The Mermaids Chair

I Remember Momma

2011-12-10T18:42:00.000-08:00

"Christmas - that magic blanket that wraps itself about us, that something so intangible that it is like a fragrance. It may weave 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." -Augusta E. Rundel

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Goodbye Summer Girls

2010-09-18T11:29:00.000-07:00

Summer Breezes by Paula Nightengale

Summer Girls
I see summer girls in splendor
Walk footbare on fields of green
Sea-wet hair dried by warm breezes
Swirling through an open screen.
I see summer skin sun-ripened
Under flowing loose white gown
Mound of freckled salt-stiff breast
Hair at nape of neck like down.
I see summer girls in laughter
After yellow ball spins round
Voices murmur in the twilight
Fever rising with the sound.
I see summer rain on faces
Sleep-soft bodies stir in morn
Stain of virgin seed and berry
Strut of sainted youth reborn.
I see you summer girls and dread
The day veils will turn heartless
No more to open on blue hills
When I lie down with darkness.
~Joeseph Dunphy

I know I am but summer to your heart

I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the full four seasons of the year;
And you must welcome from another part
Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.
No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell
Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;
And I have loved you all too long and well
To carry still the high sweet breast of spring.

Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,
I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums,
That you may hail anew the bird and rose
When I come back to you, as summer comes.
Else will you seek, at some not distant time,
Even your summer in another clime.
~Edna St.Vincent Milay

Does the Song of the Sea
end at the Shore
or in the Heart of Those
who listen to it?

Goodbye Summer Girls....

(photos courtesy of Sense & Sensibility patterns)

One Little Home in the West

2010-08-18T13:26:00.000-07:00

The Prairie Is My Garden by Harvey Dunn

"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. 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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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. 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.”

~Laura Ingalls Wilder, October 16, 1937~

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old time is still a-flying

And this same flower that smiles today,

Tomorrow will be dying.

(Herrick)

“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.

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...

...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.

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.

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.”

The Chemistry of Love

2010-02-04T14:56:00.000-08:00

Love it turns out is a drug.

A recent UCLA study shows that the very sight of a loved one can ease your pain.

"We indeed found that women holding their partner's hand reported significantly less pain than holding a stranger's hand or inanimate object..."

"It's amazing to me that love can have the same effect as Acetaminophen, as Tylenol."

Antropologist Helen Fisher says love is better than Tylenol! Fisher, who has looked at love for years, says affairs of the heart are often functions of the brain. "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 love with . . . no matter how many years you've known them."

"The brain is built to respond," Fisher said. "We are an animal that is built to love."

Fisher and neurologist Lucy Brown of the Albert Einstein College of Medicine in New York also scanned college students in the throes of young love, and found that the part of the brain that makes true love so durable also makes rejection so agonizing. "When you've been dumped, you're still madly in love 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!"

Science can't completely save us from heartbreak, but according to author Tara Parker-Pope, it can help. "I think science teaches us the value of love and can help us make better decisions," said Parker-Pope. Her upcoming book "For Better: The Science of a Good Marriage" (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."

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:

"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.

What does all this have to do with me?

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.

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.

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.

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!

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 love.

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.

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.

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.

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?

-Tigerlily

"Looking for a Mate.

Sail with me through life my dear,
Hope shall guide and love shall steer,"

Christmas with Bing and Rosemary

2009-12-20T10:55:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

When I'm worried and I can't sleep
I count my blessings instead of sheep
And I fall asleep counting my blessings
When my bankroll is getting small
I think of when I had none at all
And I fall asleep counting my blessings

I think about a nursery and I picture curly heads
And one by one I count them as they slumber in their beds
If you're worried and you can't sleep
Just count your blessings instead of sheep
And you'll fall asleep counting your blessings

I think about a nursery and I picture curly heads
And one by one I count them as they slumber in their beds
If you're worried and you can't sleep
Just count your blessings instead of sheep
And you'll fall asleep counting your blessings

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.

-Tigerlily

Lost in the in-between

2009-12-03T09:26:00.001-08:00

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.

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.

What is this place?
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.

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?

Where did I go?
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.

Mrs Moon
sitting up in the sky
little old lady
rock-a-bye
with a ball of fading light
and silvery needles
knitting the night

-Roger McGough

*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.

Time left yet to play

2009-09-01T11:16:00.001-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Julia Childish, 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, The Bread Baker's Apprentice to my chest just like the girl on the cover.

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.

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...

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.

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.

-Tigerlily

Saltwater Heals

2009-06-11T11:00:00.000-07:00

"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. " ~Rabindranath Tagore

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.

Perhaps if I had a huge readership like Yarn Harlot , Smitten Kitchen, or KnitSpot, 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?

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...

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 Anne's 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.

Tidelines Socks

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.

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...

Adriatic Sea Scarf

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.

Cluranach Shawl (Thistle Shawl)

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

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.

I also made a huge investment in 30 ounces of Cormo cross wool from Kate at Knaackwool. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

-Tigerlily

The Man With No Name

2009-05-18T10:15:00.000-07:00

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.

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...

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.

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.

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)

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. -Tigerlily

Anatomy of a Turtle

2009-03-27T10:07:00.000-07:00

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.

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:

PART I: Sheldon is born.

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.

Part II: How a turtle grows a shell

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.

Part III: A Shell is sealed

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.

Part IV: What do I do with these? Or A turtle learns to walk

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.

Part V: Its a Turtle, let's name him Sheldon

Don't you love his smile? I think he's happy to be here.

Coming Soon: Sheldon as the Man With No Name OR A turtle in a Serape' -Tigerlily

Have you any wool?

2009-02-21T13:01:00.000-08:00

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 Yahoo Spinning site and wa la! The Schacht Matchless II. Double treadle. Double Drive.

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.

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!

On Ravelry, 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.

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.

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....

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. -Tigerlily

Living in a Brownelly Haze?

2009-01-19T15:17:00.000-08:00

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!

And then there is this:

The Hemlock Ring Blanket designed by Jared Flood. Knitted in Cascade Eco Wool
in a lovely shade called Latte. A perfect match for the color of the world outside, my mood, and my favorite beverage. Brown.

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.

"A cheerful heart is good medicine..."_--(Prov 17:22a)

-Tigerlily

A Time For Tea

2008-12-08T10:10:00.000-08:00

Thank God for tea! What would the world do without tea? - how did it exist? I am glad I was not born before tea.

Rev. Sydney Smith LADY HOLLAND'S MEMOIR

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 Heifer International again this year despite economic setbacks. And, while I'm still partial to the knitting basket 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.

There is no trouble so great or grave that cannot be much diminished by a nice cup of tea. ~Bernard-Paul Heroux

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.

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. ~Jslayeruk, as posted on Metaquotes Livejournal, in response to the July 2005 London subway bombings

I believe it is customary in good society to take some slight refreshment at five o'clock. Oscar Wilde, THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST

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."

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. ~Lu Tung, "Tea-Drinking"

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.

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.

Those darn spikes were tricky, and even knitted double took some ingenuity to get to stand up. 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.

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.

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.

~ Colley Cibber, LADY'S LAST STAKE

Battenburg Cake

“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.”

The Battenburg Cake Cozy

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.

My own attempt at making a Battenburg cake has had to wait while I search out a source for marzipan...

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.)

There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea. ~Henry James, PORTRAIT OF A LADY

Did you know that the world is suffering a crisis with honey bees? Its called Colony Collapse Disorder. 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...

The Bee Skep Tea Cozy

Stands the church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?
Rupert Brooke, HEAVEN

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!"
~Jerome K. Jerome, THREE MEN IN A BOAT

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...

Scottish Thistle Tea Cozy

"Never trust a man who, when left alone with a tea cosy, doesn't try it on!" ~Billy Connelly

A real honest to goodness Scottish thistle.
And the resemblance is uncanny!

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. Kazuko Okakura THE BOOK OF TEA

Truly Thankful

2008-11-28T12:34:00.001-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 living, and I still can't wait to get up each and every day.

-Tigerlily

Charlotte A. Cavatica

2008-10-03T12:00:00.000-07:00

"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."

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.

Charlotte I

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.

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.

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.

"It does look similar, but this spider is so small in comparison to Charlotte, she was really big."

"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?"

"Yeah..."

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.

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.

One Half of a Web

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.

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.

"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:"

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.

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.

Charlotte II

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.

A Full Web

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....

-Tigerlily

The Season of Libra

2008-09-22T09:30:00.000-07:00

Libra: September 23-October 23

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.

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.

Ruby, Quincy and Forrest (the 3 stooges) at the courtyard gate

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 Dr. Geisellhardt, was able to come home to recuperate with his loved ones around him. While the vet bill was 356.00, the GOOD NEWS is Quincy is well and still with us. He has one strong will to live. How many lives to dogs have?

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 GOOD NEWS 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.

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 GOOD NEWS 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 Chuck, he drives a Yaris as a member of the Nerd Herd at the Buy More. (Think Best Buy and Geek Squad)

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...

The Wallace Monument, Stirling Scotland

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.

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 Eclectic Sole by Janel Laidman.

Rivendell Knit in Socks That Rock, lightweight, colorway Gaia

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?

Dear Frankie Socks

Tropical Socks

Pick-a-Mix Socks

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.

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....

May peace, balance and harmony be in store for the remainder of 2008.

-Tigerlily

There and back again a Geek's tale

2008-08-13T09:07:00.000-07:00

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!

the crowd

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.

Day 1, the reporter goes to work

Five days later...

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.)

the Zoners

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 The Zone at AintItCoolNews. 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.

Ray Stevenson and me (he still wears his 13th legion ring BTW)

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.)

Nathan Fillian

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...

a wall of t-shirts

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.

Achimedes, Night Owl's ship from Watchman.

Archie's insides. I have no idea if there
was a coffee maker...

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...

the big frakkin bag

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.

the Simpsons panel

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.

Beth and Ewan McGregor?

Beth, Scott and Eric (the editors)

Even Jabba had to have a picture with Lara Croft...

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."

Scott, Beth, and Lena Headey (barely)

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.

-Tigerlily

Miss Pettigrew Goes To Comic Con

2008-07-20T09:56:00.001-07:00

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.

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.

1. Boarding passes, Comic Con ticket receipts and daily schedule, check.
2. Camera, cell phones & all necessary cords, memory cards & batteries, check.
3. Lara Croft guns, holsters, outfit, braid and boobs, check.
(boots won't fit, so Brenda Starr will be wearing them, TSA wll love that...)
4. Entire Laura Mercier makeup counter, check.

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.

(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.)

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.

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.

