album of its own. 80 pages and over 200 photos later, I'm taking a short break before starting on England. I've got to get it done before Thanksgiving or I won't have a dining room table to eat on...<br /><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA3LESamc_3LRWb5EtuCYcZ6DaAXDqgHlXFv1Cg4gmeYk1HwVNrNmYjyjeQwIFM0Qds7A5Px8mHPIkgxZG-WpMasy2PClHTILQ61lsC-WeilyadrA26zmWyVpDbY57BHgdu87MjA/s1600-h/Scotland+Scrap.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA3LESamc_3LRWb5EtuCYcZ6DaAXDqgHlXFv1Cg4gmeYk1HwVNrNmYjyjeQwIFM0Qds7A5Px8mHPIkgxZG-WpMasy2PClHTILQ61lsC-WeilyadrA26zmWyVpDbY57BHgdu87MjA/s400/Scotland+Scrap.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248880295686790770" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The Wallace Monument, Stirling Scotland</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />I'm afraid there really isn't a way to photograph it to do it justice, and the glare on the pages means you really can't see much. There is a whole page devoted just to kilts, and we didn't forget to showcase Beth's New Rock boots that did all that walking.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXJO9Vmqg6J1CNBqVcPTg82qymrAFXBRCfhLDlv6kjpW_lIVLgiXwX6X5dzMJxGdPzowUkvBkbGEIBHsTsLWrPlHdkgdpp5LKTFsus1k7FsDIVF6YgcjJDak0T4akijwuEggivYw/s1600-h/boot.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXJO9Vmqg6J1CNBqVcPTg82qymrAFXBRCfhLDlv6kjpW_lIVLgiXwX6X5dzMJxGdPzowUkvBkbGEIBHsTsLWrPlHdkgdpp5LKTFsus1k7FsDIVF6YgcjJDak0T4akijwuEggivYw/s400/boot.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249237783168847026" border="0" /></a><br />I've also managed to finish 4 pairs of socks. The first one is called Rivendell, designed with the that lovely land of the Elves in mind. It's from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0981497209?tag=beeborepor-20&camp=14573&creative=327641&linkCode=as1&creativeASIN=0981497209&adid=1S9QQE812WBH3GZBSYYE&">Eclectic Sole</a> by <a href="http://beebonnet.typepad.com/">Janel Laidman</a>.<br /></div></div><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl08R4p6QQoUaQiNyVJzvuiB9IxZ1vJ3BeUgWPLsOY56YQiZt58YYLE5rmdcqU7cvJofcmTOvKYjQdQnCylTzg4ml5H97hugAOk4xp6q9n_nMxdJdvRMO7qoMe9novT_LKUuISEg/s1600-h/rivendell1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl08R4p6QQoUaQiNyVJzvuiB9IxZ1vJ3BeUgWPLsOY56YQiZt58YYLE5rmdcqU7cvJofcmTOvKYjQdQnCylTzg4ml5H97hugAOk4xp6q9n_nMxdJdvRMO7qoMe9novT_LKUuISEg/s400/rivendell1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248870481510311554" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Rivendell</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Knit in Socks That Rock, lightweight, colorway Gaia</span><br /></div><p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxyEVQ5E2hidgpkuAsMKh9C13Ui2eg82QX-vWRc7FGkHOlUBJvMNmZx3GoO12yuEaXCRMQ10Duj7Pi1FMxfskmnZZpx_eYDLTGnAKvNKLJxsVUNstyo4YSjWNSKJlWLmA6I4hatA/s1600-h/rivendell2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxyEVQ5E2hidgpkuAsMKh9C13Ui2eg82QX-vWRc7FGkHOlUBJvMNmZx3GoO12yuEaXCRMQ10Duj7Pi1FMxfskmnZZpx_eYDLTGnAKvNKLJxsVUNstyo4YSjWNSKJlWLmA6I4hatA/s400/rivendell2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248870698649167042" border="0" /></a><br />Then I turned out 3 quick pair of my plain vanilla socks. It's getting really difficult (and boring) to keep trying to photograph all these socks on my own feet. Why can't I get a cute foot model like all the other sock knitters have?<br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg42S8HXi9ipZBz3tYW7KDIDwX7oUiiIxVPTHNKXgntRn1PBwWmCiFsyhO7nG0UVnRQhLSauEmFqjir8Y2ZpWVE0ZQ9SOQGiaVQRxmCxI1DPC4JqzYYTXro5dOBpty0TQyAv7JjzQ/s1600-h/dearfrankiesocks.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg42S8HXi9ipZBz3tYW7KDIDwX7oUiiIxVPTHNKXgntRn1PBwWmCiFsyhO7nG0UVnRQhLSauEmFqjir8Y2ZpWVE0ZQ9SOQGiaVQRxmCxI1DPC4JqzYYTXro5dOBpty0TQyAv7JjzQ/s400/dearfrankiesocks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248872388217284914" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Dear Frankie Socks</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipVSNAqiMkTFZybK0Tx-x_K6c1ggj7xVurrRtTEZdFaFJq13ruqIuYD9qwoH5NIAAFF2qqk0CcjXrPL_Ptisz2c1KGjlwWECE7-GzjXoe3vRYnAhcT6LcaCkuQNSH0S8BXejOAPQ/s1600-h/tropical+socks.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipVSNAqiMkTFZybK0Tx-x_K6c1ggj7xVurrRtTEZdFaFJq13ruqIuYD9qwoH5NIAAFF2qqk0CcjXrPL_Ptisz2c1KGjlwWECE7-GzjXoe3vRYnAhcT6LcaCkuQNSH0S8BXejOAPQ/s400/tropical+socks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248871468467653026" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Tropical Socks</span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQlrLwusxb5sJXPpINLBhyphenhyphenOcCbicHf-IbMyMoT44Bi6QW2kyyF9M0qGPR4U_VW_ndT_XFtfWijo67v6xDT1to9rHKswZj3Ut0fa4WbvY2FMuaW4xiUNU-lvT-KaFrQAawxj8uToQ/s1600-h/Pick-a-Mix+Socks.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQlrLwusxb5sJXPpINLBhyphenhyphenOcCbicHf-IbMyMoT44Bi6QW2kyyF9M0qGPR4U_VW_ndT_XFtfWijo67v6xDT1to9rHKswZj3Ut0fa4WbvY2FMuaW4xiUNU-lvT-KaFrQAawxj8uToQ/s400/Pick-a-Mix+Socks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248871741161301490" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Pick-a-Mix Socks</span><br /></div><p>Since this is the season of the harvest, I'm preparing for the winter ahead by building up my stash of yarn. While I won't ruin the surprise of telling what is going to be made from all this yarn, I will tell you that while there are a few pairs of socks tucked in there, I've decided I need to take a break from footwear. There will be several fun things coming from the stash, like tea cozies, and some extra special pieces that will be tucked away in hope chests.</p><p><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb1U-Ka0lq7TaYDQXBTkQWnLmi3zHJSBAo6OJ9F5ep2zes-daKgE7v2IvIIrRtyK-JfX-0FTpBMkK-E9WLZUaGpn4reBsjVJrtWZjqs9SIiZdGRbPlBscfPSQnBatzMvJLF5KKcQ/s1600-h/septemberstash.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb1U-Ka0lq7TaYDQXBTkQWnLmi3zHJSBAo6OJ9F5ep2zes-daKgE7v2IvIIrRtyK-JfX-0FTpBMkK-E9WLZUaGpn4reBsjVJrtWZjqs9SIiZdGRbPlBscfPSQnBatzMvJLF5KKcQ/s400/septemberstash.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248878800928765330" border="0" /></a>This is only about 1/2 my actual stash BTW. As yarn stashes go, is that bad? Yesterday I went to pick up some size 4 double pointed needles and came home with more sock yarn. It was on sale and I couldn't resist. More crack for the addict. And what would I do without my wonderful swift and ball winder? Without it I would have no joints left in my arms at all. I guess I'm ready for the snow to fly and lots of hours watching CNN and election coverage. Beth, Sarah and I are completely smitten with Anderson Cooper. If things don't turn out well with the election, we'll be leaving the U.S. I've chosen Canada so I get Universal Health care and enough cold weather that I can keep knitting. Beth is setting her sights on England, but then she has a whole lot less furniture to move....<br /></p><p>May peace, balance and harmony be in store for the remainder of 2008.</p><p>-Tigerlily<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWk68x0J5Re7xvFO3P3z1hG2mnFRyay8nPSyWcZAWaxg01uRMYCtjyV6RFV8hNJXBFHzCQl7bj5uVqZtreed2nWHLmxJ_CPBbPyVXy09_dvwLbngeLtk3s5_JmS-0ti1bnME2yJA/s1600-h/libra2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWk68x0J5Re7xvFO3P3z1hG2mnFRyay8nPSyWcZAWaxg01uRMYCtjyV6RFV8hNJXBFHzCQl7bj5uVqZtreed2nWHLmxJ_CPBbPyVXy09_dvwLbngeLtk3s5_JmS-0ti1bnME2yJA/s400/libra2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248884671576594226" border="0" /></a><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Tigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-85649639958312250982008-08-13T09:07:00.000-07:002008-08-21T08:29:13.360-07:00There and back again a Geek's tale<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSNNFjvQ84q_seNMlg8Vs7ZrGzckpGZPJ9-x-0OUdgD8V6lpWKaSvxFuuUIBjxT9H6Pomk9iOB1_p7PMAWd3U-LFis651Wy6IUn5mwq78jNNO639Y2yw8CXkB_jYGnGCr_oPmyjg/s1600-h/motivational-poster-comic-con-ashamed-small.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSNNFjvQ84q_seNMlg8Vs7ZrGzckpGZPJ9-x-0OUdgD8V6lpWKaSvxFuuUIBjxT9H6Pomk9iOB1_p7PMAWd3U-LFis651Wy6IUn5mwq78jNNO639Y2yw8CXkB_jYGnGCr_oPmyjg/s400/motivational-poster-comic-con-ashamed-small.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236304589967169394" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I survived Comic Con 2008 and lived to tell about it. Actually, my telling is rather late, as the news of Con was all over the internet seconds after it began. People were busy blogging and uploading pictures all over the convention center before panel chairs had gone cold. Comic Con is Geek Heaven, and everywhere you look there are i-phones and blackberries, lap tops and digital cameras. Everyone is talking and texting and snapping photos like mad. And, since you spend a huge amount of your time standing in line it seems perfectly logical to use that time uploading photos to Flikr, and answering the same question over and over. "What are you standing in line for? Somehow, I think if I had dared to knit while standing in line the whole place probably would have gone into lock down. Natural fiber! Wooden needles! No computer chips!<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsKRqf2W2BnudR-nXZSkosAjpt7IDtoQ3eFNUokD6LpaXkLDNPc1syi5-ezlHjps51H4UglkCnKyZVyY17GpVLflRWfDaYWKnBVXVvpfvpy3cW_KBWvTaDw-7PXaWOa6IhbWJTvQ/s1600-h/crowd.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsKRqf2W2BnudR-nXZSkosAjpt7IDtoQ3eFNUokD6LpaXkLDNPc1syi5-ezlHjps51H4UglkCnKyZVyY17GpVLflRWfDaYWKnBVXVvpfvpy3cW_KBWvTaDw-7PXaWOa6IhbWJTvQ/s400/crowd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236268074132779890" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">the crowd<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">I've never had 5 days fly past so quickly or been so tired when it was over. As things went I never had a chance to meet up with someone I very much wanted to and I am very bummed over it. (Sorry Nancy) Once the convention center traps you, it's over. It doesn't give up its dead easily. Once I saw the nightmare that is con, I knew I wasn't going to test mine or Nancy's mettle in trying to deal with all those people and all that traffic. She was better off where she was, tucked up snug at home and enjoying her garden and sewing.<br /><br /></div></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG974uOhfEy9IwfNAVsMBEjT1kWVoKBKZH-Y5iEot6Koj6czdvEGQ0_C1d_xt1c_RmxRshf_aAS5NYleTlJoteT25f5aYlHQRwOiA8KRK2k5kuAmbmN5oO-00RfDj659F5bWYKCg/s1600-h/me+at+con.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG974uOhfEy9IwfNAVsMBEjT1kWVoKBKZH-Y5iEot6Koj6czdvEGQ0_C1d_xt1c_RmxRshf_aAS5NYleTlJoteT25f5aYlHQRwOiA8KRK2k5kuAmbmN5oO-00RfDj659F5bWYKCg/s400/me+at+con.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236284897556454754" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Day 1, the reporter goes to work</span> </div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIcZoaC9ljwM1hItS3CAuZCYjXI9pIYzggssJqXnG3LvP3TQ2HQr1ohvaX-V2viduZxXERm872dd2DuFtzx2BnioM75x4p_K96xLucYHNx5ToTZcAMKTQHHeVMEj70VLy9DpITwg/s1600-h/fivedays.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIcZoaC9ljwM1hItS3CAuZCYjXI9pIYzggssJqXnG3LvP3TQ2HQr1ohvaX-V2viduZxXERm872dd2DuFtzx2BnioM75x4p_K96xLucYHNx5ToTZcAMKTQHHeVMEj70VLy9DpITwg/s400/fivedays.