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...

Pretty women, Fascinating...Sipping coffee,
Dancing...Pretty women are a wonder. Pretty women!

-Tigerlily

Weigh anchor and hoist the mizzen!

2008-07-07T10:45:00.000-07:00

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.

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!

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!

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 this article. In protest, our scurvy crew may just set sail for other ports next season like New Orleans for Pyrate Con. 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...

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?

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!

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.

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!

-Tigerlilly

P.S.
(Sarah made this Jack Sparrow flag, complete with raveling edges, and it's double-sided.)

The Green Flash

2008-06-08T10:34:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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 Renee's Garden Seeds called Tropical Sunset, and had short lived success, but the inch long sprouts have all curled up and died.

Before the paint

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.

Cabana Squares Quilt

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?

Cabana Squares Quilt

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.

Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer Day 2:

Beth and I headed outside again early Sunday morning and started the real 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!

(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)

Finished at last

And, even though my wrists and hands were stiff from painting I finished two pairs of socks.
Pebble Beach and The Green Flash Shell Socks.

Pebble Beach Socks, Opal Crazy # 1901, size 1 dpn

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.

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 Nature magazine for almost 20 years. Some speculate that Jules Verne's 1882 romance Le Rayon-Vert (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."

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...

The Green Flash Socks
Blue Moon Socks that Rock lightweight, color: Count Cluckula, needle size 2 dpn

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.

These socks were knit using the Little Shell Socks 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 Mind of Winter's page for her take on the Little Shell Socks.

-Tigerlily

Wierd Science

2008-05-01T12:37:00.000-07:00

Ruby Bear basking while I photographed socks

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:

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!

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.

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.

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.

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. 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.

Just three weeks after planting

Obviously, this is not a practical or economic method for growing say, enough lettuce for a family. You'd wipe out the entire crop for one dinner salad. 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. 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.

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 Sprout People 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.

Bird Nest Socks

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.

The Nim's Island Socks, Kaffee Fassett by Regia, #4261 Caribbean, size 1 dpn

Lavender Blue Dilly Dilly Socks, Regia Cotton, #4177, size 1 DPN.

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.

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.

-Tigerlily

Knitting Socks or Learning to live with Addiction

2008-03-26T10:25:00.000-07:00

The Purple Stocking by James Jebusa Shannon

"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."

~ Jane Brocket, The Gentle Art of Domesticity 2007

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.

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.

Sweet Tart Socks, Lana Grossa Meilenweit Fantasy #4833, US size 0 dpn

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.

Juicy Citrus Socks, Trekking XXL #158, US size 0 dpn

Elliot loves them too

My complete fall from grace came when I uncovered the dirty little secret of the sock knitting world. Self-patterning yarns. 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.

The Frozen North socks, Opal "Berries" #195, US size 0 dpn

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.

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.

the sock stash

"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."-Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, Knitting Rules, 2006

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.

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 Doctors Without Borders sock yarn from The Unique Sheep 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.

Beth's Frank Miller socks, The Unique Sheep Verve-Doctors Without Borders, US size 1 dpn

Beth's Greek Socks in progress

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?"

Knitting socks is like crack cocaine. One hit and your hooked.

On the needles: Bird Nest socks (the yarn reminds me of pale blue eggs and twiggy nests), Trekking XXL #82, US size 0 dpn

"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."

-Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, Knitting Rules 2006

-Tigerlily

Brenda Starr The Movie

2008-03-24T08:03:00.000-07:00

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 Geek Beat on Cinematical. com. 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 Cinemablend.com. Details to follow shortly. I think it's safe to say she is officially a free-lance journalist.

Brenda will also be attending San Diego Comic Con 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.

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.

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 Miss Pettigrew. (BTW, Brenda gave Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day 10 out of 10)

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.
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:

And, just so you don't think the rest of the family has dropped off the planet, here's the scoop:

Sarah is now out of classroom and graduated to the floor where she gets to work on real 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.

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.

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)

-Tigerlily

Brenda Starr

2008-02-26T10:20:00.001-08:00

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.

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.

"So Brenda, tell us what's it like being an ace reporter?"
"It sucks, Daphne Dimples is making my life miserable."

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.

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....

-Tigerlily

Apple Blossom Time

2008-02-26T09:40:00.000-08:00

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.

I'll Be With You In Apple Blossom Time
(Neville Fleeson/Albert Von Tilzer

I'm writing you, my dear,
Just to tell you,
In September, you remember
'Neath the old apple tree
You whispered to me
When it blossomed again, you'd be mine.

I've waited until I could claim you,
I hope I've not waited in vain.
For when it's spring in the valley,
I'm coming, my sweetheart, again!

I'll be with you in apple blossom time,
I'll be with you to change your name to mine.

One day in May
I'll come and say:
"Happy the bride the sun shines on today!"

What a wonderful wedding there will be,
What a wonderful day for you and me!
Church bells will chime
You will be mine in apple blossom time.

I'll be with you in apple blossom time,
I'll be with you to change your name to mine.

-Tigerlily

Domestically Inclined

2008-02-12T07:56:00.001-08:00

Back in October, I discovered the delight of Yarnstorm, a wonderful blog written by Jane Brocket. I fell instantly in love on my first visit. Bright, funny, beautiful photographs and artful design. I just know Jane is a kindred spirit. And, if we did not live in different countries, I have no doubt we could become bosom friends. Jane knits. Jane quilts. Jane bakes. Jane gardens. Jane makes quince jelly and keeps three hens in her backyard that cluck around her feet as she hangs out the laundry. Jane revels in her domesticity and isn't afraid to write about it. Jane Brocket makes me feel really good about myself.

"Domesticity is not synonymous with housework. In fact, I think there is far too much media bossiness about cleanliness and tidiness these days, and nowhere near enough celebration of the joys of homemaking...live and let live, use the space instead of attempting to subjugate it to our wills, and get on with doing what needs to be done in order to make enough time to enjoy the more pleasurable gentle arts." -Jane Brocket, The Gentle Art of Domesticity, 2007

Jane Brocket's book, The Gentle Art of Domesticity was released in October. It took a terrible ripping in the London Telegraph. I immediately rushed over to amazon.co.uk and bought myself a copy. Take that British press! It took me more than a month to read. Not because it is some massive tome, but because I savored each and every page. It is essentially her blog put to the page, but more of it. This is a lady who shares my heart. She is me, but not afraid to talk about it. How many times have I heard the "you have way too much time on your hands" comment, or "well, you can do that because you don't work." I've been bouncing this kind of thinking off my domestic goddess armor for a very long time. Now some Tribune journalist says my enjoyment of the domestic arts - baking, sewing, knitting and gardening is anti-feminist?!

"Just as many aspects of domesticity are often derided as old-fashioned, quaint or downright useless, so the skills and practicalities associated with it have fallen out of fashion. Despite the efforts of many contemporary knitters, quilters, stitchers, crocheters, crafters and bakers, the fact remains that the gentle arts are frequently regarded as mildly eccentric, touchingly nostalgic and outmoded..."-Jane Brocket, The Gentle Art of Domesticity, 2007

With luck maybe all those letters to the editor will force the message home that real women knit, and cook and sew and lead brownie troops and do carpools to soccer practice and hundreds of other things each and every day while holding down jobs. My choosing to be a full time mom doesn't mean I'm wealthy, or have any more time to devote to other pursuits than a woman working outside the home. I don't have domestic help who clean the toilets or do the laundry or cook our meals. As my mother would say, I am chief cook and bottle washer. I'm the laundress and doggy daycare. If I choose to express my creativity via baking or quilting and in turn provide warmth and food for my family I am not setting women's rights back 100 years. Martha Stewart was the first person to bring home keeping out of the closet and Jane Brocket makes it feel like an art form. She makes me want to go out and buy a t-shirt emblazened with some kind of catchy phrase like Domesticity is an art, or Domestic Feminist and proud of it.

..."Embedded in the gentle arts is a slyly subversive streak that encourages free thought, individuality, creative self-expression, imaginative thought processes and not a little self-determinism..." -Jane Brocket, The Gentle Art of Domesticity, 2007

I'd always known there were others like me, there just weren't any nearby to commiserate with. People whose need to create a home, care for family, and release their artistic talents in ways that celebrate this love is as important to their survival as oxygen. Blogging changed all that. Suddenly I wasn't strange, or odd, there were thousands of us out there in the world. I blog in the hopes of reaching others who share my interests. I blog to connect with extended family and distant friends. I also blog to entertain. My life isn't perfect. There are plenty of things I don't say. There is a very real and gritty life that happens in between all those posts. I write what I'm comfortable with, choosing to focus on my creative endeavors and the humorous and upbeat aspects of daily life. I allow myself a little creatively licensed escapism.

My fellow artist and blogger Nancy summed it up better than I ever could....."To make the argument that by engaging in the domestic arts we've given up feminist ideals is intellectually flaccid. What's more feminist than having the choice to create as you desire, be it a post-modern political treatise or an heirloom quilt? What's more feminist than finding one's voice in an open medium? Isn't that what the movement was about? The freedom to be comfortable as women and to follow our interests, whatever they may be? I think we'd do much better to focus on women around the world without choices than to spend so much time picking at each other..."

Tigerlily is coming out of the closet. Yes, I am domestically inclined. It's what I am and what I do, and I love it. I knit, I bake, I sew, I quilt, (I try to garden but stink at it, but I would love to have chickens) I love making my home a home and I feel very lucky to have a job I love so much, and thank you Jane Brocket for your wonderful blog and being a kindred spirit.

"The gentle arts are all about comfort. They are soothing, relaxing, consoling and caring. " -Jane Brocket, The Gentle Art of Domesticity, 2007

The orange tea cozy was knitted in Cascade 220, tangerine heather yarn. The leaves came from Nicky Epstein's Knitted Flowers book, and the beads are Gutermann.

-Tigerlily

The Hamsters On Me

2008-01-31T09:52:00.000-08:00

Just when you think life couldn't get any bleaker. When you couldn't possibly have a worse day than yesterday. When your heart feels like it was ripped from your chest, torn to bits and then shoved back in again. When someone tells you that if they'd had the choice of being born they would have said no. When the only thing worse than life right now would be if you were dying or dead and even that has a positive slant to it because at least all this crap making you miserable would be someone else's problem. When you have told God that you don't plan on communicating with Him any longer because it has become quite obvious no one is listening. Because if someone was listening they would at least have the decency to acknowledge your presence. Right?