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236630227162249362" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Five days later...</span><br /></div><br /><br />I had a great time, and almost felt 18 again, until 3 days of 12 mile a day walking caught up with me. Then I just wanted curl up on my bag of swag and die. I rallied again on Saturday after sleeping until noon, and spending a day in the sun and fresh air on Sunday worked wonders. I couldn't visit San Diego without some time spent by the water and the maritime museum. However, by 4:30 a.m. Monday morning at the San Diego Airport, both Beth and I looked like we could have starred in Planet Terror. (After running out of shirts, I was forced to wear a free swag shirt with Terminator on the front which didn't help matters any.)<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeOlq5rrp7ZmOJYc1T9DL20iB5ALBOM0owkOamS8donELSO8KfEsihrfWv2Lp7ySY7GNbQA4KzM_T9L4pGml7QZaIfOGBtPWQNl-CZs_ZbosTn7H9Zpypqugrxns06qsxhShSb2g/s1600-h/the+boys.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeOlq5rrp7ZmOJYc1T9DL20iB5ALBOM0owkOamS8donELSO8KfEsihrfWv2Lp7ySY7GNbQA4KzM_T9L4pGml7QZaIfOGBtPWQNl-CZs_ZbosTn7H9Zpypqugrxns06qsxhShSb2g/s400/the+boys.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236281608208766946" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">the Zoners<br /><br /></span></div>Despite my complaining about walking 1.5 miles uphill to our hotel on 4 consecutive nights (that's after that 9 miles at the convention center, walking to dinner, etc.), I was declared a great traveling companion and praised for keeping my end up. I met Beth's editors and put several names with real life faces from<a href="http://zone.aintitcool.com/index.php"> The Zone</a> at <a href="http://www.aintitcool.com/">AintItCoolNews</a>. I was declared "cool" for being a mom over 40 attending Comic Con. It's easy to forget "we moms" were the original fan girls who stood in line for the first Star Trek movie, Wrath of Con and dressed up as Princess Leia for Star Wars episodes IV, V, and VI. Without us, this crop wouldn't be here.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0bQM4BjxUBjrbNgAjhHC3kuuoYV3VjxUuL9duwwq-uH99NISD1S1-odXijohXF_6MFPHxHOU9MUDO5MW2HZmTO8uCKgqTrPe3AkENtcZ3tjmcJNc7yYa7zX0qWMDKcLnZl50OA/s1600-h/mom+cropped.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0bQM4BjxUBjrbNgAjhHC3kuuoYV3VjxUuL9duwwq-uH99NISD1S1-odXijohXF_6MFPHxHOU9MUDO5MW2HZmTO8uCKgqTrPe3AkENtcZ3tjmcJNc7yYa7zX0qWMDKcLnZl50OA/s400/mom+cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236275431516611986" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Ray Stevenson and me (he still wears his 13th legion ring BTW)<br /><br /></span></div>I sat mere feet away from Rick Baker, Zach Snyder, and David Boreanez. I got an autograph from Ray Stevenson who played Pullo in Rome (the whole event passed in a mist as I basked in the glow of his wonderful smile and blue eyes.)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho0MovmRx3JwHY-hXxSLo4nDw66l4z7N0QtbAAKgUBS7AR_KXIVksV7HwbgbOGceYj2JXfDA3zPRyHRusKx95LRZrvOOEXOB4hVt-meSuRscN1-7f88NWFJLsyMrDPMCuib7hQwg/s1600-h/mal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho0MovmRx3JwHY-hXxSLo4nDw66l4z7N0QtbAAKgUBS7AR_KXIVksV7HwbgbOGceYj2JXfDA3zPRyHRusKx95LRZrvOOEXOB4hVt-meSuRscN1-7f88NWFJLsyMrDPMCuib7hQwg/s400/mal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236634027750033170" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Nathan Fillian</span><br /></div><br />I actually glimpsed Nathan Fillian as I was forced by the sheer strength and size of the crowd to circle the booth twice while he was signing autographs. I wanted to meet him so badly and tell him how much I loved the film Waitress, but I was shunned in favor of a woman wearing a full length velour cape covered in Comic Con buttons. Maybe next year...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeTxwD-Qg4pVoulmINxKWAMcdt03yr1U3d5btiUFGE6R41pkaw57NarjSxgmeAuZorRnkhWyvaiNqns_ZgAxck6K70Trzg1PneKRTbNVHl2wLqf7xnI08B0tHVWAwVbx-GyIx9_Q/s1600-h/shirts.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeTxwD-Qg4pVoulmINxKWAMcdt03yr1U3d5btiUFGE6R41pkaw57NarjSxgmeAuZorRnkhWyvaiNqns_ZgAxck6K70Trzg1PneKRTbNVHl2wLqf7xnI08B0tHVWAwVbx-GyIx9_Q/s400/shirts.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236269718005023858" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">a wall of t-shirts<br /><br /></span></div>If you like to show your geekyness by wearing t-shirts, then Comic Con is the place for you. This photo shows only one wall of a 4 sided booth. Actually 8 sides, as all four of the inside walls were covered as well. There were T-shirts of every conceivable kind (I splurged on a Firefly hoodie). Comic Con is a sea of t-shirts, action figures, posters, and costumes. A life size Archie the Owl ship from Watchman hovered over the convention floor. Row upon row of comic books and the artists who created them scribbled autographs and sketches. I fell in love with the Elizabeth Swann dolls by Tonner and was ready to pull out my wallet for the Lara Croft had she been available.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kyqRm8awrnspx_-conNpNMVs3Xff6GqiJehwURIIkFhvPH6Kc_mMlH81QDqICPhrhMYvV7DmpmvGuZ5Mn1Ag-7y329PooHIcUHg8JYM7cjZyjMySKS1JTREbo6nOwejrSVyRoA/s1600-h/archie+full.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kyqRm8awrnspx_-conNpNMVs3Xff6GqiJehwURIIkFhvPH6Kc_mMlH81QDqICPhrhMYvV7DmpmvGuZ5Mn1Ag-7y329PooHIcUHg8JYM7cjZyjMySKS1JTREbo6nOwejrSVyRoA/s400/archie+full.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236277379886808274" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyw8yt4Xhacdr63gI9HNe6vt2v8zI2alDrdhGKp-J002UWPrnde0xKU4r5Y_PWz5dGrOvpWRj6ixxN2Amblj1e8wQ7gqWdqoRq7HrCnOjHIJ2lmCQ5i4vBmjroq2Blu-8CXAwZRw/s1600-h/archie+insides.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyw8yt4Xhacdr63gI9HNe6vt2v8zI2alDrdhGKp-J002UWPrnde0xKU4r5Y_PWz5dGrOvpWRj6ixxN2Amblj1e8wQ7gqWdqoRq7HrCnOjHIJ2lmCQ5i4vBmjroq2Blu-8CXAwZRw/s400/archie+insides.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236277957819362578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Achimedes, Night Owl's ship from Watchman. </span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Archie's insides. I have no idea if there<br />was a coffee maker...<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />There is a phenomenon at Con, that I just can't quite grasp. The insanity of SWAG. Don't get me wrong, I love my free t-shirts, and collecting buttons for my lanyard. My BONES poster and Rock Me Sexy Jesus bracelet are among my favorite swag of con. But fighting people for giant shopping bags? It's true. I spent 3 days coveting the "Big Frakkin Bag" but I wasn't willing to risk my life to get one. I swear Warner Brothers has ulterior motives when they purposefully release a new bag every 12 hours at 20 minute intervals. And Fox's free poster tubes? Gone on preview night. As one bus driver told us, "Today's hot bag is tomorrows garbage, and we'll be seeing them around the streets for the next six months." I kept picturing the sleeping bums blanketed in "Big Fracking Bags" all winter...<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm7WjMudNsVq9H6sEyWzzv2ZBCf94Y8Hm75O8G5BS1-wPO3dY5Qc9-TgfkhJL5_-8lRALA0-rQr883IP-33D8FLMa-U_B9oHXJeZTxsK8LpNwKD2VPcaQKea9SAwjuQ6zxkdLvOA/s1600-h/bag.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm7WjMudNsVq9H6sEyWzzv2ZBCf94Y8Hm75O8G5BS1-wPO3dY5Qc9-TgfkhJL5_-8lRALA0-rQr883IP-33D8FLMa-U_B9oHXJeZTxsK8LpNwKD2VPcaQKea9SAwjuQ6zxkdLvOA/s400/bag.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236270213033530914" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">the big frakkin bag<br /><br /></span></div>I lunched with a producer of the Simpsons, who congratulated me on what a talented daughter I had, and asked how could he raise his baby girl to make sure she turned out just as geeky. That was the best compliment I've ever had. I only wish my answer had been better. (ask me again Don, I've been practicing) We all had a great time and you couldn't ask for a nicer, more down-to-earth geek of a person. It was a pleasure to meet you Mr. Payne.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiezIQWl4dNZ8aK9GU-YnPrEP2CR_UrdTuZpo5mSFEQHRtwrEzEJfv3iGk2ute-MYiqugSuNkbel06Hobx2j7hZKi2uQRQxlEBNCtHlOIW5WfzUbs-PgSnv444LTUEStGQPq92k8Q/s1600-h/don.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiezIQWl4dNZ8aK9GU-YnPrEP2CR_UrdTuZpo5mSFEQHRtwrEzEJfv3iGk2ute-MYiqugSuNkbel06Hobx2j7hZKi2uQRQxlEBNCtHlOIW5WfzUbs-PgSnv444LTUEStGQPq92k8Q/s400/don.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236272236741016434" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">the Simpsons panel</span><br /></div><br /><br />Saturday is costume day and I worked as line manager for Lara Croft. By days end we were really wishing we charged $5 a photo.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAz1zmhq3JsxVWETMvK4Bhk37dCVIr0TnbD0xGqDdu1m_sQwBp9uAzw3pb03DQ5pX2biyU7jkHyoRVHlBVkaKPHKtm1IsO0etlZ4fJrM7CQuWtHgVTe15LACBw8St7W0-sEro6Fw/s1600-h/croft+and+jedi.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAz1zmhq3JsxVWETMvK4Bhk37dCVIr0TnbD0xGqDdu1m_sQwBp9uAzw3pb03DQ5pX2biyU7jkHyoRVHlBVkaKPHKtm1IsO0etlZ4fJrM7CQuWtHgVTe15LACBw8St7W0-sEro6Fw/s400/croft+and+jedi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236282444151768562" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;">Beth and Ewan McGregor?<br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvZbPM5PpV-jVdQSZRQrWeDi7JmpJVl-4LgcrQYZzCUNFn4vrLfKDoDw3iFJVvTw1V74ustyA2O5UN9RGmh4GP3xdCr-bCWzvHWSzYp3uaWVawNLyV5vrLbWmISH-w_VnMgNkNkw/s1600-h/editors.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvZbPM5PpV-jVdQSZRQrWeDi7JmpJVl-4LgcrQYZzCUNFn4vrLfKDoDw3iFJVvTw1V74ustyA2O5UN9RGmh4GP3xdCr-bCWzvHWSzYp3uaWVawNLyV5vrLbWmISH-w_VnMgNkNkw/s400/editors.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236283145920004002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />Beth, Scott and Eric (the editors)</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdS0TfPgzZ5zix2_eCn3ijGyBC-XTKXz0wnEqxmPtEF5DRJXzCjUTmBn550XzoQydqpQtDr2J1gCq6xXbtUgZ-iqxAeJlBen8jxfCh2HldjY3W7SPGk5ErfJUU2KDU1mwaCF5w4A/s1600-h/jabba.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdS0TfPgzZ5zix2_eCn3ijGyBC-XTKXz0wnEqxmPtEF5DRJXzCjUTmBn550XzoQydqpQtDr2J1gCq6xXbtUgZ-iqxAeJlBen8jxfCh2HldjY3W7SPGk5ErfJUU2KDU1mwaCF5w4A/s400/jabba.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236283909316402642" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Even Jabba had to have a picture with Lara Croft...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Beth got to meet Lena Headey, and I had my first real anger management issue, when someone leaked the stars wear abouts and we were descended upon by paparazzi. After waiting eons for first the autograph session to end, and then the inevitable executive ass kissing, I was shoved away by a wall of photographers just as Ms. Headey was introduced to the Cinematical team and we got our photo op. Somewhere out there are loads of photos of Lara Croft and Lena Headey, and they are by rights mine. Cough 'em up you paparazzi scum! Lena Headey was sweet and understanding. Beth had a chance to talk with her later at a party and apologized profusely for putting her arm around the ladies waist. Lena told her not worry about it, it wasn't a problem at all, and that Beth had "looked great."<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9rPPyW3hfPOB97duNxyHs2qS2DOKodn-SAP5_bZ9d1brlE-xAm2_YegewPJIjODGiukgUyvJSfgwRTgsz8kNXIKl_fDIfWXKxwzZFgS3CsaWWmNI7UJEzdHVzvnDJgLArCZtxsg/s1600-h/croft+and+headey.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9rPPyW3hfPOB97duNxyHs2qS2DOKodn-SAP5_bZ9d1brlE-xAm2_YegewPJIjODGiukgUyvJSfgwRTgsz8kNXIKl_fDIfWXKxwzZFgS3CsaWWmNI7UJEzdHVzvnDJgLArCZtxsg/s400/croft+and+headey.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236280095482055586" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Scott, Beth, and Lena Headey (barely)</span> </div><br />And now, here, in Colorado, the buzz from Comic Con is wearing thin, the foothills saw their first dusting of snow and the leaves are beginning to turn. Summer went by much to quickly. I had a great time but I am very content to be back in my Hobbit hole with my knitting and my puppies, and a stack of good books. I'm 1/2 way through my first graphic novel, Watchman. Jane Austin forgive me, but I have succumbed to the power of the comic book. I've got to be ready for next year.<br /><br />-TigerlilyTigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-74946695854322888462008-07-20T09:56:00.001-07:002008-07-21T09:01:01.085-07:00Miss Pettigrew Goes To Comic Con<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-0D1BieoxLbc6tDHaIcehlMudtNFJqYYdMvXym-y930pHHAFSy_6vuZfo2M9JvpEErV9osnbMBckgISLK5VehAm-L901Wg3hjh3-UD6CsawPJgunwoZGabKhuWNUmP7-TumQw8w/s1600-h/misspettigrew.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-0D1BieoxLbc6tDHaIcehlMudtNFJqYYdMvXym-y930pHHAFSy_6vuZfo2M9JvpEErV9osnbMBckgISLK5VehAm-L901Wg3hjh3-UD6CsawPJgunwoZGabKhuWNUmP7-TumQw8w/s400/misspettigrew.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225489953419241138" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The list of duties for my replacement is posted on the refrigerator door. I've done the laundry and cleaned the house within an inch of its life. Had a complete physical including an unexpected UGI. Finished two pirate shirts for closing fair weekend, and prepped for the sewing I need to do when I get back. Broke down in tears on Saturday. I think to say I'm feeling a bit frayed around the edges would be accurate.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQuyeIjLWyRG7EuZKBm_zavQ-lSjHDkTPnAQjp7LfZwUkK38oPj8l4j6U7CxvJkX73WVGmmlODDliLRX1JQEaXL9zwonAU0YF5vOu1Na28rIWXc__Dgh8gtNwQyzGMxs1ONyrgqw/s1600-h/pettigrew4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQuyeIjLWyRG7EuZKBm_zavQ-lSjHDkTPnAQjp7LfZwUkK38oPj8l4j6U7CxvJkX73WVGmmlODDliLRX1JQEaXL9zwonAU0YF5vOu1Na28rIWXc__Dgh8gtNwQyzGMxs1ONyrgqw/s400/pettigrew4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225478698473758306" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The bags are packed. Actually, they've been packed and unpacked, double and triple checked, and every time I think there can't possibly be one more thing we need, I remember something else.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"> 1. Boarding passes, Comic Con ticket receipts and daily schedule, check.<br /> 2. Camera, cell phones & all necessary cords, memory cards & batteries, check. <br /> 3. Lara Croft guns, holsters, outfit, braid and boobs, check.<br /> (boots won't fit, so Brenda Starr will be wearing them, TSA wll <span style="font-style: italic;">love</span> that...)<br /> 4. Entire Laura Mercier makeup counter, check.<br /></div><br />I keep thinking about those signs at the airport that talk about smart travelers packing light and being prepared for screening with their one quart ziploc bag containing 3 bottles of liquids and I want to just throw up in the roller tray. I know that every woman traveling in the airport at that moment must have checked a trunk containing her makeup, facial products and shoes alone.<br /><br />(Have you ever noticed how all women travelers at the airport look? Their clothing is color coordinated, their makeup impeccable, their hair is coiffed and their wearing heels. They aren't even sweating. I'll be puffing like a freight train, sans make up, my hair in a clip, and wearing flip flops so I don't have to struggle with my shoes at screening. I'll look like I haven't slept for a week and must be rushing to the bedside of a dying friend. I must have missed the class on "How A Lady Travels" in girl school.)<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7uv-w9utHLje0GZ3N0chJ0or5MuT9XI7Fv2SzI4whrnS3are0E1ewWOCOWU9mkbs20eAnNDJkSvoaJwizSKC1ZfKw4OsnZV0c1hwVElhNDP88XBlCps4iBsRSBiUCfwiTMz4nMQ/s1600-h/pettigrew2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7uv-w9utHLje0GZ3N0chJ0or5MuT9XI7Fv2SzI4whrnS3are0E1ewWOCOWU9mkbs20eAnNDJkSvoaJwizSKC1ZfKw4OsnZV0c1hwVElhNDP88XBlCps4iBsRSBiUCfwiTMz4nMQ/s400/pettigrew2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225495930208522946" border="0" /></a><br />We've had our spa day with hair coloring, highlighting, hair cuts, manicures, pedicures (open toed shoes) What must it have been like to get ready for a transcontinental oceanic crossing and European tour in the 1890's? They had to change clothes several times a day and "dress" for dinner every night.<br /><br />Once a schedule contains a cocktail party, a red carpet party, and chance of celebrity interviews, all hope of traveling with just a few pairs of jeans, t-shirts and a pony tail holder vanished faster than you can say push up bra. Even if you only take one pair of heels and three dresses, there's the necessary underpinnings, jewelery and smoky eye "evening" makeup. All hope of fitting everything in a carry on size suitcase are long gone. We're just hoping we make the weight limit.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMCqd0AKR4KoEeDk3nlQ5Dwd0Shx5BaNEz8Y2-BKBvmwRxhfcMKDq3pispXjB80og-6Zqw_X9dX47Xwyy_5rql8KlGWaN1dzBF9o971sB7S2RrAHbC9ZlD8-uKwBezRHRN54MWw/s1600-h/pettigrew3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMCqd0AKR4KoEeDk3nlQ5Dwd0Shx5BaNEz8Y2-BKBvmwRxhfcMKDq3pispXjB80og-6Zqw_X9dX47Xwyy_5rql8KlGWaN1dzBF9o971sB7S2RrAHbC9ZlD8-uKwBezRHRN54MWw/s400/pettigrew3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225486337428862258" border="0" /></a><br />I'm feeling very relieved that I'm only the social secretary and therefore not required to make an appearance at anything where I may end up wearing my food. ( I do have a secret weapon that ladies in the 1890's wish they'd had, a Tide stain stick) However, Brenda Starr says it is quite possible she may be allowed to bring a guest, so Miss Pettigrew must be prepared for all eventualities. I think I may need a bigger suitcase for the anti-wrinkle cream...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Pretty women, Fascinating...Sipping coffee,<br />Dancing...Pretty women are a wonder. Pretty women!<br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrJSFlDYkgdjic6e2VESInnA9DPmd0PFSCRSBOTb0t9DJ0TXdGw40JvWAG4cHSYa8hHu7NEuvP56oTf6lNbXOEyrD4btDTmugW_QYeH_tP2vz5m176hTG4kRU9IsfFE-RpHl88w/s1600-h/pettigrew.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrJSFlDYkgdjic6e2VESInnA9DPmd0PFSCRSBOTb0t9DJ0TXdGw40JvWAG4cHSYa8hHu7NEuvP56oTf6lNbXOEyrD4btDTmugW_QYeH_tP2vz5m176hTG4kRU9IsfFE-RpHl88w/s400/pettigrew.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225490619084354850" border="0" /></a><br />-TigerlilyTigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-23820376988654189802008-07-07T10:45:00.000-07:002008-07-08T08:02:04.035-07:00Weigh anchor and hoist the mizzen!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0uZASia3e1IdQa324PGpsj6sdyeknvYL2KcYUcw5RNZFo3UBu4SMpui9gty5pbgdbZIqyuF7QBzK4vfFrueHuoCBbEErGzZFH9UTPwDDCHULgmaGG8ZJ94bqHjA8Ai2Dj-3DRA/s1600-h/windowjacksarah.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0uZASia3e1IdQa324PGpsj6sdyeknvYL2KcYUcw5RNZFo3UBu4SMpui9gty5pbgdbZIqyuF7QBzK4vfFrueHuoCBbEErGzZFH9UTPwDDCHULgmaGG8ZJ94bqHjA8Ai2Dj-3DRA/s400/windowjacksarah.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220295100305206178" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We've entered the silly season for us folks who like to dress up and pretend we are someone else. The Colorado Renaissance Festival is in full swing in Larkspur and the shire is looking especially pretty this year. After spending a few days with Mike in Orange County, CA ( We went to Disneyland!), I rushed home and spent 2 days of non-stop sewing. The waistcoat came off like a dream, but the first pair of breeches were too small. I was up till 2am finishing the second pair along with 23 buttons and buttonholes! Saturday dawned cool and crisp, perfect fair weather, and we had a great time.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTPevYaLBlGf_QIuPTqpFxiXakKkJHs4KuloPwNU2JqkPhHmm4lzmcuVxzi2fBy025z9bXLHJ1TvhQtcWzGaMSwxCgxa_YfcTsgY5bhQPBYrnHTL6GmAGKNna8KTpyEEJEXjHVTQ/s1600-h/Bethpirate.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTPevYaLBlGf_QIuPTqpFxiXakKkJHs4KuloPwNU2JqkPhHmm4lzmcuVxzi2fBy025z9bXLHJ1TvhQtcWzGaMSwxCgxa_YfcTsgY5bhQPBYrnHTL6GmAGKNna8KTpyEEJEXjHVTQ/s400/Bethpirate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220296292089900306" border="0" /></a><br />I'm not sure if it's the fact that Sarah is dating Jack Sparrow, or that we long so for the sea that we just can't get the smell of salt water out of our noses, but we have set aside more regal courtly attire for pirate garb and we may never go back. No plaids for Highlands Weekend, no breath restricting corsets, we've traded them for tricorns and cutlasses. Why fight with skirts when you can have drop front breeches? Besides, pirates live to accessorize!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKmwHtJHWLHMG-_7HoA7GNlGcv_5FEiir2CS1tJhZLwU56V4f5vwFBLv-iZvpjeAls_YUGKB7ig8_F6GvJ_wy0eTZ3cDtLxvXyfp0C5yp8F1DDdT56qkZReZte3S0AdF5Kizce-A/s1600-h/Sarah+pirate.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKmwHtJHWLHMG-_7HoA7GNlGcv_5FEiir2CS1tJhZLwU56V4f5vwFBLv-iZvpjeAls_YUGKB7ig8_F6GvJ_wy0eTZ3cDtLxvXyfp0C5yp8F1DDdT56qkZReZte3S0AdF5Kizce-A/s400/Sarah+pirate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220298454057882498" border="0" /></a><br />With belts and baldrics, boots and sash, flintlocks and cutlass, their is just no end to the ways in which a pirate can make her kit her own. And one can never have to much leather and buckles or feathers... But tis too true, we are naught but humble pirates!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8_WvVgk-HSidqZxqyEjn_7EYkxwCUN9lkuRFdW8LNTy8dqbE7aBUpIDfqbWZa_LrtaYAqHhdJ4KB_JkbxuJZjNl72mW9Guo1tS8mJlWshYQJKkylUW2MLPNxmYVNx_-PtZWs7Ng/s1600-h/Pirate+Gretchen.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8_WvVgk-HSidqZxqyEjn_7EYkxwCUN9lkuRFdW8LNTy8dqbE7aBUpIDfqbWZa_LrtaYAqHhdJ4KB_JkbxuJZjNl72mW9Guo1tS8mJlWshYQJKkylUW2MLPNxmYVNx_-PtZWs7Ng/s400/Pirate+Gretchen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220299461637984898" border="0" /></a><br />Unfortunately, it looks as though our faire may well be about to embark on a voyage that may bring changes that don't suit us pirates. For more information on the bilge sucking scum, you can read <a href="http://www.csindy.com/gyrobase/Content?oid=oid%3A26502">this article</a>. In protest, our scurvy crew may just set sail for other ports next season like New Orleans for <a href="http://www.pyratecon.com/bio_buccaneers.php">Pyrate Con.</a> It's going to prove a bit difficult to haul the ship overland till we hit open seas, but maybe we can enlist the help of Calypso...