Then someone out in the great beyond sends you this: Flying Hamsters
(it's nice to know God has a sense of humor)

best score so far 233

-Tigerlily

Peace Weavers

2008-01-16T10:47:00.000-08:00

Beth and I were on our own one night last week, and having watched Eastern Promises found ourselves in a Viggo Mortenson aka Nicolai cold, brooding, Russian mood. Since we're short on Viggo movies, and it was cold and snowy outside, Dr. Zhivago seemed like an appropriate substitute. With blankets to fend off the harsh Russian winter, we curled up with our knitting and steaming cups of tea to sniffle once more at the romance of Yuri and Lara. I'd been saving a recipe for Cranberry Pavlova for just the right time and what is more Russian than Pavlova? Ok, the dessert comes from Australia but it was named after a Russian ballerina. The perfect choice for a night spent in Varykino. The crimson tide of juice and cranberries ran down the sides and into the crevices of the meringue like the folds of the Russian flag. The meringue lasted just long enough for Sarah to make it home from work for her share and then dissolved like cotton candy.

Ever since she wrote her senior thesis on the role of women in Anglo-Saxon literature, Elisabeth has been calling me a peace-weaver. In Anglo-Saxon, "fri'webba" means peace-weaver. The term was used to describe a woman who married someone from an enemy tribe in order to establish peace between her family and his. The marriage was a political arrangement to hopefully end hostility between warring tribes. Some historians think peace weaving was one of a woman's most important roles, and that men consulted them about preventing war. Women were the weavers of all the fabrics used for clothing and furnishings, and word weavers, the diplomats responsible for weaving the fabric of society. They used words and gifts and acts of kindness to weave peace. I like that very much.

Our little house of peace weavers has been very busy weaving its own kind of peace. Our free trade baskets (got them at Sunflower Market) are full of yarn and overflowing all over the family room. The end tables hold pattern sheets, pencils, scissors, post its for counting and coasters of tea cups. Needles of every shape and size are rolling loose, stabbed into balls or stuck in couch cushions. Baby booties, scarves, tea cozies, socks and shawls grow from our knitting needles each evening while we three peace weaving women watch movies and weave away the winter evenings.

A friend of Elisabeth's recently had a baby girl. Her Daddy is a huge Lord of the Rings fan, so what could be a more appropriate gift than Hobbit feet? Knit from an obnoxious peach pink for skin color and topped with long brown hair, these proudfoot booties can't help but make you laugh.

Hobbits are alive and well and living in America.

The Shoalwater shawl is finished at last and spends most evenings hugging my shoulders and keeping out the chill.

The undulating pattern of waving scallops imitate the soft ripples of water. It was knitted with sea wool from Fleece Artist in the Capri colorway. Sea wool is actually a combination of wool and sea cell, a fiber made from sea weed.

With all the peace weaving going on, politics naturally come up in the discussions. Health care, the environment, and the war in Iraq loom large. We need a change but who to choose? The front runners are no choice at all in either party. Too many carefully chosen words, no real answers, and they all sound the same. We became intrigued with Dennis Kucinich. If you haven't heard of him, it isn't surprising. We found him through Viggo Mortenson's web site, Perceval Press, http://www.percevalpress.com. If you've never been there, you owe it to yourself to visit. Artists, poets, photographers, current events, its all here in a softly focused, quietly powerful site.

You can find out about Dennis Kucinich on your own without my help. The part of this story that really bothers me, is that he was banned from the televised debates. First ABC, then MSNBC followed suit. Even after a Nevada judge said Kucinich should be allowed to debate, the network insisted on taking the matter to the supreme court. Since the man has little chance of making it onto the ballot, let alone becoming president of the United States, why go so far to quiet his voice? Unless that voice is one you fear being heard by the American public. Just as the newspapers print only what they want me to read, the networks televise only what they want me to see and hear. It is my right as an American citizen to choose, not the media. The networks say the smaller candidates don't have the numbers. They can't get the numbers if they can't be heard.

This kind of behavior is a blow to democracy. I urge you to write to NBC (letters@nbc.com) and MSNBC (letters@msnbc) and voice your displeasure. Leave comments on the New York Times article. Don't do it in support of Dennis Kucinich--do it in support of free and unbiased press and an open election.

In Truth there is no News, in News there is no Truth

Please take a moment to visit Knitters Without Borders. You will find the link at the upper left corner of my main blog page. Donations go to Doctors Without Borders. If you can buy yarn to knit, you can donate. I also highly recommend Heifer International, http://www.heifer.org.

A few dollars buys chickens, plants trees or you can buy a knitting basket which represents 2 llamas or 2 sheep. From shearing to spinning, weaving and finally selling woolen goods at market, the gift of a Knitting Basket will help entire families and entire communities break free of poverty.

Peace Weaving indeed.

Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail. -Ralph Waldo Emerson

-Tigerlily

A fun, old fashioned Griswold family Christmas

2007-12-20T19:34:00.000-08:00

Christmas is quite literally only days away. Denver is expected to have a white Christmas, and just like in the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band song,

"all along the rockies you can feel it in the air
From Telluride to Boulder down below. The closest thing to heaven on this planet anywhere
Is a quiet Christmas morning in the Colorado snow."

Before you go all mushy on me, let me let you in on a little secret. Colorado may be prettier to look at than L.A. at Christmas, but the spirit is no stronger here than anywhere else. That part of Christmas is carried within. Remember those immortal words of Ebenezer Scrooge, "I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year."

Most of you don't know that there was a model for the Griswold family, and we were it. Yeah, that's right, I'm married to Clark W. Griswold. Life with Sparky is never boring. Like Helen Griswold I've come to expect the unexpected as part of my everyday life. I gave up on a fun old fashioned family Christmas years ago. I spent New Year's Eve 2001 in a hotel room in Holbrook, Arizona after the drive shaft on our class C mini wini motor home shot out the side like a rocket and just missed the windshield of the car behind us. According to the state patrol, we should have been dead. Combine Robin Williams in R.V., with the Griswold's trip to Wally World and mix in a bit of Ricky and Lucy in the Long Long trailer and you'll get a picture of what vacations are like for us. Don't laugh. I can make the hair on the back of your neck stand up with our "memories."

It is because of my National Lampoon existence that I was so worried about Beth in England. Obviously the curse of the Griswold's weakens when the family is split up. She had some Griswold moments, but by and large the trip was more good than bad.

Christmas 2007 is going to break a record as the most expensive season we have ever had. After the veterinary bills of November, the replacement camera lens, 2 sets of car tires (one of which was a good Samaritan act), and a lost cell phone, I knew I'd better pay attention to my inner Helen Griswold voice instead of Martha Stewart. There was more on the wind, I could feel it.

(FYI: Mike has lost so many cell phones the phone company won't insure him anymore. One was frozen in the snow while picking up after the dogs. Another met a watery end in the toilet bowl. This time the phone was under Ruby Bear's bed. We vibrated that thing for 3 days and never got so much as a raised eyebrow from Ruby. I suspect her of working for AT&T)

Sarah went down with bronchitis and missed several days of school and work. I love the new medical policy of not giving people antibiotics. Instead I was sent to the pharmacy to buy two different kinds of Musinex at $20 a box and a bottle of cough syrup. A Z pack would have been $40 cheaper and would have worked faster, and Sarah wouldn't have had to return to outside life still contagious, which is how she got sick in the first place. (Don't even get me started on my pandemic soapbox)

Michaels Craft Store, in its infinite wisdom decided they should get into the extended holiday shopping hours business. After putting in 6 hours of school, Sarah heads for Michaels where she works the closing shift, newly extended until 11pm. I suppose it is possible that someone might need a bottle of Martha Stewart's all-purpose craft glue at 11 at night, but I rather doubt it. I also don't see hundreds of men turning to Michaels for their wifes gift at zero hour on Christmas Eve. Sarah is coughing her best and manning the framing department waiting for that big last minute Christmas sale that will never come.

Forrest, Ruby's brother has a things for wheels. He attacked the BBQ until he ripped the tires off and it collapsed. When it was gone he turned to the trash can for solace. It is now rolling with a decided limp. Forrest went to the vet on Saturday after ripping a toenail off in battle. $60 bucks later he hasn't learned a thing.

Sarah came home Friday night screaming about the ignition on the cruiser. Her key kept getting stuck. Great, we were going to need a new ignition and new chip keys....Four days later the car is still at the mechanic and the ignition never got replaced. They couldn't get the key to stick. They did however find a leaking shock absorber, and broken water pump, a leaking celanoid on the brand new transmission, and a timing chain ready to kick the bucket. Estimated cost of repair: $1700. This comes on the heels of a $3000 transmission put in this past summer. I think the car may self implode before Sarah finishes cosmetology school.

Two days ago my dryer went out. With a puff of acrid burning plastic smell it died. I have clothes racks of underwear standing in front of the Christmas tree.

But I want to make sure I end this blog on a positive note. After all, we Griswolds are nothing if not optimistic. We make the best of a bad situation. We really do try and keep the spirit of Christmas in our hearts all year. We soldier on after we kick the plastic Santa's ass and take a chain saw to the neighbors tree.

"Where do you think you're going? Nobody's leaving. Nobody's walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We're all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We're gonna press on, and we're gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny fucking Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he's gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse. "

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from our nuthouse to yours. -Tigerlily

A State of Grace

2007-11-25T09:16:00.000-08:00

A State of Grace is defined as the following:

1·· (Christian theology) a state of being protected or sanctified by the favor of God.

In the crazy aftermath of Beth's coming home, in what I thought would be that respite between Halloween zaniness and the business of the holiday season, I took Quincy in for eye surgery. Quincy is the patriarch of our doggy pack. The last of a trio of dog boys whose antics inspired stories and whose living affected our family so deeply that their loss is still very painfully felt. Aging now, with a gray muzzle and salt and pepper eyebrows, Quincy is the one we call our benevolent buddha. The dog has never passed a day in his life unhappy. He loves everyone. He sees no bad or evil in the world. He'd recently developed a bump on his lower right eyelid. It didn't seem to bother Quincy much, but it wasn't exactly attractive. Sarah kept complaining about it and wanted it removed. I hated to spend what I knew would be a chunk of change to have something rather harmless removed. At his checkup the vet said it would be an easy matter to freeze it off, and the price wasn't bad, $150.00. I set the date. By surgery day the bump had decided to grow a large pink nodule that burst open and threatened to quickly do it again. It seemed more certain that this had become a necessary surgery rather than a cosmetic one. A good thing in the end.