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2lCWz56tzRs52sxFwROYjcYkdfKc6_A48m-IeIJJ9rv9tKmi8HDB6rIIE5EMICJzC2_tnVT3BuKMF-HSsUJpFU7EMPC9SMzjaaj2Ck8r3i2guUVGEGp8_Lwjm1OLnq0WJjS-YAw/s1600-h/PirateMom.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2lCWz56tzRs52sxFwROYjcYkdfKc6_A48m-IeIJJ9rv9tKmi8HDB6rIIE5EMICJzC2_tnVT3BuKMF-HSsUJpFU7EMPC9SMzjaaj2Ck8r3i2guUVGEGp8_Lwjm1OLnq0WJjS-YAw/s400/PirateMom.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220302207240413746" border="0" /></a><br />I think this is all just great practice for our future. With global warming and the melting of the polar ice caps (the North Pole is predicted to completely melt this summer for the very first time) and the subsequent rise in ocean levels, we figure it won't be long before life could look a lot like Water World. Why not plan ahead and take up piracy? Imagine if you will, a vessel under full sail pulling up alongside a Carnival Cruise ship, and its swarthy crew of buccaneers climbing aboard. The passengers would think it was all part of the entertainment and gladly hand over their money, rings and watches. But the bilge rats (that's us) would take off with their plunder, leaving the shocked and now empty handed party goers alive but broke. High seas adventure with grog and open buffets. Sounds grand doesn't it lad?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP-h9JVnGzj6Qox9bLf0u8venNopPwP19nGEcwhy9etGa9Qr9OvSKmxSs6r8YwUxIs_URbuCPJtnd0szi3UDu5grILtRZsDl3tgmXI7fUe6IhOHf_2phUfn6r7U-IMXl3vzyETPQ/s1600-h/BethSwann.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP-h9JVnGzj6Qox9bLf0u8venNopPwP19nGEcwhy9etGa9Qr9OvSKmxSs6r8YwUxIs_URbuCPJtnd0szi3UDu5grILtRZsDl3tgmXI7fUe6IhOHf_2phUfn6r7U-IMXl3vzyETPQ/s400/BethSwann.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218080010531668498" border="0" /></a><br />Here's Beth's version of Elizabeth Swann, brandishing her Chinese sword and looking very sexy for a scallywag. Blimey! And who knows, with the world in such bad shape it could be we'd become privateers, letters of marque in hand, working for the government as it were. Aargh!<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtEahyphenhyphenWe0WUa-hSDu2b5vxzn0Bt1sy_q3CoAdeztsxZ3WAVcTwDhDFEAhnzns0Ey2LLUJKbd6sQtQWe4fxeH_6DzscmCUmysV5AxHp__8p_nTk9wa9IOiTnS1Z-t3A3XsOKeiZww/s1600-h/CastawaySarah3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtEahyphenhyphenWe0WUa-hSDu2b5vxzn0Bt1sy_q3CoAdeztsxZ3WAVcTwDhDFEAhnzns0Ey2LLUJKbd6sQtQWe4fxeH_6DzscmCUmysV5AxHp__8p_nTk9wa9IOiTnS1Z-t3A3XsOKeiZww/s400/CastawaySarah3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220296806912276834" border="0" /></a><br />Sarah debuted a new look this year. Her pirate cast away, dressed in tattered clothes, complete with crab on a stick. She had a bag of sea creatures for the kids and had crabs and fish bones tucked in all kinds of unexpected places. She walked around sunburned and dazed, shouting I've got crabs to the crowd.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJSBxjH_bCr2os81fVeVwDITVFRO3Lkz8cGLFgdtu0aTS2KrlNTvrYdXahNF2NO_tILgEphq-C1EH2enGHb6MJERYtZQoyu6EQaLE0YRShAOe1lBVntwJMm-NvotrB4Fx2BzysUQ/s1600-h/CastawaySarah2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJSBxjH_bCr2os81fVeVwDITVFRO3Lkz8cGLFgdtu0aTS2KrlNTvrYdXahNF2NO_tILgEphq-C1EH2enGHb6MJERYtZQoyu6EQaLE0YRShAOe1lBVntwJMm-NvotrB4Fx2BzysUQ/s400/CastawaySarah2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220303142340763522" border="0" /></a>Hoist the Jolly Roger and weigh the anchor. It's time we left this port. Better were the days when mastery of seas came not from bargains struck with eldritch creatures... but from the sweat of a man's brow and the strength of his back alone. You all know this to be true!<br /><br />-Tigerlilly<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_u6vAKGucB9DdtxeHXYGE0RNf5tvwG7j967kJ1Ec9JVE7e-q_eCXKXji6pR4Bn0vmRDdoarF3WgcaRU0L9FbPwpgBM-3ZFca-Xk8pGVftCgoMi-txJCcZ5bgDUCNt6NXM47idw/s1600-h/jackflagfinished.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_u6vAKGucB9DdtxeHXYGE0RNf5tvwG7j967kJ1Ec9JVE7e-q_eCXKXji6pR4Bn0vmRDdoarF3WgcaRU0L9FbPwpgBM-3ZFca-Xk8pGVftCgoMi-txJCcZ5bgDUCNt6NXM47idw/s400/jackflagfinished.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220306199715091506" border="0" /></a>P.S.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(Sarah made this Jack Sparrow flag, complete with raveling edges, and it's double-sided.)</span>Tigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-15165425229572321132008-06-08T10:34:00.000-07:002008-06-08T09:43:04.000-07:00The Green Flash<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5wth0j3ed08jwCnYjdKeq296BHb4kjn1ObzKrfuY8xV1vN6w4FkvnZpEXsFiznc5rd738IADRZTNHrjjWjzidfYVE7BvfPxWd3pWaTfFkQ_HHfvnr1Ig1VerTmEV1XdbrTDYQ-A/s1600-h/greenflash.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5wth0j3ed08jwCnYjdKeq296BHb4kjn1ObzKrfuY8xV1vN6w4FkvnZpEXsFiznc5rd738IADRZTNHrjjWjzidfYVE7BvfPxWd3pWaTfFkQ_HHfvnr1Ig1VerTmEV1XdbrTDYQ-A/s400/greenflash.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208068383147643730" border="0" /></a><br />The green flash is a phenomenon I'll talk more about later on, but it's also what I've decided we should call the switch from winter to summer here in Colorado. I said we only had two seasons, and true to its word, winter went out in a flash of light and temperatures leaped into the upper 80's in 24 hours. The world went hot and green instantly. Trees went from bare brown limbs to leafy bowers, and the foothills look like Ireland. It's all sadly temporary, as all too soon our arid conditions will quickly deplete any excess moisture and the bluffs will once again return to brown.<br /><span class="V00000010px"><br /></span>The smell of summer is definitely on the wind. Fresh cut grass, warm damp earth, grill smoke. While making a last minute trip to the grocery store, I caught the aroma of hot asphalt and French fries and suddenly I was back in the motor home on one of our trips when the girls were small. Florida, California, New Orleans. If you added the scent of hot rubber I'd find myself on a ride at a Disney theme park. If you add the sour beer smell plus the crumbling dusty scent of old brick and make the air so heavy with humidity you could lift it, you'd be in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Add the tang that only salt can give the air and I'm in San Diego or Sanibel Island.<br /><br />After 3 weeks of non-stop planting, nurturing, worrying, fretting and overwatering, all the pots and urns got filled. My tomato plants got caught in the last snow, but have miraculously bounced back and yesterday I found the first blossoms. Now if Mother Earth will just see fit to bless me with thriving plants, the sunburn and sore muscles will have been worth it.<br /><br />We added a set of temple bells to the wind chimes, along with one of bamboo, and when gales of wind coming off the foothills don't tie them all into knots, they actually sound quite soothing. My cornflowers and sea shell cosmos seeds have sprouted in the back flowerbed, along with a hand full of sweet peas, but not one hollyhock or California poppy. I have been trying to grow California poppies ever since we had a huge bed of them in Loveland, way back in 1976. That's a whole lot of seeds and no luck! I tried a new blend from <a href="http://www.reneesgarden.com/index.htm">Renee's Garden Seeds</a> called Tropical Sunset, and had short lived success, but the inch long sprouts have all curled up and died.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4IsIEaXNm1gIsXSWb4ze0-y17Hd4EdVXwU3L-z4lLsjMKAGLFx2AJyS5AY5ElcpUWjyEKzjtYCNGBRy1l31ifTExCysh9YzKG6J1bmfSZ4qYe0Q2yoyEHDvZ661OiXeVNsVjJLA/s1600-h/before2008.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4IsIEaXNm1gIsXSWb4ze0-y17Hd4EdVXwU3L-z4lLsjMKAGLFx2AJyS5AY5ElcpUWjyEKzjtYCNGBRy1l31ifTExCysh9YzKG6J1bmfSZ4qYe0Q2yoyEHDvZ661OiXeVNsVjJLA/s400/before2008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208214614883908914" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Before the paint</span><br /></div><br />I did manage to steal a few days for sewing before the full brunt of outside work hit. I had to wait through one final snowstorm for bright summer sunshine to photograph it. A free patten from Fig Tree & Company, called Cabanna Squares, this quilt is a burst of sunshine in a blue sky. I can't help but smile every time I look at it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCUi-EUB8z2GgOd8zhZOzWz5pULk_2i_lDhrBGIU9B13mgcNK3cWz0N4g88wzCLje77VM9Bbzdn8n07ZsC_-I3XDmBfS5BuMJM-C0fVDKe8MYYYDdI6MvYYt2k1dPOoN6NFKr7vA/s1600-h/cabana+quilt1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCUi-EUB8z2GgOd8zhZOzWz5pULk_2i_lDhrBGIU9B13mgcNK3cWz0N4g88wzCLje77VM9Bbzdn8n07ZsC_-I3XDmBfS5BuMJM-C0fVDKe8MYYYDdI6MvYYt2k1dPOoN6NFKr7vA/s400/cabana+quilt1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202488837322027378" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Cabana Squares Quilt</span><br /></div><br />The fabrics are all Fig Tree Quilts as well, from the Dandelion Girl collection. Large squares of prints in yellow, peach, brown, green and blue. The border strips are a pale yellow leaf print, and the back is my favorite blue covered in yellow roses. I tie quilted the whole thing with yellow crochet thread and stitched in the ditch once around the edge so that folded triangles that edge the top and bottom would lay down. A stack of fabric and patterns suddenly appeared on my work table. Renaissance Fair season is here. How could I have thought I'd get off this year without sewing something new for someone?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJQEsIuSPsHzhvwajhXNCy4TFF4_anbDhjmq3L6Ho6P1a3yjNR944nZtMKnta-GM8fi7q4kpLr4hQhkzDB3OV254-LHQ9ra1uLphXfIxHkhEKLM6OdQZP_Pwmut0GrkAJDG8lJqg/s1600-h/cabana+quilt+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJQEsIuSPsHzhvwajhXNCy4TFF4_anbDhjmq3L6Ho6P1a3yjNR944nZtMKnta-GM8fi7q4kpLr4hQhkzDB3OV254-LHQ9ra1uLphXfIxHkhEKLM6OdQZP_Pwmut0GrkAJDG8lJqg/s400/cabana+quilt+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202489395667775874" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Cabana Squares Quilt</span><br /></div><br />I spent two days this past week priming the courtyard fence/pergola. I was in the shade for the better part of the first 3 hours and the breeze was cool. The dogs kept me company the entire time. I began to feel a lot like Tom Sawyer whitewashing. Unlike Tom, no amount of trickery worked on the pups. Not a single one lifted a paw to help. Instead they wailed as if they were being beaten when I was forced to move to the outside of the fence. Beth (from here on out to be known as Huck Finn) did the wobbly ladder bit on the outside tip top. We managed to hit the side of the house, splatter the hose until it looked like a dalmation and liberally dollop the rocks. Even the flowers got hit when the wind picked up my roller splatter. Apparently exterior paint is different than interior, because it refuses to wash off. The swipes on my arms, shoulders, chin and splattered toes will just have to wear off. Despite sunblock, my arms and face broke out in freckles so heavily I look like someone rolled me in brown sugar.<br /><br />Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer Day 2:<br /><br />Beth and I headed outside again early Sunday morning and started the <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">real</span> painting. When we finished the second coat of green it was 2pm and Beth suggested we go for broke and do the plum as well. By 5 pm we were blind from sun glare, fried from the heat and so sticky from sunblock we couldn't let go of the rollers anymore. This is when things generally take a downward turn, when you start getting punchy. We'd been tracking the flight of a pair of hawks all afternoon. They were calling and circling overhead like vultures. Beth looks up and comments that the hawks are back and Quincy spontaneously bursts into song, about hawks making lazy circles in the sky from Oklahoma. Beth got the giggles and tipped over the entire can of plum paint. At least it happened on the river rock and not the pavers!<br /><br />(Just for clarification, and only true pet lovers can understand or appreciate this, our dogs each have unique voices and personalities and often carry on whole conversations. They just happen to also be fond of musical theater. If this is all too weird, imagine what the neighbors must think when several childish voices begin singing Sweeney Todd)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTrBRyKVVeCsvnagvX4C6Vt0M6UI0gnTkdu3v1u9-UjgltIx_5xXjc9bA0TRC9msO7ShC_1Ut7OtAxvJkPq3whuNVS8BEGy9soQ5w4OoNUjEMyjdtAP6DjQS-fsSdIgkd11HHWew/s1600-h/after2008.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTrBRyKVVeCsvnagvX4C6Vt0M6UI0gnTkdu3v1u9-UjgltIx_5xXjc9bA0TRC9msO7ShC_1Ut7OtAxvJkPq3whuNVS8BEGy9soQ5w4OoNUjEMyjdtAP6DjQS-fsSdIgkd11HHWew/s400/after2008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208216332088877026" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Finished at last</span><br /></div><br />And, even though my wrists and hands were stiff from painting I finished two pairs of socks.<br />Pebble Beach and The Green Flash Shell Socks.<span class="V00000010px"></span><br /><span class="V00000010px"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1rIsoTeSEd5GX5rCsGN9pZUtKoQ_8p5VoAo3PKgxOfHku5A7IwFiNCq9bglSwQ5gHstQhMAiey-044-EuUIA2dSPJ8Yu2qfTJWFEAIhV5PPkn0DWpgqTpbMasUAkUWT6GeRlYQ/s1600-h/pebble+beach+socks.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1rIsoTeSEd5GX5rCsGN9pZUtKoQ_8p5VoAo3PKgxOfHku5A7IwFiNCq9bglSwQ5gHstQhMAiey-044-EuUIA2dSPJ8Yu2qfTJWFEAIhV5PPkn0DWpgqTpbMasUAkUWT6GeRlYQ/s400/pebble+beach+socks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208062149590422338" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Pebble Beach Socks, Opal Crazy # 1901, size 1 dpn</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>The green flash is another reminder to me of summer and days spent at the beach. In the summer of 2004 we spent a wonderful week on Sanibel Island in Florida. Every evening everyone watches the red ball of the sun over the vast blue ocean, as it gradually sinks lower and lower in the sky, waiting for the moment the flaming golden sphere hits the horizon line of the sea. It is at this moment, when atmospheric conditions are just right, that you might catch a glimpse of the elusive green flash.<br /><br />One of the earliest published accounts of the green flash comes from W. Swan, who first observed the phenomenon in 1865, but did not submit his writings to <i>Nature</i> magazine for almost 20 years. Some speculate that Jules Verne's 1882 romance <i>Le Rayon-Vert</i> (translated "the green ray") sparked a widespread interest in the flash that prompted Swan, and perhaps other observers, to let the public in on their sightings. Verne's account includes a quote he attributes to Scottish legend: "He who has been fortunate enough to behold it is enabled to see closely into his own heart." <span class="V00000010px"><br /><br />Despite technical explanations and detailed accounts from around the world, I still find that lovely Scottish legend the most intriguing and romantic of explanations. That legend has it that this incredible phenomenon can only be seen by true lovers fits so wonderfully well with my own opinion, that the green flash signals the Flying Dutchman is on the move between worlds. Will Turner is sailing home to his beloved Elizabeth Swann. So keep a weathered eye on that horizon...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipkuqabIIZTnrvj4CDXnPrtc3MgbIIBZhXabqB2zwv2OPS8OfbruTGab946_NBVhEFqRAnFs9Qcoji8NDr8hzcz4HfaZjFkvYJKYcFbMkmQqw-En0kQxd7WDQPwcJwWkDXnj3jnA/s1600-h/greenflashsocks.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipkuqabIIZTnrvj4CDXnPrtc3MgbIIBZhXabqB2zwv2OPS8OfbruTGab946_NBVhEFqRAnFs9Qcoji8NDr8hzcz4HfaZjFkvYJKYcFbMkmQqw-En0kQxd7WDQPwcJwWkDXnj3jnA/s400/greenflashsocks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209544064260606418" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Green Flash Socks</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Blue Moon Socks that Rock lightweight, color: Count Cluckula, needle size 2 dpn</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><br />It was when I reached the foot portion of this sock, and the striping began, that the colors began to remind me of the incredible sunsets over Sanibel Island in Florida. The most incredible colors of pink, blue, orange, even purple, streak across a sky that began blue and ended indigo. The "flashes" of green in the yarn is how these socks got their name.<br /><br />These socks were knit using the<span style="text-decoration: underline;"> <a href="http://www.knitlist.com/00gift/little-shell-socks.htm">Little Shell Socks</a></span><a href="http://www.knitlist.com/00gift/little-shell-socks.htm"> </a>pattern. The shell pattern of the upper sock is not very visible in my photo, but is very pretty. The stitch pattern creates little eyelets on each side of the shell. For additional notes, check out <a href="http://mindofwinter.prettyposies.com/archives/000156.html">Mind of Winter's</a> page for her take on the Little Shell Socks.<br /><br />-Tigerlily<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOkdiO5SZCpQaqGnseb9PSlcws9Yd3xmV8CZ_bsdFE8te3k5h4wOqAhExN5HZt_EnEOZkQZvai8AYtfTER23hkLwggjMH0EG3YsLzKNaPfuV5zmh049nT5RiAl4j4JY-4qgLKo4g/s1600-h/greenflash2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOkdiO5SZCpQaqGnseb9PSlcws9Yd3xmV8CZ_bsdFE8te3k5h4wOqAhExN5HZt_EnEOZkQZvai8AYtfTER23hkLwggjMH0EG3YsLzKNaPfuV5zmh049nT5RiAl4j4JY-4qgLKo4g/s400/greenflash2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208067787549851746" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Tigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-24951237518603179172008-05-01T12:37:00.000-07:002008-05-01T11:37:50.502-07:00Wierd Science<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcLzC-WVd8-YLZIqLhWtIWcdWgqlKjNXjc6yin2lez-HNdpGTeq6t6fOYzpx1rdGbTCDfMvU1qvdpaFmOult6A9Wt0UsDGonfkbZjz-roF_HW5FXcinkpRP2v2_iZjEwEUV_7ciQ/s1600-h/March+25,+2008+004.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcLzC-WVd8-YLZIqLhWtIWcdWgqlKjNXjc6yin2lez-HNdpGTeq6t6fOYzpx1rdGbTCDfMvU1qvdpaFmOult6A9Wt0UsDGonfkbZjz-roF_HW5FXcinkpRP2v2_iZjEwEUV_7ciQ/s400/March+25,+2008+004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186899628111419266" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"> Ruby Bear basking while I photographed socks</span><br /></div><br />Spring is making slow but steady progress. Sunshine; hours of it pushing away the gray. Sunshine so bright I have to adjust the blinds to protect my retinas in the morning is a beautiful thing. The doggies are loving it. We are all loving it. But, for every three steps forward there are two back. It is in fact snowing as I write this. Springtime "showers" are an anomaly here. Colorado only has two seasons, Winter and Summer. Here's proof:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyV9wrsKtqREBYeerV1pT-Ew7SjmvDse_EgKQCUHiCWELVK_7vOTJHLGf8-rM5drYuh_MQYrmso9wZgAkgvX3rKVkLaNecURApXhfTYtdv-p7JzbIyRjhzoHuPC_u0yiJ4o3F11g/s1600-h/May+1+Snow.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyV9wrsKtqREBYeerV1pT-Ew7SjmvDse_EgKQCUHiCWELVK_7vOTJHLGf8-rM5drYuh_MQYrmso9wZgAkgvX3rKVkLaNecURApXhfTYtdv-p7JzbIyRjhzoHuPC_u0yiJ4o3F11g/s400/May+1+Snow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195434255060396130" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span>This little House Finch is trying to make the best of a bad situation. They are once again setting up housekeeping in the neighbors evergreen, just on the other side of the fence from the barn feeder. It is hard to believe that yesterday's temperatures were in the 70's. In a mad moment of heat stroke and spring fever I pulled out all the flower pots and hung up the wind chimes. The wind began to blow, the temperature to drop, and in came the cold finger of old man winter taking yet another pot shot at us dreamers of sunshine. After-all, it is only the first day of May!</span><br /></div><span><br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQ_4YjSk2muAQf3RcqtPlzyzvkHp6J0s67XCmx87MKFyP4nyhDmBJL-gNC_01n90SYVsofUcQSvlhPmbr3c-YKF6nObyptyPnCNG_0PFo_2SJ96u2hAcrKQ2rzJfT-8Szp_rs8Q/s1600-h/Finch+at+the+feeder.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQ_4YjSk2muAQf3RcqtPlzyzvkHp6J0s67XCmx87MKFyP4nyhDmBJL-gNC_01n90SYVsofUcQSvlhPmbr3c-YKF6nObyptyPnCNG_0PFo_2SJ96u2hAcrKQ2rzJfT-8Szp_rs8Q/s400/Finch+at+the+feeder.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195435483421042818" border="0" /></a><br />Warm weather makes me once again believe I can garden, which I can't. I drool over seed catalogs and six packs of flowers and long for an English country garden. With four dogs and a yard the size of a postage stamp longing is about as far as it gets. I have a few packets of flower seeds waiting to be sown, but every time I plan to start we get more bad weather.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfo-mSO3Flv5sfq2sdJj_PKJsQ0hYAQoEi-mSNQquumUX8boq65Ju374_SsYMhXCuJ-do3G2TEZlUjfrOXNW1DgtM0oNattKyTn9XpIdfNRTynnKruZgy3rU5GzGg3hQ1lgQJLQ/s1600-h/Bowl+of+seed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfo-mSO3Flv5sfq2sdJj_PKJsQ0hYAQoEi-mSNQquumUX8boq65Ju374_SsYMhXCuJ-do3G2TEZlUjfrOXNW1DgtM0oNattKyTn9XpIdfNRTynnKruZgy3rU5GzGg3hQ1lgQJLQ/s400/Bowl+of+seed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195436660242081938" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />In an effort to cheer my doldrums, all my African violets are in full bloom and the Christmas cactus has decided to flower again as well, giving me hope that Spring really is on the way.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMghMUCez1e0QBv2QJmgtyT2uR4YzXk3S1VjVpc8hkeK91OzpjRMcGYuPupQWXUCPtOYpf1TkFHnbphB58Xg2t51Xemz3Ror_f__6jaMY6LEpKH5_sFe6HfPK48_Y7Jxzf05mvEQ/s1600-h/violets.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMghMUCez1e0QBv2QJmgtyT2uR4YzXk3S1VjVpc8hkeK91OzpjRMcGYuPupQWXUCPtOYpf1TkFHnbphB58Xg2t51Xemz3Ror_f__6jaMY6LEpKH5_sFe6HfPK48_Y7Jxzf05mvEQ/s400/violets.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195442222224730322" border="0" /></a><br /><a><br />Beth and I will simply have to be content with pots of flowers in the courtyard and patio and what flowers we can grow in the single bed out back. Since we had a bit of success with a Roma tomato plant last summer, we decided to grow more this year. I started six heirloom tomato plants in a tiny peat pot terrarium. Transplanted into bigger pots they are now getting quite large. The unstable weather means they are still waiting, basking in the grow light from my new hydroponic garden or the limited sunshine of the kitchen windowsill.