But when I took Quincy in, he did something he had never done before. He refused to walk in the office. Once in the office, he tried to get back out. When the tech came to get him he refused to move. He braced his feet. I had to trick him into following me to even get him to move. He looked at me. Let's go home momma. Let's forget all this. I really don't want to go. Alarm bells rang. Why, why is it when we get this messages, these instincts we don't listen? In the parking lot I nearly went back in. On the way home I began to really worry. I remembered my sister's cat that fought all the way to the vet only to die on the surgery table. I rememberd my father. Never sick a day in his life and then a fall in the snow and a sniffle. Then a cough that didn't go away. Three weeks later he was gone from lung cancer so advanced it had spread to his bones. The knot in my stomach would not go away.

Quincy came home from surgery smiling but looking rather bedraggled. The sight of his eye alone that first night had me in tears. The bump had been a tumor and had extended below the eyelid about 1/2 inch. As that first evening wore on the eye began to swell and Quincy became more stressed and by morning there was little doubt he was in pain. We went back to the vet for an additional shot of pain meds. and a steroid injection to help his lungs. By day 3 post-op his breathing was gurgling. By day 4 there was little doubt there was respiratory problem. He wasn't eating or sleeping, his breathing was rapid and shallow. I made more than 10 trips back and forth to the vet in that first week. Quincy got so used to going that he would just stand at the garage door waving side to side with weakness when he heard my keys. By the weekend there was no improvement and Quincy was straining for every breath. The vet was completely bewildered. Said the surgery had been very routine and uneventful. There seemed to be bronchitis in his lungs.

By Saturday morning I truly feared he might not come out of it. He was that weak. Unable to eat, unable to walk, barely keeping himself hydrated, Quincy looked as though he had aged 10 years overnight. The weight was falling off of him and we had taken to calling him Sticks as he looked like a wrinkled and sagging balloon held up by stick legs. In secret I was calling him Sticks the Lunger (only someone who has seen Tombstone is going to get that reference to Doc Holliday). This happy little guy, who had never been sick a day in his life, who had recently been more active than we'd seen in years, in the span of a few days been reduced to this, and it was all my fault. I begged him to forgive me for not listening.

When I looked Quincy in the eyes, I saw the look of someone who has given up. He wasn't fighting anymore. Maybe it was his age, maybe it was because he is such a happy fellow that he fell into such a depression. Those eyes frightened me and in that most desperate of moments I did what everyone does. Beg. Make bargains. I promised him toys and treats, anything if he would just please fight harder. I plied him with McDonalds kids burgers and bits of beef tenderloin. I tried chocolate chip cookies, his favorites. Anything to spark his interest. I planted hundreds of kisses on the black smudge on his forehead. We always called it his thumb print from God. Fight. Fight harder.

Maybe its because I spent so much of my own life in a state of bronchitis or pneumonia that I suffered so with his every breath. I knew what it felt like. How exausting it was just to breathe. That breathing too deeply brought on coughing, and coughing hurt so badly it was to be avoided at all costs. Quincy didn't want to be alone, and he didn't want me to leave him. The house was so hushed. The other dogs never barked or squabbled. They stayed close. We needed help, and the vet and his endless medicines were not going to be enough. My prayers alone were not going to be enough.

I sat down at the computer with Quincy at my feet and composed an email. I sent it to everyone I knew asking for their prayers and happy thoughts. Beth and Sarah both posted bulletins on My Space and their blogs and favorite hang outs asking for help too. The responses began to come back almost immediately. My friend Ricky in Georgia, whose partner is a vet offered any help they could. Our vet had promised to check back with me but it had been nearly 36 hours and still no call. I emailed my dear friends immediately with Quincy's current status and all his medications. I told them what the vet had told me about the surgery. Jeff emailed me right back. It sounds like aspiration pneumonia. Turn on a humidifier or take him in the shower. Run the hot water and get that steam going. Start doing coupage (percussion treatments) to the sides of his chest several times a day for 5 minutes at a time. Check his gums and make sure they are pink. Pink means he's staying oxygenated. Gray is bad. We had to help him expel all that bad stuff out of his lungs.

Not 10 minutes after that email came in, the vet finally called. He told me word for word exactly what Jeff had just said with one caveat. Oral antibiotics can take up to 5 days to take effect. That was news I could have used earlier. No wonder he seemed be getting worse. He was.

We kicked into high gear. I showed the girls how to do cou'page. My niece and nephew had suffered from asthma for years, and we all knew how to do percussion from them. Cup your hand. Now pat quite firmly along the sides of his chest where his lungs are. Do along his back too. We sat in the steam until Quincy was panting from the heat. Pounding, pounding. After just one treatment he began to cough and phlegm seemed to be loosening. We took turns getting soggy. We pounded him while we watched tv. Mike pounded him when he walked by.

At the same time the letters were coming in. One email. Five email. Fifteen. My Space and Ain't It Cool News, blog readers, they all responded. The power of LOVE is a wonderful thing. With each and every one Quincy began to improve. Throughout the weekend and into the coming week we kept this up. After just one day, Quincy began to lead me to the bathroom. By Tuesday a.m. I had a tail wag. When a pug drops his tail, and can not curl it, something is very wrong. To see that tail lift and curl, if only momentarily was a very big deal. We were on the mend. Still gasping but able to breathe a bit deeper, Quincy began to ask for the steam and chest beating. His attitude improved. He smiled. He barked. And with that the antibiotics finally began to do their job.

Thanksgiving came and I really was thankful. Thankful for friends and family. That people from all over the world would come to the rescue of a little pug they had never met was a testament to the power of love. Imagine what else it could do? I felt as though I was being carried along on a river of benevolence. This doesn't mean life has suddenly been picture perfect and sunny. The opposite would seem to be so. We have had a string of rotten luck and unexpected expenses that has put quite a crimp in life as well as Christmas gift giving. I'm upset, angry even, but this glow I'm feeling makes it all seem very trivial. Each and every day is a precious gift. Why waste it fighting or being angry? The important bit is the living. And the love. And when Quincy looks at me from the depths of his shining eyes I am thankful that dear puggy wug, the last of a trio is with us to celebrate his 10th birthday on December 6th. I think Joe and Maverick are watching from Dog Heaven and smiling. This truly is what Christmas is all about.

So, despite dishonest businessmen, new boyfriends, lost paychecks, broken cameras, out of work daughters, screaming bosses, grumblings about who is or isn't doing their share of work, husbands spending more time in the air then on the ground....

I feel blessed for a chance to know this state of grace.

-Tigerlily

Scots, wha hae

2007-10-29T15:41:00.000-07:00

Elisabeth is in England. My baby girl off on her own in a far away place we have only dreamed of until now. I think I have spent at least an hour a day crying since she left. Crying because I was frightened of her alone and far away. Crying because I so wanted to be there too, and crying because more than anything else I missed her so much my heart ached.

How very silly I kept telling myself. She is all grown up. How will you cope if she ever moves away? I have come to the conclusion that I simply won't be able to. Even Sarah cried because she missed her sister. What? Is this possible? It would seem they really do love each other.

And me, this woman who is so very much a woman of the past and old fashioned pursuits, thanks the gods for the wonders of modern technology. Not only have I been able to speak with Beth every single day via mobile phone, I have been able to chat with her live on the computer, and literally watch as her latest photos appear like magic before me from thousands of miles away. I could hear the tolling of the bells at Saint Paul's Cathedral, live, as Beth stood outside, and hear the soft Scottish brogue of a man complimenting Beth on her American accent. I heard the wind blow across the water of Port Glasgow as if I were there. And when she was homesick and her heart was breaking, I was there to hear her tears too. Imagine if it took weeks for letters to cross back and forth across the continents. Imagine no phones or electricity in the wilds of Scotland. Imagine the cold abruptness of telegrams. I am glad I live in a very modern age and I can incorporate the old and embrace the new, and appreciate the gifts it brings my life.

In fact, this concept of old and new seems to define Britain as well. So very chic, trendy and hip, with little shops that dispense fresh organic salads, sandwiches and sticky buns faster than you can say McDonald's and a Lush shop on every corner, which must be why all Brits have lovely skin and are stick thin. And all this chic appears to blend seamlessly with old tweedy Britain with its towering edifices of Gothic archways, medieval halls and Victorian memorials. The air in these places actually seems to have weight it is so old. If you like the smell of antique stores or old books, you'll know what I mean, but multiply that aroma by centuries. Elisabeth says she wishes she could bottle it. Around every corner there is history. They have so much history and it is so very everyday and common place, that you wonder if they even really appreciate it. Can they grasp what it's like to have so very little, like America?

Scotland is as you imagine it to be. Pipers piping and every shop window filled with a rainbow of plaid to catch a tourists eye. Rolling hills, misty mountains, and real steam engine trains winding their way through the countryside. Little old ladies line up for the bus with their shopping bags and little old men totter about in woolly cardigans eager to chat up the American who is following the trail of William Wallace. Herds of highland cows, hillsides of heather, streets full of kilts. Scots have a wonderful sense of humor, and they know how to market the hell out of their countries best product.

What is it exactly that makes what is essentially a girls skirt so attractive on a man? Is it those firm Scottish legs? Is it the way the plaid clings so nicely to the bum? Or is it that the men who wear it do so with a certain swagger to their walk? And take a look at the television ads promoting Scottish beef featuring a handsome highlander named Glen. All over Britain women know what they want for dinner...

http://www.qmscotland.co.uk/marketing/beef.html

If you want to see more of Glen, copy and paste the above web address into your browser, and go to the bottom of the Quality Scottish Beef page. Now click the tiny red print that says view television advertising. There are 3 commercials in total.

I was with Beth in Scotland, at one very special spot. Port Glasgow. Standing on the rocky beach as the tide was going out, Beth called me on the phone. I could hear the wind and the water. The ferry boats crossing the water were playing Scots wha hae.

"I'm here mom. I'm standing on the exact spot on the beach from Dear Frankie..." And for those moments across all those miles I was there, standing on the barnacle encrusted pillar where Gerry Butler had once sat. Beth got me a great gift there. A rock all green with moss.

-Tigerlily

If you would like to read more about Elisabeth's Transatlantic Adventure, please visit her blog at: http://ringbright.blogspot.com/

She seeks wool and flax, and works with her hands willingly

2007-09-09T12:28:00.000-07:00

The woman who works with her her hands is only a laborer The woman who works with her hands and her head is a craftswoman The woman who works with her hands, her head, and her heart is an Artist

~St. Francis of Assisi

After what has turned into a long summer hiatus, my blog like Martha Stewart is back on the air. What I may have lost in words I've more than made up for in activity over the last couple months. I have been a very busy person.

I've canned peaches and applesauce. Also made a small batch of apple butter.