<br /><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_tWBaJITPRzfNSpDqk5eNGDe8i4bs2-c-45V3S3mwXtCeqOq44b417GGnmLfjfY5X4OsiA47w64bLb2-DAaR8YTA6NWXk_xC59sVk8u6QPGhCF47D5dznKIuGmuY_VFllZ0MwAQ/s1600-h/Tomatoes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_tWBaJITPRzfNSpDqk5eNGDe8i4bs2-c-45V3S3mwXtCeqOq44b417GGnmLfjfY5X4OsiA47w64bLb2-DAaR8YTA6NWXk_xC59sVk8u6QPGhCF47D5dznKIuGmuY_VFllZ0MwAQ/s400/Tomatoes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195438090466191522" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a>Mike brought home the Aero garden in hopes I would save money on all those fresh herbs I buy at the grocery store. On sale, plus a rebate brought the price down considerably. Everything sprouted within 14 days, and the rate of growth is phenomenal. I am so intrigued by this space age phenomenon, that I am tempted to buy the super large model that can accommodate tomatoes.</a><a> The Aero garden maks lovely dripping noises as the vitamin packed water flows through the seed cups, and the grow light has the entire kitchen glowing for 16 hours a day (those are compact fluorescent bulbs BTW) It has reminder lights for adding nutrients and water approximately every two weeks.<br /><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAshfi2WVmxx6FaboU5LWksJW1x9DoH24eacuXScmDn1GOa22j2wM1Ms1PsernL9HKtLLWjGEggfJ8YXVTfv_xfE-gevFshx-Yp8fndTUyuSAwZCYF9IE5tnTsqTBomWuYpEsQXQ/s1600-h/May+1,+2008+014.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAshfi2WVmxx6FaboU5LWksJW1x9DoH24eacuXScmDn1GOa22j2wM1Ms1PsernL9HKtLLWjGEggfJ8YXVTfv_xfE-gevFshx-Yp8fndTUyuSAwZCYF9IE5tnTsqTBomWuYpEsQXQ/s400/May+1,+2008+014.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195471561146329314" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;">Just three weeks after planting</a><br /></div><a><br /><br />Obviously, this is not a practical or economic method for growing say, enough lettuce for a family.</a><a> You'd wipe out the entire crop for one dinner salad. </a><a> And it is silly to grow things that are cheap and readily available, like parsley. However, it is a great way to grow herbs, as they are extremely expensive to buy fresh, and don't last long. I should be able to harvest several times from this batch before having to replant. </a><a>I've been researching what people are doing with their hydroponic gardens, and have found lots of folks like me, curious about experimenting with planting their own seeds. In response, the company now provided cups and planting medium (a kind of spongy stuff) so that you can plant the seeds of your choice. I was already figuring I would clean the roots out of the cups and continue to reuse them. Seed kits for the garden run $20, rather pricey, and I'd rather buy organic seed.<br /><br />I really want to grow my own lamb's lettuce (aka cornsalad or mache) and watercress. We've become completely addicted to the stuff, and it is very hard to find and very expensive. I've also been reading lots on growing sprouts. Not only are sprouts incredibly good for you, there is a huge variety of things you can grow this way. You don't even need anything as fancy as the Aero garden to do it. Sunlight is not required until a sprout turns into a seedling and develops leaves, requiring photosynthesis. I have even located varieties of mache and water cress that are ideal for growing indoors, in trays, no dirt required. Visit the </a><a href="http://sproutpeople.com/">Sprout People</a> to learn more about the world of sprouts. They have information and reviews on all kinds of sprouting equipment, from a tiny mini sprout garden, to large trays and blanket type planting medium for soil-less gardening at home.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMmPm6wCB_ZUGVnjF8pDMQ4lW7muoX3PvOj0BrVh_95jo_J0srogd59X6COlW5uK3L9f1N31FZjISi5vhjNzW4zWO6JaAEGAVqsoW2y_xOugbWohTgSWJYakhXE1EQjFlE97BKpA/s1600-h/Bird's+Nest+Socks.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMmPm6wCB_ZUGVnjF8pDMQ4lW7muoX3PvOj0BrVh_95jo_J0srogd59X6COlW5uK3L9f1N31FZjISi5vhjNzW4zWO6JaAEGAVqsoW2y_xOugbWohTgSWJYakhXE1EQjFlE97BKpA/s400/Bird's+Nest+Socks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195440070446114994" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Bird Nest Socks</span><br /></div><br /><br />Meanwhile, I'm still knitting. The Nest socks are finished. And the pair made with Kaffee Fassett sock yarn. I'm calling these the Nim's Island socks. They are all about warm south pacific waters and islands filled with coconut palms. I highly recommend the children's book by Wendy Orr and the new film too. Very cute. I'd love to live like Nim, but I would like more than a hut with a dirt floor.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt5j-9Npa3hJOTOimN2VzEyPuNQTAykvKY0Qt0D5VW4iX_JU-qWnWH5_H8pALAdSdgbCGtw1tA4bPCl20qF6ZxRiJXxwg70VFoeHrntbG7SFYY2x3PoeB7fKIRjQI4hCrYBgWwtg/s1600-h/Nim's+Island+Socks.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt5j-9Npa3hJOTOimN2VzEyPuNQTAykvKY0Qt0D5VW4iX_JU-qWnWH5_H8pALAdSdgbCGtw1tA4bPCl20qF6ZxRiJXxwg70VFoeHrntbG7SFYY2x3PoeB7fKIRjQI4hCrYBgWwtg/s400/Nim's+Island+Socks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195440852130162882" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;">The Nim's Island Socks, Kaffee Fassett by Regia, #4261 Caribbean, size 1 dpn<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIluP1FMR-zYNq00mIKYHcASdpkdimjMneHtJr0ATlS7KJuCyu1P84ei-UDR0p_cAT2BRJ1OG6-Dhq2MdhFLLEUaUO4d9ntFrPjyodIdSHWY5sHYOkPK8aIADJgt1EHLKf3Ed9NQ/s1600-h/Lavender+socks.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIluP1FMR-zYNq00mIKYHcASdpkdimjMneHtJr0ATlS7KJuCyu1P84ei-UDR0p_cAT2BRJ1OG6-Dhq2MdhFLLEUaUO4d9ntFrPjyodIdSHWY5sHYOkPK8aIADJgt1EHLKf3Ed9NQ/s400/Lavender+socks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195473339262789874" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Lavender Blue Dilly Dilly Socks, Regia Cotton, #4177, size 1 DPN</span>.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The latest socks off the needles are a pair of lavender and blue stripes. This is my first try using a cotton blend instead of wool. It is deliciously soft and I can already tell my toes are going to be very happy inside these Lavender Blue Dilly Dilly socks. I've just purchaced two more sock pattern books, so my mind has now been completely and utterly eaten up by this addictive disease. I have managed to only buy one skein of new sock yarn though, so the stash has decreased considerably, so that's got to be a good thing. I can do a pair in a week now, so this should keep the balance tipped to the liquidation side.<br /><br />I have managed to put the needles down long enough to do some sewing--pictures to follow shortly. I'm also stocking up on books for summer reading. Soon enough the days will be hot, the courtyard will be filled with flowers and there will be time to be lazy and enjoy the sun. For now I must be content with my hydroponic herbs and the promise of things to come.<br /><br />-Tigerlily<br /></div></div></div></div>Tigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-3763360491510442522008-03-26T10:25:00.000-07:002008-03-29T07:55:04.457-07:00Knitting Socks or Learning to live with Addiction<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitLvMT8knnUDSh1JWuceQIvtrU5pP3qAsCuchaZmZbApPK0Wo3ZsMc_LVgQeFrhZdJvb5VGSy4VmqGgJ5wSbGuh7OkWczVgHCDoPIx87yFcTr3oiVBTki2GFItJL3n06FbqbEbSQ/s1600-h/purplestocking.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitLvMT8knnUDSh1JWuceQIvtrU5pP3qAsCuchaZmZbApPK0Wo3ZsMc_LVgQeFrhZdJvb5VGSy4VmqGgJ5wSbGuh7OkWczVgHCDoPIx87yFcTr3oiVBTki2GFItJL3n06FbqbEbSQ/s400/purplestocking.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170960720511044290" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-style: italic;"> The Purple Stocking by James Jebusa Shannon</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><br />"There may be a metaphor in creating something for the feet that in turn inspires all kinds of mind wanderings, or it may be that the Zen 'beginner's mind' works perfectly with socks so that I am just there, observing and seeing what occurs. For every time I do knit socks, some new pattern of thought emerges."</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> ~ Jane Brocket, The Gentle Art of Domesticity 2007</span><br /></div><br /><br />As a knitter, I had never quite been able to grasp the attraction of knitting socks. There are knitters on the internet who devote entire blogs just to the knitting of socks. For the life of me I just couldn't justify all that work, and expense, (most sock yarn is $15 a skein which equals one pair) when you could just go out and buy them in bulk. And four needles? All tiny, and double pointed, and no matter how I tried I couldn't seem to get the hang of using them, and what about this fifth needle that came in the pack, what was it for? Loss prevention? Lacy socks, cabled socks, socks with incredible designs. Why? I figured they were all nuts and swore I'd never do it. I resolutely refused to give in to the lunacy that was sock knitting.<br /><br />And then a good friend wanted help with her knitting. I helped her get back on track, and she was soon able to complete several stagnating projects and some new ones as well. But, I kept avoiding that pair of half finished socks languishing in her basket. More than anything, she really wanted to knit socks. It came down to a choice of upholding my principals and the all-mighty dollar. She was eager to learn to knit, and I had the ability to teach. Avarice won out. On the sly I began to examine socks and sock patterns. I shyly asked for help from one of those "crazy sock knitters." I was welcomed with open arms into the fold. With the click of a mouse button I purchased and downloaded a highly recommended beginners sock pattern and my first ball of sock yarn.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Bp-3wUGC7qMEJ9U-q-nxxbvogM68ezL6jKQKpMedyeqzt8DyTWnakbHYOyfwy2lDvbb4PY38Fy4yT2l3aNkkO39bvcY1HElQMyrY14Ikkfg_3paqG6FhGvJx-A29Fuxw2ex8wA/s1600-h/March+25,+2008+001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Bp-3wUGC7qMEJ9U-q-nxxbvogM68ezL6jKQKpMedyeqzt8DyTWnakbHYOyfwy2lDvbb4PY38Fy4yT2l3aNkkO39bvcY1HElQMyrY14Ikkfg_3paqG6FhGvJx-A29Fuxw2ex8wA/s400/March+25,+2008+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181699960314255090" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Sweet Tart Socks, Lana Grossa Meilenweit Fantasy #4833, US size 0 dpn</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;">As I cast on that fateful first sock I kept telling myself I would not succumb. I was doing this for educational purposes only. Turns out that's like saying you only use alcohol medicinally. Half way through that first sock I had to admit it was rather fun. Turning the heel was downright euphoric. After picking up and knitting the gusset I was hooked. The second sock and then the second pair were cast on without a second thought.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg78NVG05DWK0CgYB_FFFXgi886R3UN0JA5toh1ZgFGx4Dhdmg5Is178MdynkOwEL1U9b-wdMPFY1cA9EuVz3EnoENYdMTSfvR-NA9RPiPNteKDlCJ2LSqbfvf4dV8mPy2MEMmECA/s1600-h/March+25,+2008+002.