After two summers, the trellis/pergola top for the courtyard fence is done. Now if I could just get to the Kwall store for the paint! (No, I didn't build it, but I had to keep the workman who did supplied with liquids.)

I've framed 3 finished cross stitch pieces. Michaels had their friends and family sale and I got 60% off a frame order. Nice. Never could have afforded them otherwise. I mounted the needlework and Sarah put my backing and hardware on. I love how old the frames look. Unfortunately the frame details don't show up well in the photo.

The sewing projects have been piling up at an alarming rate. Sarah is bringing home fabric faster than I can buy tubs to store it in. She's finished a wine colored Will Turner shirt and a very Twiggy tweed wool jumper. She's neck deep in black fabric for a Snape costume. I've managed to snatch the machine a few hours for myself ...

At long last the new pillows for the family room sofas are finished. They look fantastic. Simple pillow sham construction with iron on velcro closure. Used scotch guard on the fabric so they wipe clean between washings.

A very good thing because...

Elliot thinks the new pillows are great. Here he is defiling them. He has no respect for anything but his own comfort. He is such a pug!

Here is my French flea market apron. I made it using really cute retro Halloween fabrics from Marcus Brothers and FatQuarterShop.com

And last but not least...
They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and I sure hope that's true because I'd hate to be called a copy cat. A friend of mine, whose blog I discovered while hunting up help with the Charlotte's Web shawl, Nancy, is a very talented lady. She and I have so much in common that I have often told her I wished we were neighbors, or at least lived near enough to visit. She knits and scrapbooks, sews and rubber stamps. We often end up choosing the same knitting patterns and similar yarns without even knowing it. I've watched Nancy's quilt making with awe, but never had any desire to do one myself. Until the day I logged on to her blog and saw her red quilt. I kept going back and looking at it again and again. I wanted it. I began to dream of having it. Desperation drives people to do strange things. It drove me to check out every Kaffe Fassett book the library had. It drove me into scouring the internet for the fabrics. I hope Nancy will understand and be flattered. Here is the finished quilt, I call it the Ruby Quilt after my mother. Red was one of her favorite colors and I think she would love it.

I used Fassett's layout for the Tapestry Garden Quilt. However, when it came to which color block goes next to what my head began to spin. I let the fabrics tell me what felt good and went with it. Beth got so excited as I neared the end, she did the whole lower third. We ended up with too many purple plums in the last row, but who cares? It's gloriously beautiful.We had so much fun that I've ordered fabrics for another. All golden fall rose hips and crab apples.

While it may look like Nancy's in overview, it in no way resembles Nancy's in true beauty or quality of workmanship. I had no end of trouble with it. I made mistakes I never should have made. My impatience got the best of me again, and I paid the price. Forgot to iron the quilt top. Didn't use clear thread for the top, which would have covered so many of my mistakes. I used a spray adhesive for basting the layers together and it worked really well, but the reviewers who said I would not need pins as well were sadly mistaken.

I think my biggest problem was simply dealing with the sheer size. I struggled and struggled with the weight pulling the sewing out of line. Up until now I've kept my time at the machine to short bursts. The weight of the quilt along with the stress and sitting really took its toll on my neck and shoulders. I will never machine quilt another large project. This said, I have fabric for two quilts waiting. What to do? Tie 'em.

I also used Nancy's tutorial for sewing a bag and created this beach bag. It's lined in muslin and even has an inside pocket. Nancy wasn't fooling about it holding six beach towels. This is the beginning of what I hope will eventually be enough bags for my grocery shopping.

They are incredibly cheap to make. JoAnn's always has bolts of home decor fabric on the clearance, and this bag barely cost me $6 and that's with the lining and the webbing for the handles. That beats the store bought canvas bags by $10.

And speaking of grocery bags, here's a great recycling idea from Martha Stewart. Make your own shopping bags out of t-shirts. Sew across the bottom hem of the shirt. Lay the shirt flat and cut off sleeves following seam lines. Cut an approximately 9 1/2 inch 1/2 circle in neck. A bowl works great to use as a guide. Mark a line around the bowl and cut. There you have it, a shopping bag! Put it in your purse and you'll have a bag ready when ever you shop for clothes, books, etc. Make enough, and you can sack your groceries. To add longer life to the bag, zig zag stitch along the cut lines of neck and arm holes. :o)

While I've had great success on the sewing front, my knitting has not been going so well. I'm still struggling with the Shoalwater shawl. I certainly thought I'd be done by now, but it is determined to make my life miserable. If I didn't have so much time and money invested I'd burn it. I could rip it out, but the thought of all the wasted hours makes me sick at the very thought. This is all doubly embarrassing after the quilt debacle and only made worse by all the knitters on line who have made this shawl apparently with little or no trouble at all. Lovely things sit waiting to be cast on but I refuse to give it until this beast has been tamed. I do love this fantastic free trade market basket I found at the Sunflower Market.

He who knows what sweets and virtues are in the ground,
the waters, the plants, the heavens,
and how to come at these enchantments
is the rich and royal man.

~Emerson

Victorian Seaside

2007-07-26T09:30:00.000-07:00

As I began this blog entry, the girls were in the air over my head, flying off to San Diego and Comic Con 2007. Mike will be flying out to Long Beach to teach on Monday, the same day the girls are scheduled to return. He'll be making another trip to California just two weeks later, this time to San Francisco. What about me? Best to leave me holding down the fort. Besides, I'm worn out from all the hectic pre-flight prep that's been taking place.

The girls have a friend, Josh going with them this year, and friends on the other end waiting for them, so I certainly feel a good deal better about letting them out from under my wing. They also took Lara Croft, Selene and Gorgo with them...

People wear costumes at Comic Con. Not everyone but lots. It began as comic book characters and has grown to include film characters as well. Beth and Sarah decided they might as well join in. Beth gave Lara Croft a bit of a face lift and Sarah put final touches on her Selene from Underworld. Then I had to open my mouth and say what a cool costume Queen Gorgo from 300 would be, and how no one would be able to pull it off. Make a challenge like that in this house and you've just opened a can of worms. Here, for the first time in public, the unveiling of Queen Gorgo.

Our friend Carlos created this master
piece for Beth from the same Romanian hemp linen used in the film. My search for the fabric is a story in itself. Turns out Hemp Basics supplies hemp fabrics to most major motion pictures needing historic fabrics. Patriot, Pirates I, II, & III, 300, etc.

I made the wolves tooth necklace (resin), Beth got the earrings from Africa, and a wonderful artist on Etsy.com hand forged the cuff bracelet from brass. We took the photos at dusk in a field of prairie grass that now in late summer resembles a golden field of wheat.

Even I find it hard to believe that this beautiful woman is mine. Gerry Butler, you are so missing it....

So, what to do while the girls are gone for 4 whole days and I have the house to myself?

First things first, you revel in not having to cook. Second, you relize how blissfully quiet the house is. Then, you sink into oblivion with Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. It is a strange feeling knowing that as you sit curled in a corner sobbing through the ending of a book that most of the world is doing it with you. I began to cry at the Battle of Hogwarts, and didn't stop until long after I finished. At one point in the middle of the Kings Cross chapter I had to just stop. I simply couldn't see to read anymore.

When it comes to sad endings, this summer has had more than its fair share. The final installment of Harry Potter came right on the heels of the last Pirates of the Caribbean film and I cried my way through that ending as well.

After I spent a whole day reading Harry, I pondered what to do next. Finish my Lopi sweater. I had gauge issues due to a mistake in the pattern. On top of that the instructions were translated from Finnish so there are some mistakes. Despite problems I really did enjoy making it and look forward to making more. Thank goodness the new Lopi books on the market are a good deal easier to understand than this 1970's pattern! Sarah has laid claim to the sweater, so I bought some inexpensive buttons, tidied up all those yarn ends and crocheted the edging and buttonholes.

I have quite a bit of yarn leftover so I'm making a French Market Bag from a Knitty pattern. I was inspired by the beautiful bags Lene at Dances With Wool made. Lene lives in Finland. Here's here blog: http://www.lenealve.blogspot.com/

Aren't these gorgeous?

Mine is nothing much more than a blue lump at this point. These types of patterns do require grim determination to get through. You have to keep telling yourself that something beautiful will come out of the washing machine after felting...

And, thanks to all those chiropractic treatments, I can sew again. What a joy. Now that the costume work is out of the way I can have some fun. Aprons have become quite trendy again. Very retro chic. When I was little my mother always wore one to protect her clothes. A carry over from pioneer days that finally went out of vogue in the 60's. I am a slob when I cook and when I eat, and have ruined countless shirts when I got too close to the bleach while cleaning the sink. Hence, I am reviving the apron. The first one was a lovely faded rose print with polka dot ties and pockets from 3 sisters seaside prints. You can see it behind the book and I plan to make two more from these Susan Branch fabrics...

Next will be my first foray into Amy Butler patterns. I'm making the Cafe Apron, but the skirt version. This stack of prints will make up the squares, ties and reverse. Again, all 3 Sisters prints from the Seaside collection.

Last but not least, I have my choice of DVD's to watch. It has rained each evening for the past three, making it ideal for cozying up with some knitting and a movie. Dragged out all my beautiful romantic Victorian favorites. Somewhere In Time, House of Mirth, The Ideal Husband....

Nice. The house is a bit like a tomb though...

Tigerlilly

Shoalwater

2007-07-05T08:28:00.000-07:00

Recently learned that some visitors to the Mermaids Chair only come to look at the pictures. Must admit, was rather hurt, but tried to take a carefree attitude punctuated by a giggle as if it didn't matter at all. Upon further mulling I did realize my blogs do get rather long and wordy. Perhaps blogging more often would keep them shorter? For those who like pictures with their reading material ala Dick and Jane books, I will try to keep you entertained. There will still be plenty of knitting porn as long as I have the strength in my fingers to keep knitting.

And since we're discussing the content of my blog? There is a little place, at the bottom of the page called, "COMMENTS," and it sure would be nice if some of you left some. The only comments I've had in the nearly year and a half I've been at this have been from Captain Jack Sparrow, and that doesn't really count since he was only googling himself...

Speaking of knitting here is a photo of my first finished summer project, the Sea Shell Bag from Book 9, Classic Beach by Rowan. I used Rowan Natural Silk Aran yarn in Barley. I've sewn little mother of pearl fish in sea green to the front and lined it in beige linen. It did turn out a good deal bigger than I had pictured it and I have no idea what I will use it for. It would make a great beach bag but I don't have a beach...

Each of my blogs has a title, and the meaning is always somewhere in the blog. Having just written that I realized too late that if you are not reading the blog you probably aren't reading the title either so why am I bothering to explain? CRIPES!