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg78NVG05DWK0CgYB_FFFXgi886R3UN0JA5toh1ZgFGx4Dhdmg5Is178MdynkOwEL1U9b-wdMPFY1cA9EuVz3EnoENYdMTSfvR-NA9RPiPNteKDlCJ2LSqbfvf4dV8mPy2MEMmECA/s400/March+25,+2008+002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181701613876664066" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Juicy Citrus Socks, Trekking XXL #158, US size 0 dpn</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIuzDOFgBZxc5lDAZsCCVUBtQ5N2iNRDD6-9kfInZknGakaHI0POdV7PO9keaa7jP4XN2g6og8lEcxx_ouSYakFVSiD87KUyY-NbSAUV0Hh7HER0XfEyfm6hnxFXBjVkKZV7U7Zw/s1600-h/March+25,+2008+003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIuzDOFgBZxc5lDAZsCCVUBtQ5N2iNRDD6-9kfInZknGakaHI0POdV7PO9keaa7jP4XN2g6og8lEcxx_ouSYakFVSiD87KUyY-NbSAUV0Hh7HER0XfEyfm6hnxFXBjVkKZV7U7Zw/s400/March+25,+2008+003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181702743453062946" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Elliot loves them too<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />My complete fall from grace came when I uncovered the dirty little secret of the sock knitting world. <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Self-patterning yarns</span>. Those socks of intricate designs and multitudes of color I'd been admiring were fake. They were not painstakingly knit in a minute fair isle design, the yarn did it all by itself! Color after luscious color rolls off the ball as you knit. Every row brings new designs; new color combinations. What rapture. What wild abandon. I couldn't stop. Just one more row. Just one more color. What entrancing design will happen next? I've never been a knitter so attached to my work that I carry it with me. Now I carried it everywhere. I couldn't bare to be separated from it. Those four little needles became natural appendages. All my other knitting had been cast aside in favor of socks.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCQPd3omosqO3mmPOqLU8zYkkwjNoPwCw2bO6SdbBPTi0ybLVP2lGryh7fP0tjl4HszjouxjLWolqViej3oS_5MPkpcM1M6TvT_FIbs9KMnfLsLnULklAMSG9CrsMtoqeZ9-_Aw/s1600-h/March+25,+2008+009.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCQPd3omosqO3mmPOqLU8zYkkwjNoPwCw2bO6SdbBPTi0ybLVP2lGryh7fP0tjl4HszjouxjLWolqViej3oS_5MPkpcM1M6TvT_FIbs9KMnfLsLnULklAMSG9CrsMtoqeZ9-_Aw/s400/March+25,+2008+009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181704534454425410" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Frozen North socks, Opal "Berries" #195, US size 0 dpn</span><br /></div><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The hypnotic rhythm of that endless spiral round and round. Complete peace and relaxation of the mind. Is this ZEN? The mind travels to exotic lands where the air smells of spices, or a damp sandy beach where rollers break at my feet. Sock knitting also allows me to indulge in my favorite hobby, watching films. It also keeps me from eating, because I can't let go of the needles long enough to put anything in my mouth.<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Balls of sock yarn began to arrive in the mail and my knitting basket began to bulge alarmingly. Trekking XXL, Meleinweit Fantasy, Kaffe Fasset, Socks That Rock, Opal, Lana Grossa. Brown paper wrappers covered in German. I ordered yarn from the UK and even France. The family was beginning to ask questions. I started stashing the boxes of yarn and opening them in secret.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWomGPIEURQy3ogaaIt3AEAfvra9yV5aO0HrJvT8m1JZsibGoJcLeamaL_qyl0vSQNHqGv418JaURk0bciPSAJj7Vf2KmAKbEy_0KP799R29NmV3OLVnCv5CTs1H5Vx5pEkTmrGg/s1600-h/March+25,+2008+005.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWomGPIEURQy3ogaaIt3AEAfvra9yV5aO0HrJvT8m1JZsibGoJcLeamaL_qyl0vSQNHqGv418JaURk0bciPSAJj7Vf2KmAKbEy_0KP799R29NmV3OLVnCv5CTs1H5Vx5pEkTmrGg/s400/March+25,+2008+005.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181703911684167474" border="0" /></a><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">the sock stash</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br />"Sock yarn may be the knitter's version of methadone. It's what you buy when you don't really want to buy a lot of yarn, or when you just need to take the edge off. It's dangerous, easy, and comes in irresistible self-patterning varieties that make you feel clever."</span><span style="font-style: italic;">-Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, Knitting Rules, 2006</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><br /><br />I reluctantly began to admit to myself that I had a problem. Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. I had become what I had once abhorred. A SOCK KNITTER. The real problem was, I didn't want a cure, I didn't want to stop. So, like any junkie, I did exactly what my dealer had done for me. I hooked another innocent.<br /><br />I drew Beth in with my tantalizing descriptions of the thrill of heel turning. The orgasmic rush as the colors ran through your fingers and twisted themselves into kaleidoscopes of color before your eyes. As bait I bought her first pair of sock needles and a ball of yarn. I gently lay the <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://theuniquesheep.com/Colors/doctorswithoutborders.htm">Doctors Without Borders</a> sock yarn from <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://theuniquesheep.com/home.htm">The Unique Sheep</a> in her lap, and then I set the hook. "Fifty percent of your purchase goes to Doctors Without Borders", I mewed innocently. I used her free trade tree hugging environmental activism against her. Elisabeth received gift cards for yarn as birthday gifts (my suggestion, of course) She spent every dime on sock yarn.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjexhblgNDc2UjD5rrToeUM9iLI7_o6Z0UUr8-UVx1Rvlb64SmdwdEtbeZwWyvypC7I8HdADvN8uSQEADIJhbTskfo9MUi_xTdZNmHAYk3D74zdMxflufMl-5NbKnZuBovqG_HeUw/s1600-h/March+25,+2008+007.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjexhblgNDc2UjD5rrToeUM9iLI7_o6Z0UUr8-UVx1Rvlb64SmdwdEtbeZwWyvypC7I8HdADvN8uSQEADIJhbTskfo9MUi_xTdZNmHAYk3D74zdMxflufMl-5NbKnZuBovqG_HeUw/s400/March+25,+2008+007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181706656168269666" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Beth's Frank Miller socks, The Unique Sheep Verve-Doctors Without Borders, US size 1 dpn</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTQHa5OkUGUcr4CP-P3In3SencC3N0h_Hhnj6QkZqZRsB5QYYNd8_Iif0oD6M7f1zUk78_6UHPb8GqSV5pT-h3iYj8_G4Hf7egIhdeIvsZTZ5W6JL53wHAsx5OftUHkw1MstQkBw/s1600-h/March+25,+2008+012.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTQHa5OkUGUcr4CP-P3In3SencC3N0h_Hhnj6QkZqZRsB5QYYNd8_Iif0oD6M7f1zUk78_6UHPb8GqSV5pT-h3iYj8_G4Hf7egIhdeIvsZTZ5W6JL53wHAsx5OftUHkw1MstQkBw/s400/March+25,+2008+012.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181707450737219442" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Beth's Greek Socks in progress</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Yesterday, Elisabeth showed me the new sock yarn that had just come in at One Planet Yarn..."it comes from a small family run farm, lovely happy sheep, everything is organic...don't the colors look just like hibiscus flowers?"<br /><br />Knitting socks is like crack cocaine. One hit and your hooked.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHGgVjTeW4aRUXiroKIHofMkZEgAWENxbSuR-XAajdtb1LIql56mzDzoeiy2p96FSOA3B1FZyZbkcIgI2sbFfVsEe3xiL3S-GzndIQqfX_FGua1BhR_mnzQlV-QE36xZVSWMRLNA/s1600-h/March+25,+2008+010.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHGgVjTeW4aRUXiroKIHofMkZEgAWENxbSuR-XAajdtb1LIql56mzDzoeiy2p96FSOA3B1FZyZbkcIgI2sbFfVsEe3xiL3S-GzndIQqfX_FGua1BhR_mnzQlV-QE36xZVSWMRLNA/s400/March+25,+2008+010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181705402037819218" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">On the needles: Bird Nest socks (the yarn reminds me of pale blue eggs and twiggy nests), Trekking XXL #82, US size 0 dpn</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"<span style="font-weight: bold;">Socks are a miracle of engineering. When you knit a sock, you're doing it the same way it has always been done. You're connected with knitters over the last 700 years, all making socks and watching them wear out."</span></span><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>-Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, Knitting Rules 2006</span><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><br /><br />-Tigerlily<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>Tigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-3398560662568848632008-03-24T08:03:00.000-07:002008-03-25T07:52:15.535-07:00Brenda Starr The Movie<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5MPy2AJX-YPAyNLao2RpYou5NKJS5LzLumofqlaF8W1m2PPjOGq8s5FrF59Y5qtptagtnR1SQxk6WIvBzWAaLrnkJ-pLF8AsR88af0ASWsx4pPqzQIqmOD-H2PnO085Jw6wJDVQ/s1600-h/Brenda-Starr-Poster-C11816420.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5MPy2AJX-YPAyNLao2RpYou5NKJS5LzLumofqlaF8W1m2PPjOGq8s5FrF59Y5qtptagtnR1SQxk6WIvBzWAaLrnkJ-pLF8AsR88af0ASWsx4pPqzQIqmOD-H2PnO085Jw6wJDVQ/s400/Brenda-Starr-Poster-C11816420.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181331568084375202" border="0" /></a><br />Just as Brenda Starr the comic strip went from the newspaper to the big screen, our own Brenda Starr has been given a promotion of her own. Elisabeth will now have a weekly column called the <a href="http://cinematical.com/">Geek Beat</a> on <a href="http://cinematical.com/">Cinematical. com</a>. The column will appear starting tomorrow and be a weekly Tuesday feature. She has also been asked to write theatrical and DVD film reviews for <a href="http://www.cinemablend.com/">Cinemablend.com</a>. Details to follow shortly. I think it's safe to say she is officially a free-lance journalist.<br /><br />Brenda will also be attending <a href="http://www.comic-con.org/">San Diego Comic Con</a> this year as a working member of the press. This should get Ms. Starr some behind the scenes peeks, inclusion in interviews if only as a tag along, and maybe invites to some exclusive events. Plans at this point are sketchy but Lara Croft will probably be making an appearance for some on the floor interviews with costumed attendees.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimVil8sro-PPWbLnNQzvSAOS6ziCVKy7oXEm1MCrO01V9obX1B0pjcXZaeFP2kOJt2ozaAeF7TnQgL5hvkjSBUmaCOfCczTfjEvffgM7Ig__jvnCqGhFI41dD4XK4NBaQuEH5oyw/s1600-h/legendunionjack.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimVil8sro-PPWbLnNQzvSAOS6ziCVKy7oXEm1MCrO01V9obX1B0pjcXZaeFP2kOJt2ozaAeF7TnQgL5hvkjSBUmaCOfCczTfjEvffgM7Ig__jvnCqGhFI41dD4XK4NBaQuEH5oyw/s400/legendunionjack.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181332371243259570" border="0" /></a><br />Though July seems eons away, (especially when we had snow for Easter) in reality it's a mere 12 weeks. Since Brenda Starr must be prepared for all eventualities, from a black tie dinner to tomb raiding, we've already begun shopping in anticipation. From gun belts to cocktail dresses, we plan to have it covered.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivDiIu4MSTa5kzntPFCV3VAcyzun6-lv9F-Wgl5zStELFWQt8D3RWHgUWgdZDYvK-9ozCS2H6k-bbaegmgQWhdsViTS8jjcypn-Xr0RhAAdfomdF_O5GrhraCh5gW300snF-0PnA/s1600-h/brookbrenda.