Shoalwater is defined as: Shallow water usually associated with the presence of sand bars below the surface. Sometimes these sand bars are exposed during low tides.
OR:
A sandbank or sandbar that makes the water shallow; specifically : an elevation which is not rocky and on which there is a depth of water of six fathoms (11 meters) or less

I chose the title Shoalwater because it is the name of my newest knitting project, the Shoalwater Shawl by Fiber Trends. This shawl, captures the soft ripple of the quiet water at low tide.

It is hard to see the design this early on, the yarn is so springy I wasn't able to spread it out enough. I chose SeaWool by Fleece Artist, and I love it. This fingering weight sock yarn is made from a combination of merino wool and sea cell, a cellulose-based fiber made from sea weed.

The yarn is incredibly soft, has a nice sheen, and actually retains the scent of the sea, a slightly salty aroma.
I chose the Capri colorway and I think it captures the blues, grays and greens of shallow water really well.
I also purchased several skiens of Sea Silk, a silk and sea cell blend. I'll save that for later...

Then Shoalwater ended up being appropriate for a completely different reason....

Does anyone out there watch Ghost Hunters? We're addicted to it. It is the highlight of our Wednesday evening. We've had countless discussions about what we've seen and heard. Is it real? Ghost hunters is starting a nationwide search for new TAPS members. One of the questions they ask is, "Have you have had a paranormal experience personally? I'd have to answer that with an emphatic yes.

You just have to ask yourself what kind of person are you. Are you the type that sees signs? Sees miracles? Or do you think that people just get lucky? Maybe there are no coincidences. -Mel Gibson, Signs, 2002

I've been having what you could call paranormal experiences since I was a very little girl. I distinctly remember having moments when I could smell my Grandmothers house, a place I only remember visiting once. There have been other things, some my family has experienced and some unique to just me.

Lately, I've been flooding heaven with prayers. Most of them have centered around the same three subjects. After several months, I finally asked God for some kind of sign that my prayers were being heard. I told Him, that I was sorry, that it wasn't a lack of faith, just a lack of patience on my part. To please forgive me ahead of time. I often talk to my parents, especially my mother in my prayers as well. In one very low moment, I wished that she was here to give me a hug, because I needed one so much.

Just a few days later, I received the sign I was asking for. It came in the form of a dream of my mother, and in the dream she didn't say a word, just enveloped me in her arms for the most deeply encompassing hug you could imagine. Yes, He was listening, and she was too.

Its been about two weeks since that event, and in the intervening time, I haven't let up on my prayers. I talk while I work, drive, shower, wherever time allows. And sometimes when life is just really full, I send my thoughts up like little kites to heaven. I imagine them with notes tied to the tail.

And last night, my mother came to me again. Her warm hands enclosed my face, and she called me by a pet name that no one else knows. When I started to talk, "Momma do you know if?..." She shushed me with her fingers on my mouth, "enough." Her voice came into my head, the message clear and strong, "It will all take care of itself in good time." Tears burst from me like a fountain, and I woke with a gasp. I was sure I saw her standing briefly by my bedside. A light from the hall told me that one of the girls was awake. It took all my strength to stay in bed. I wanted to burst through the door yelling, "Did you see her? Is she here? Did you see Grandma?" Instead I lay there in the dark gasping and crying. Elliot snuggled close and licked my face. I'm here my momma, don't cry...

"You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you, Peter Pan. That's where I'll be waiting" -- Author:Tinkerbell

Tinkerbell called it that place between sleep and awake, and yes, that is the place. But, I think I'd call it shoalwater. That quiet spit of sand, exposed only for brief moments when the tide is low. A place where heaven and earth meet briefly. That's where they'll remember you, that's where they'll be waiting.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." --From Hamlet (I, v, 166-167)

-Tigerlily

Quartier Francais

2007-06-24T08:44:00.000-07:00

Imagine yourself in New Orleans, perhaps walking along Esplanade Street, the air heavy with heat and the hum of bees. The sweet and spicy scent of magnolia mingles with the musky odor of pinks. The trees are thick and shady and dripping in Spanish moss.You turn a corner and find yourself in a perdido jardin, a sanctuaire...

My lost garden, my sanctuary. I have a secluded spot that seems worlds away from the reality of suburban living. This little enclave has quickly become eveyone's favorite place to be. Evenings are heaven. The backyard and patio are just to wide open. Exposed. No one came come out without the dogs raising a fuss. Here we have a bit of privacy.

After 2 summers of waiting, my little New Orleans courtyard has at last begun to take shape. As much as the fence initially made me feel claustrophobic, it is now the buffer between me and the construction going on outside.Construction on our block, the closing out of the development, has made life miserable throughout the spring and shows no sign of abatement as we reach the heat of summer. The noise. The mud. Workers from 7am until sometimes 1am. The cars and construction vehicles making driving nearly impossible...

To walk through the iron gate and find yourself in this unexpected quiet spot; to sit and relax to the singing of the water in the fountain, and the tinkle of wind chimes makes life a bit more bearable...

These are photos of the courtyard as it appears now. The fence is still not finished or painted, but it is on the summer's work list. The fence will be painted the same dark green as the house. The pergola top will shade things a bit more and bring down the endless open sky feeling that it has now, making it yet even more enclosed.

Cool and green and shady....

The ferns hanging from the front porch have the same effect. The feeling is one of security and peace. There was so much more I wanted to do, but money only stretches so far. Next year more urns, and perhaps baskets hanging from the pergola?
It is a work in progress....

The dogs love to lay with their bellies resting on the cool paving stones and be lulled to sleep by the fountain. The bullies think standing in the fountain spray trying to catch water droplets, the best game ever.

The gate provides them with just enough of a window on the world to keep track of dogs out for walks or the squeal of the UPS truck tires.

Here's Forrest doing just that...

Life has slowed to summer rhythm with no classes and few train trips. I caught the scent of freshly mown grass this morning after dropping Beth off. I don't mean the suburban "Dad just cut the lawn smell, " that blend of Kentucky bluegrass and gasoline mower. I mean the fresh cut hay kind of grass smell that evokes memories of country roads, fields and farms. The vortex of childhood opens and visions of roadside farm stands on an early summer morning materialize...

The farmer already beaded in sweat bringing in bushel baskets brimming with sweet corn. Cucumbers still cold, damp and dappled with damp earth from their hiding place under the vine leaves. The old lean two of boards with the "fresh picked" signs are gone, replaced by what I call hydrogen peroxide farmers markets. Here in Highlands Ranch, the farmers market is nothing more than an outdoor Whole Foods store, with gourmet vinegars and fancy pastries, ostrich jerky and fruit smoothies.

I want dirt, and the smell of plants that have been growing in the sun. And, despite my being absolutely terrified of bugs, I even want the occasional worm on my corn. My children have grown up devoid of the aroma of earth on their food, with hydroponic tomatoes and cellophane bagged lettuce mixes. We have planted two small roma tomato plants and some white pumpkins in one of our large pots. We have blossoms, will we have tomatoes?

The Renaissance Faire season is upon us again and opening weekend weather could not have been more perfect. Just warm enough, just breezy enough, not too crowded. Faire always comes around before I'm quite ready. My new corset still unfinished, and unable to even contemplate wearing the leather one, I went without. I wore my new Scottish costume that I had finished too late for last season.

The girls and I posed in a quiet spot for photos.

This year Beth wasn't the only one who got to have her hair braided. My hair was gorgeous from the back, but when I saw myself from the front I looked quite bald. If possible, it was even worse without the hat. UGH. That's $20 I would like to have back....

It was good to see familiar faces, and so many people in costume. Our friend Captain Jack Sparrow was there and recognized Elisabeth right away...

We never get through a fair season without some kind of adventure, and Elisabeth had one that will go down in the annuls of family history. While shopping, Elisabeth and Gretchen stopped to watch the giant swing. Since they had no riders, the men who work the swing had cranked it as high as it would go and were surfing it as it swung. One young rogue wearing a kilt kept calling the crowds to come and see his kilt fly up.

Elisabeth stood watching, and said, "Your going to have to crank that swing back higher than that, because I didn't see a thing." With a sly grin our kilt wearing Scotsman pulled a William Wallace, and Elisabeth saw everything!

Without batting an eyelash our regal Queen reached into her bag and pulled out a gold ribbon. With great flourish she presented it to him.

"I've been carrying this around a long time and I think you should have it."

Gathering up her skirts, she turned and walked away with great dignity. A bit further down the path who should she meet but Captn' Jack carrying a very large pink ice cream sundae.

"What happened love, you look a bit pink?" asked Jack. After hearing the tale of billowing kilts, a brief flash of amazement crossed his face, and then without missing a beat or stepping out of character he said, "I've got whipped cream!"

Can you find the pink ice cream sundae?

The cavalier in this photo had his hat stolen by Jack, and it ended up on Beth's head. She wore it for over an hour before the owner found her and lifted it from her head to reclaim it.

"If my hat was to be stolen, I am thrilled to find such a lovely thing lay beneath it." And with that he fell to kissing her wrist.

Upon arrival home, Beth's first thought was a hot bath...

So endeth this tale of ribaldry.

-Tigerlily

Lightness of Being

2007-05-12T13:46:00.000-07:00

At long last I have finally found time to sit down in the mermaid chair and do some writing. Life in my end of the tide pool has been crazy, but crazy good. Just lots of things keeping me busy and away from the keyboard. No time for waxing poetic or any kind of theme for this entry, best to just jump in and get wet.

After months of waiting, Blogsource finally fixed the compatibility problem with internet explorer 7.0. During the interim Tigerlily was forced to blog her thoughts elsewhere (here on blogger.com) as what was the point in writing them there when no one could see them? In the end, the fix is just too little too late. I'm settled here in this new cove to stay. Remember though, the old blog is readable now, so if you want to revisit you can. There is no longer a need for a separate browser, IE works fine now. http://themermaidschair.blogsource.com/ or click on the link titled Mermaids Chair I in my links box. (Gretchen, you can show your mom the photos of the patio now)

Topping todays news: Score one for Al Gore and Mother Earth. We bought a new car. A hybrid. My Toyota Prius in lovely Seaside Blue is one month old and averaging between 48 and 52 mpg. No kidding. Makes for a bit less of a blow at the pumps with prices edging closer and closer to $4 a gallon. Yesterday, while stuck in bumper to bumper traffic I got 70 miles to the gallon, because I was running on battery while sitting there not moving.