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivDiIu4MSTa5kzntPFCV3VAcyzun6-lv9F-Wgl5zStELFWQt8D3RWHgUWgdZDYvK-9ozCS2H6k-bbaegmgQWhdsViTS8jjcypn-Xr0RhAAdfomdF_O5GrhraCh5gW300snF-0PnA/s400/brookbrenda.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181333298956195522" border="0" /></a>All this has of course turned our Brenda's world quite upside down. Living a vampire lifestyle in ones pajamas and suddenly finding yourself needing a research assistant, personal shopper, fashion stylist, receptionist, personal trainer and dog walker all at the same time can leave one feeling a bit stressed. Elisabeth has decided what she needs is a social secretary to organize her life. If only she could find her very own <a href="http://imdb.com/title/tt0970468/">Miss Pettigrew</a>. (BTW, Brenda gave Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day 10 out of 10)<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGr5hT5eZqVMbdr12pEnXzNuAu7tmjY1OZIj0dIgtmxRepZMjJf5Vr4nlE-jYeaztLDpjg293K0dl7FxwIYs85VRO1Z_JjAtRjf2dc2elOlUXs7sP0dwev6VU6dPoxLlMhQB08A/s1600-h/pettigrew.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGr5hT5eZqVMbdr12pEnXzNuAu7tmjY1OZIj0dIgtmxRepZMjJf5Vr4nlE-jYeaztLDpjg293K0dl7FxwIYs85VRO1Z_JjAtRjf2dc2elOlUXs7sP0dwev6VU6dPoxLlMhQB08A/s400/pettigrew.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181339556723545810" border="0" /></a><br />Unfortunately, since Brenda has yet to see her first paycheck, and she doesn't as of yet have a sugar daddy, I'm afraid the part of Miss Pettigrew may end up being played by me. I have to admit, the resemblance is uncanny. Middle aged lady in moth eaten coat and dress of funereal colors, frizzy hair of nondescript shade and lack of makeup of any kind. Yep, that would be me.<br />I get queasy just contemplating having to attend a cocktail party at Brenda's side. Do I dare hope that I might be treated to a makeover before been thrust into the whirlwind social life of Brenda Starr ace reporter? I've begun doing yoga and eating nothing but celery sticks dipped in Vitamin Water in the hopes that after Sarah and her fellow students at beauty school finish with me I might look more like this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2t2tW_TnBqjCUs4rQafH1HtvhYBamE2yvkYEGIoL3Z1EKv1oks9HG_frUntBRIzuESyZAwJjtFfBUV8pIV1KGpyuvzTHzMhMLWR7Hihs8AR2fQVR7Twi_XWPNl3Mfl_qJ67Elrg/s1600-h/misspettigrew2_.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2t2tW_TnBqjCUs4rQafH1HtvhYBamE2yvkYEGIoL3Z1EKv1oks9HG_frUntBRIzuESyZAwJjtFfBUV8pIV1KGpyuvzTHzMhMLWR7Hihs8AR2fQVR7Twi_XWPNl3Mfl_qJ67Elrg/s400/misspettigrew2_.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181342451531503330" border="0" /></a><br />And, just so you don't think the rest of the family has dropped off the planet, here's the scoop:<br /><br />Sarah is now out of classroom and graduated to the floor where she gets to work on <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">real </span>people. If you're looking for a cheap haircut, color job, manicure or pedicure over the next six months, LMK. She got a 96 on her pass out test! She doesn't really enjoy what she's doing much, but just keeps telling herself its a step in the right direction. In the few minutes time she has to herself between work and school, she's working on designing some new costumes.<br /><br />Mike, was invited to speak at the Homeland Defense Journal Conference on School Safety and Violence in Schools. His power point presentation focused on Columbine. He was such a hit he was asked back the following day to sit on a panel with the officers who handled the recent shootings at Virgina Tech. He has been contacted by a senator asking if he'd be willing to testify before a senate sub committee studying school emergency preparedness plans and cooperation between school officials and law enforcement.<br /><br />I have the most boring life of the bunch, forever destined to sit on the outside looking in while knitting endless pairs of socks. Frankly, all this elbow rubbing with studio execs, celebrities congressman and senators gives me a salted slug stomach so I'm probably better off where I am. If you seen the animated film Flushed Away, just picture me as one of the screaming slugs, but with frizzled hair and dowdy clothing who occasionally bursts into song and answers to the name Guinevere Petttigrew. *(also see slugs on the BBC show Creature Comforts from the producers of Wallace and Grommet)<br /><br />-Tigerlily<br /><pre class="WMmessagebody"><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"></span><br /></pre>Tigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-22997665982470908452008-02-26T10:20:00.001-08:002008-03-04T12:50:56.692-08:00Brenda Starr<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpH2IOeJaKsa04RaD5-xRnB1IfRFBQTn1Ih92FMYAYia2YQva3Ure6HASMMKCoukmFYWUicXqcOo8MviU3Yboudh9ewPj9NPirrtVfsG45Nypzi9t2qikqdE7Xt29Cc3MfsjjSfQ/s1600-h/br_starr.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpH2IOeJaKsa04RaD5-xRnB1IfRFBQTn1Ih92FMYAYia2YQva3Ure6HASMMKCoukmFYWUicXqcOo8MviU3Yboudh9ewPj9NPirrtVfsG45Nypzi9t2qikqdE7Xt29Cc3MfsjjSfQ/s400/br_starr.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173966994684145474" border="0" /></a><br />If this was 1942, and my house was the bustling newsroom of some big city paper, and if people still used typewriters instead of laptop computers, the clickitty clack of keys and the ding of a returning carriage would be vibrating the walls. We have a reporter in the house. The new millennium kind of reporter that writes for the fast paced world of entertainment news on the internet. Our very own Brenda Starr.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7pzciQ_vnn3HW92WKmVNJUpG2wZXQFcYbPlRHFhscE7OeDNvIxHLKqbGTZca_emNv8tqFza5QWurjxzKSD5k7fYsDEv0L1MtPnOlf5S3wxmjiVzAb-es2-UFll_pBmCcaK_5X0w/s1600-h/brendastarr.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7pzciQ_vnn3HW92WKmVNJUpG2wZXQFcYbPlRHFhscE7OeDNvIxHLKqbGTZca_emNv8tqFza5QWurjxzKSD5k7fYsDEv0L1MtPnOlf5S3wxmjiVzAb-es2-UFll_pBmCcaK_5X0w/s400/brendastarr.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173967836497735506" border="0" /></a><br /><br />After six months out of work, Elisabeth has a job at last, writing for Cinematical.com, a web magazine operated by MovieFone and AOL. She is watching the wires until the wee hours, then sleeps until noon, and hits them again for the late breaking midday news. Beth is the snarky new girl geek on the beat, and already her articles have drawn in several hundred new readers to the site and generated the second highest comments in February. She wrote about Viggo Mortenson being snubbed at the Oscars for Eastern Promises and how Nim's Island with Gerard Butler will be helping to educate kids on coral reefs and living green. Wolverine and Wall*E and are just part of the everyday grind at the keyboard.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiivq9IQ38xTuekE_XTU8RHNWoPwLm7mEKAeIQccB1-03SWblh3rjwGxJuv9B90vhWg_comF_pjMHpRJIPD6wiDM6wQi-0mTRrG1LuUtb6ecCkTQ9iip929eV0P7cFwtCbpBQ-J7w/s1600-h/BrendaStarrPoster.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiivq9IQ38xTuekE_XTU8RHNWoPwLm7mEKAeIQccB1-03SWblh3rjwGxJuv9B90vhWg_comF_pjMHpRJIPD6wiDM6wQi-0mTRrG1LuUtb6ecCkTQ9iip929eV0P7cFwtCbpBQ-J7w/s400/BrendaStarrPoster.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173971624658890610" border="0" /></a> "So Brenda, tell us what's it like being an ace reporter?"<br /> "It sucks, Daphne Dimples is making my life miserable."<br /><br />It isn't much and the pay doesn't even qualify as poverty level, but its a start. I hope its the beginning of something bigger and better. I'd love to see her entertainment articles in Rolling Stone, People, or the NY Times some day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu0H6imbhhQ-wNbCJgdMr92I8prVPw0kDbaofTiyt2YHKWozkj1PbWSByIa6WV7NSU5Wqo-aXtt5KuQKcUhcCGyx0p5tyY3VYEu4-V9xPvJNsZ_y85bSp8zlZF5uEZv8AlxRluUg/s1600-h/messick_dale_brendastar.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu0H6imbhhQ-wNbCJgdMr92I8prVPw0kDbaofTiyt2YHKWozkj1PbWSByIa6WV7NSU5Wqo-aXtt5KuQKcUhcCGyx0p5tyY3VYEu4-V9xPvJNsZ_y85bSp8zlZF5uEZv8AlxRluUg/s400/messick_dale_brendastar.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173971336896081762" border="0" /></a> Will there be a mystery man with an eye patch in our Brenda's future? I'd prefer two eyes of the blue-green variety, but that's just me....<br /><br />-TigerlilyTigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16988177.post-76504748618305294922008-02-26T09:40:00.000-08:002008-02-26T10:13:53.079-08:00Apple Blossom Time<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhammrzr3Rtlh3R8Entgx4q9rLnWeWNEtG1k4D38XoK8uKJ6oM0jdY3C8-SdYGQ7ochn-hxdpV2ZxexNqjAXmadkRMOD05jxwbABUJQKurt2UEh6QCzmk5ir2n8bz9CT923AhWkkg/s1600-h/appleblossom+amaryllis.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhammrzr3Rtlh3R8Entgx4q9rLnWeWNEtG1k4D38XoK8uKJ6oM0jdY3C8-SdYGQ7ochn-hxdpV2ZxexNqjAXmadkRMOD05jxwbABUJQKurt2UEh6QCzmk5ir2n8bz9CT923AhWkkg/s400/appleblossom+amaryllis.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171351304836942546" border="0" /></a><br />This beauty was picked up on the discount bulb pile at Walmart. The bulb had sprouted in the box and was curled and rather anemic, but I brought her home anyway. Its been slow going, but here she is at last in all her Apple Blossom amaryllis beauty. Its a bit early to be thinking about wedding season, but my mother loved the arrival of apple blossoms in spring, and the lyrics to this song floated to the surface of my memory.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; font-family: lucida grande;font-family:georgia;"><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I'll Be With You In Apple Blossom Time<br />(</span><span style="font-size:130%;">Neville Fleeson/Albert Von Tilzer<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">I'm writing you, my dear,<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">Just to tell you,<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">In September, you remember<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">'Neath the old apple tree<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">You whispered to me<br />When it blossomed again, you'd be mine.<br /><br />I've waited until I could claim you,<br />I hope I've not waited in vain.<br />For when it's spring in the valley,<br />I'm coming, my sweetheart, again!<br /><br />I'll be with you in apple blossom time,<br />I'll be with you to change your name to mine.<br /><br />One day in May<br />I'll come and say:<br />"Happy the bride the sun shines on today!"<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;">What a wonderful wedding there will be, </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />What a wonderful day for you and me! </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />Church bells will chime </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />You will be mine </span><span style="font-size:130%;">in apple blossom time. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />I'll be with you in apple blossom time, </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />I'll be with you to change your name to mine.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; font-family: lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span>-TigerlilyTigerlilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047793993320805428noreply@blogger.com2