Here is the new family member from every angle, even her rear. Certainly is a whole new look for me. Very spacey. The P.T. Cruiser was much more me with its vintage design. If only I could combine the outside appearance of one and the hybrid mechanics of the other...

I love this car. Driving it is like being in some sort of space shuttle. If you ever wondered what it would be like to drive Luke's land speeder in Star Wars, this is probably as close as you can get. It feels as though it is floating. Quiet. Makes no more than a bit of a high pitched hum. No ignition. No key. No shift lever. Push button turn on. Small lever to put it in gear. Responds with the lightest touch. It is like nothing you've ever driven before, unless you are an airline pilot. It's "wire" system is exactly the same as what is used in jets. No, I don't have to plug it in! Geesh. Get that all the time. The battery is always charging itself with left over energy produced by the gas powered engine. Even the ABS feeds into the battery. If you are at all considering a new car, consider a Toyota hybrid. And for those of you driving SUV's (and I really wish you'dgive them up), gas must be killing you right now. If you really need a bigger car, and it must be an SUV, Toyota also makes the hybrid Highlander. For anyone out there driving a Hummer, I don't feel sorry for you at all, and I'm laughing my ass off all the way to the pump.

The P.T Cruiser is taking a much needed break, having been reassigned to 3rd car for the girls to use.

So, for the last month, I've been zipping around in my new car, mostly between home and my new best friends. Dr. Aaron Cassleman. No, I'm not having an affair, he is my new chiropractor. Three times each week I visit for adjustments and traction. Yes, traction. My neck is one messed up piece of equipment. I have considerable degeneration, including loss of disc in my neck vertebrae. Have also developed bone spurs on the damaged vertebrae along with a wonderful reverse curve in my neck. Very swan-like, but in the wrong direction. With all the crunching and smooshing and general crookedness no wonder I have been experiencing such pain and headaches. My life has done a 360 when it comes to how I am feeling. I'm not pain free and I still have bad days, but so many less and much less severe. Instead of headaches every day, I've only had 4 in the last month.

The fibromyalgia is still around, and it aggravates the neck or the neck sets the fibro off, but still, how wonderful to feel this much better. I do neck exercises to strengthen the muscles, the traction is pulling my neck back in the right direction, and the adjustments keep me sane and relatively, very nearly, completely HEADACHE and PAIN FREE! Life is bliss compared to a month ago.

I am celebrating a very palpable lightness of being.

Of course this walking above ground feeling is not without its problems. It is costing a small fortune at $45 a visit times 3 days a week and no insurance benefit. This on top of the car payment is eating all our extra cash. My dream of a New Orleans courtyard will have to wait another summer, and I don't know if we'll get the fence finished, but my health is worth more to me than a few pots of flowers. I actually feel like sewing again. I can turn my head without vertigo or nausea. True, I come home from Dr. C and feel like I have a rubber chicken neck, and traction makes me want to cry, but my head seems to be sitting a bit more firmly. If you've ever looked inside a Barbie doll, you would find their head sitting over a round ball, thus allowing Barbie to move her head a bit more realistically. Well, my head feels like it has popped off the ball and has been riding around on the top, spinning wildly around making me dizzy and sick to my stomach. Dr. Cassleman seems to be gradually working my vinyl head back onto its ball, and we both hope that with stronger muscles it will remain there permanently.

And one more medical plug... Cripes, I'm sounding like a 75 year old grandma chatting with her friends and sharing ailments. Distinctly unappealing...

Nordic Naturals Fish Oil. /We're taking the Ultimate Omega. http://www.nordicnaturals.com/direct/Retailproducts.asp

You can buy Nordic Naturals products online, or at Vitamin Cottage and Whole Foods. Fish oil has been talked about for a very long time. It has been shown to not only be great for your heart, but your brain--memory loss and alzeimers. Also depression, digestive health and as a cancer preventative. They have no taste or nasty sad effects. Promise. It is all about what kind of fish is used and where it comes from. Go read about Nordic Naturals and how they are made compared to the typical off the shelf stuff from Walmart. You do get what you pay for when it comes to vitamins. While I'm on the vitamin subject, the doctor said my blood work came back significantly low in iron. In other words, anemic. I swapped my multiple vitamin for one made from REAL food with extra iron. No artificial anything and lots of anti-oxidents. We're using Rainbow Lite once a day for women, but there are several combos. I'm a pretty bad vitamin consumer, so for me to have actually noticed a difference in the way I feel is a very big deal.

Mike has begun a new position at the P.D. He left Community Resource to head up the cities citizen volunteer program. Has to oversee lots of people and handle a department budget. After a horrendous first week he was ready to resign. Yesterday he actually used the words, "take this job and shove it" but despite repeated attempts to quit, he is still employed. He was fighting stress before and apparently has jumped from one burning ship to another. He did get the police chief to admit they more or less played him to get him to take the position. Lied. Covered up. I was right, they knew that to put Mike in a job was to guarantee success or he'd die trying. Yes, and that's why he and I are where we are after 27 years of marriage. He is a work-a-holic and is eaten alive by work left undone. He can't ever leave it behind. He has two cell phones and they tried to give him a Blackberry and an ear piece for phone #2. Nope. No Borg ear. No Blackberry. He has no intention of answering emails at 3am like the chief of police.

The Denver P.D. is a sinking political nightmare of a ship. Actually, I'd say the city of Denver itself needs a trip to Dr. Cassleman for readjustment. Dear Mayor Hickenlooper. Consider yourself owned. (new slang term learned from kids)

Stress level probably won't drop but Mike is still hopeful (?) it will look all good on a resume for FEMA someday. That elusive golden ring, the ultimate job. Does it exist? The only positive to the new job is a take home car. Free gas from the city, plus the great mileage from the prius, should equal a significant drop in the monthly gas bill. Now if I can just learn how to build a wind collector to power my homes electrical needs....

Still struggling to reduce my carbon footprint. Goal is to have a green home. Am slowly changing out all our light bulbs for the new long life florescent type. The suckers are expensive, so have to buy a few each week. Did you know they don't have to be that sick blue color? They come in "warm" for that traditional incandescent look. There are 3 ways and can light bulbs too. Learned that the clothes dryer uses the most electricity of any household appliance, so have severely reduced use. Now have mom's old clothes rack, plus a new one set up permanently in the living room. Dry everything possible by "air." When I must use the dryer I do several loads one after the other. The unit is hot and dries faster, using less energy. Drying racks are not exactly an attractive part of the decor but it is chic to be green. Have decided my new fight will be to bring back clotheslines. What dumb ass person decided they were unattractive anyway? I love clothes blowing on a line.

My friend Tami and were talking recently (Hi Tami :o) about our beach themed houses. She says mine is different. That we both do the same things but they don't come out the same. "My stuff looks like it just came in from the beach, yours looks...umm...manicured." She wants me to come to her house and "manicure" it. Could I have a future as the interior decorator who manicures your home? Makes it you but better?

All these careers I could have had but never did. I'm just this clump of unrefined things. I'm something and nothing all at the same time. I would love it if someone would pay me to do anything. Especially now, when money is tight. Have lost count how many times I've applied to Hobby Lobby, Michaels, and several scrapbooking stores. No one wants me. Have posted fliers for knitting lessons to no response. I entered a scrapbook page in a contest on Martha Stewart and I didn't win. I'm not surprised I didn't win, what does burn me, is how crap the winning pages were. OK, not crap, but average, a couple were downright dorky. No mind blowing originality there, or fantastic photo work. Thank you Martha for making me feel even less worthy if that is possible.

I did sort of get paid to kind of help a couple people knit, but they really knew what they were doing from the beginning. Was really more of a knitter sitter. I sit and watch and am available when they have questions, or to pick them up, apply a band aid and send them back out to the playground. And speaking of knitting and crafting....The Icelandic Lopi sweater knit-a-long fizzled, so I trudged on alone. Here's how it looks so far.

Once the second sleeve reaches the right length, the whole thing goes on the needles and I knit the bodice, which is where the majority of the colored pattern work shows up. I could have finished the sweater, it was that easy, but decided to concentrate on the Wing of Moth shawl. Yes, it's finished!

The wind was against me while trying to photograph her loveliness, blowing her completely out of the tree instead of creating the billows I was hoping for. I am so proud of this work. My only disappointment, is the moth did not come out with the wingspan she should have. Have nearly 2 balls of yarn left over. Hmm..mm...I used a size smaller needle to get the correct gauge, perhaps after I became more comfortable with the yarn I began to knit tighter?

This does not help my perfectionist problems one bit. I've ordered more yarn to start Moth II, determined to get her right the second time around.

Having agonized for two weeks over what I wanted, I finally placed several orders for yarn, which should fill plenty of hours by the fountain with summer knitting... The scrapbooking is moving along too. Completed several more pages in the pet album. Now I have to take a break and switch to sewing. Thank goodness for less neck pain, I'm actually looking forward to sitting down at the machine. Both Comic Con and the Renaissance Faire are coming up, so there are costumes to work on. Lara Croft got new shorts and a new British flag top that need altering, and Queen Gorgo from 300 will be making an appearance, so there is a whole new look to develop. Here's a hint:

This is the best story of the last couple months. We met Carlos. It all started with Sarah needing help altering her leather Underworld corset for Selene. Ended up downtown in a little off Broadway leather shop. This place is the best kept secret in Denver. The place is filled with leather codpieces and gladiator skirts and strange bits of apparel for men that my wide innocent eyes had never come in contact with before. The shop is run by the sweetest, nicest guy you could ever imagine. A design school grad who once upon a time worked on a TV show called Sonny and Cher for a man named Bob Mackie...cross my heart. He may be hip deep in leather designs for the Village People on regular days, but get on his good side and he might help you discover a whole new you.

to be continued....

-Tigerlilly

The Egg and I

2007-03-27T12:16:00.000-07:00

Egg

From Old Norse egg, from Germanic *ajja-, from Proto-Indo-European *oh₂ujom (stem *oh₂ujo-).

Pronunciation

ĕg, /eg/

Noun

Singular
egg

Plural
eggs

egg (plural eggs)

(Zoology, countable) An approximately spherical or ellipsoidal body produced by birds, snakes, insects and other animals housing the embryo during its development.
(countable) The egg of a domestic fowl as an item of food.
(uncountable) The contents of one or more (hen's usually) eggs as a culinary ingredient, etc.
I also determine the minimal amount of egg required to make good mayonnaise.
(Biology, countable) The female primary cell, the ovum.

Verb

Infinitive
to egg

Third person singular
eggs

Simple past
egged

Past participle
egged

Present participle
egging

to egg (third-person singular simple present eggs, present participle egging, simple past egged, past participle egged)

To throw eggs at.
(with "on"): To encourage.
To add beaten egg (cooking).

Related terms

Egg or Eggs may refer to:

In Biology:

Egg (biology), the ovum of animals together with protective layers and nutrients for the developing embryo.
Egg cell or ovum, the female sex cell in animals and plants.

Egg (food) Edible eggs normally come from birds, but they can also come from reptiles, amphibians and fish.
Easter egg decorated eggs in the Christian tradition
List of egg dishes

In geography:

In gaming:

Easter egg (media), hidden message or feature in an object such as a movie, book, CD, DVD, computer program, or video game

In other fields:

Egg Banking plc, an online bank in the United Kingdom
Eggs (film), a film by Norwegian director Bent Hamer
Egg (geometry), any curve resembling an ellipse
Egg tooth, an anatomical feature
EGG, the Arts Show, a former program on PBS
The Egg (building), a part of the Empire State Plaza
Augustus Egg, a Victorian artist
Curate's egg, an expression meaning something that is partly good and partly bad.
Darning egg, a sewing tool
World egg (or cosmic egg) is a mythological motif
Fabergé eggs, a collection of priceless jewelery easter eggs.
The Egg War an 1863 conflict between rival Farallon Islands' egging companies

Who knew there was so much to learn about one little three letter word like egg? My mind swims with the multitude of ways the word egg is used in daily life found on wikipedia.com. My affair with the egg. I love eggs. I love the very word, EGG. Love the shape, the texture, the feel. Heavy and bulbous on one end, narrow and pointed on the other. It floats. The way it feels in your hand. Love all the colors and speckles. Fried, scrambled, poached, boiled...nope, not really. Eating and eggs do not really fit together well for me. I'm more inclined to eat things that have eggs in them, like cookies, or cake. Bread. Deviled eggs have their place in summer picnics, and I do like egg salad sandwiches on occasion, but generally eggs and I have a more aesthetic relationship.

I have however, always longed to own chickens. The thought of reaching under a warm feather pillow body to gather eggs has always attracted me, though I have a very real fear of those sharp eyes and beaks. And the sounds they make, that kind of cooing chuckle as they busy themselves. Rather a comforting coo of a sound.

The very idea of having a box of fluffy peeps delivered in a box by post gives me an undeniable thrill. I read a description of bantam chicks being the size of bumblebees and I've been besotted with the idea ever since. This box of black beady eyed fellows is likely to be as close as I'll ever come to the real thing....

Spring. Renewal. Rebirth. Resurrection. Easter. The season of the egg. Eggs have been viewed as symbols of new life and fertility through the ages. The egg is nature's perfect package. It has, during the span of history, represented mystery, magic, medicine, food and omen. It is the universal symbol of Easter celebrations throughout the world and has been dyed, painted, adorned and embellished in the celebration of its special symbolism.

Long before the egg became closely entwined with the Christian Easter, it was honored during many rite-of-Spring festivals. The Romans, Gauls, Chinese, Egyptians and Persians all cherished the egg as a symbol of the universe. From ancient times eggs were dyed, exchanged and shown reverence. In Pagan times the egg represented the rebirth of the earth. The long, hard winter was over; the earth burst forth and was reborn just as the egg miraculously burst forth with life.

With the advent of Christianity the symbolism of the egg changed to represent, not nature's rebirth, but the rebirth of man. Christians embraced the egg symbol and likened it to the tomb from which Christ rose.

I may not own any chickens, but I have quite a collection of real eggs. Blown ones, fragile as icing and light as air. Blue Cayuga duck eggs. Araucana chicken eggs in tones of olive and blue. Quail eggs, blue-green with brown speckles. I have the occasional brown and cream and unusual speckled egg. I heap them in Nantucket baskets, beach buckets and French bread pans. Blue, brown, white...chocolate eggs and bon bon eggs...how does that go??

On Easter morn at early dawn before the cocks were crowing,
I met a bob-tail bunnykin and asked where he was going,
" 'Tis in the house and out the house a tipsy, tipsy-toeing,
'Tis round the house and 'bout the house a-lightly I am going."
"But what is that of every hue you carry in your basket?"
"'Tis eggs of gold and eggs of blue; I wonder that you ask it.
'Tis chocolate eggs and bonbon eggs and eggs of red and gray,
For every child in every house on bonny Easter day"
He perked his ears and winked his eye and twitched his little nose;
He shook his tail - what tail he had - and stood up on his toes.
"I must be gone before the sun; the East is growing gray;
'Tis almost time for bells to chime." So he hippity-hopped away.
~Rowena Bastin Bennett, 1937

If I love eggs, I love nests even more. A nest is a place of refuge. Soft and down filled, the perfect place for babies to sleep. Or perhaps fairies, like Titania in A Midsummer Night's Dream. Memories of brushing Maverick's golden hair outside and watching the birds come to collect the creamy tufts of fluff and carry them off for their nests. What wonderful soft beds those babies must have had. Once found a nest woven in and out with the perforated strips from computer paper. Birds are ingenious recyclers. Have laid the dining table with gi-normous grapevine and twig nest lined with feathers. Giant nests to tiny nests, each carrying precious eggy cargo.

Beach buckets with raffia nests of blue goose eggs. Grapevine wreath nests with speckled quail eggs, Nantucket baskets filled to the brim with blue and green eggs. I even managed to find a wreath made up of eggs in nothing but shades of Martha Stewart green.

Best of all are the chocolate nests filled with Cadbury chocolate eggs. My favorites are the ones with all blue eggs, of course.

Among the orchard weeds, from every search,
Snugly and sure, the old hen’s nest is made,
Who cackles every morning from her perch
To tell the servant girl new eggs are laid;

Bright sun greets me nearly every morning now, and the doggies are enjoying life with an open door most days. Sunlight floods across the hardwood floor and they lay in lumps soaking it up. Pink buds are swelling on the chanitcleer pear tree and flowering crab. It is still too early to call, but it appears most of the new trees survived the winter. Three of the five clumps of Forester Reed Grass are sending up new shoots. Good signs.

In just four short weeks a house grew in next door. Three more are quickly sprouting next to it. My view to the north has shrank to include shingles out the upper level windows, and walls on the lower. Depressing. Never imagined it to be so close. Never imagined how claustrophobic I would feel. To my mind, the family room, my favorite room in the whole house is ruined.

Hope I like the people who will come to live there...perhaps we can exchange cups of sugar across the fence? At Thanksgiving we can just set up a table across the entire expanse and pass the food from one house to the other. Not sure what I hate more. Suburbia or the embarrassing fact that I am part of it.

We have workers rear ends in our faces 8 am-7:30 pm Monday through Saturday. The dogs are quickly losing their minds and voices. Worry that a summer on the new patio is now lost to the sound of nail guns. Shite. Here's Elliot watching the work in progress. I can count six wrinkles down his back. (He prefers to be called Ellios the Spartan since seeing 300).

Have begun teaching knitting one day a week to a friend and her daughter. It's going well so far and gives me a bit of extra money. Would like more students but hesitate advertising for fear of the "Highlands Ranch" type it might attract. Work continues on the moth shawl. After ripping out 15 rows and beginning the second section again, I am now 1/2 way through the second design band.

Worked up a booga bag with my students as a first project. Love the color, Noro kureyon #40. The whole world must love that color as it almost impossible to find.

I've got 3 books worth of Icelandic sweater patterns but all I can do with them is drool as the Alafoss yarn still has not arrived. Canadian shipping must be by mounty. Waiting for the delivery is as hard as waiting for that first trip to the amusement park each summer.

Stocked up on paper and cardstock and did manage to scrap 4 pages. Have gathered up Alexanders photos but haven't occomplished anything but another pile on my desk. Endless errands and household needs always seem to come before my own. So March endeth soft as a lambkin in a green meadow and April begineth. Long live the season of the egg.

-Tigerlily

That Patch of Green

2007-02-25T07:39:00.000-08:00

Evenings are slowly becoming lighter but the air still breathes a chill. Spring is biding her time, gaining strength. Warm chinooks have already begun to blow and seemingly overnight the snow shrank away and ran like a river to the sea. The yard is a sodden mess, the snow having laid upon it so long it is like a seeping sponge. What a thrill to see green grass again. Alas, the excitement was short lived, as the ground was soon covered in snow again. The wild winds of March have begun blustering. Soon, days of unrelenting hurricaine gale force winds will drive out the lingering brown, dead, winter air and suck the excess moisture from the earth. I've had enough winter. Had enough cold. Had enough ice. In desperation, (and inspiration for this blog) I snapped photos of anything green or spring like to make me feel better. Like my clump of fiber optic grass I've been wintering in the house. AKA bird's nest grass. It can't take the cold, so I've had a bit of beach in the house with me all winter. I do have two little miniature African violets triumphantly thumbing their noses, err..leaves at Old Man Winter.

Valentines Day has come and gone, and my lovely dozen of red roses has gone to compost, but my gift from Mike looks at me with a rather pucker faced expression from the glass fronted cupboard constantly. I got a fishbowl. A bowl that is a fish. Get it? Funny. Came from the Great Indoors. Too cute.

Concentrating all my efforts on making my house green. Reduce, reuse and recycle. Kermit the frog was wrong. Being green is easier than you think.

"Sea green," or "see green" depending on how you look at it...

Ordered up additional bins for recycling. Was pleasantly surprised to discover Hefty one zip bags are recyclable, as are most plastic boats my meat comes in. The Little Cesar dog food and Yoplait yogurt cups are as well. Pledge duster handles can be recycled. Cool. Was very disappointed to discover several "organic" products came in packaging completely devoid of that earth friendly triangle. Since I had to empty the kitchen sink cupboard for the faucet repair, I went through all my products and even got rid of some. Trying to use cloth instead of paper towels for cleaning. Now that's hard. Is so much more preferable to wipe down the toilet and imagine all those nasty things being tossed away in the trash rather than having to handle it in the laundry. Blech. Caldrea products are on my counter now and they work far better than their grocery story equivalents. Have become devoted user of Lush products. Both are all natural, vegetarian, vegan and in no way ever used on animals. My skin has never looked better. At the age of 47 I have finally found something to shrink my pores. (if you desire more info on either of these product lines LMK)

I have always been an obsessive light turner outer, but now have added shutting down all computers and other electronic devices when not in use. TV, DVD player, stereo, etc. to save additional pounds of carbon dioxide from escaping into the air. One tree can absorb one ton of CO2 over its lifetime. If all mine survive the winter, and we added six, that's six tons of CO2 removed from the air over the next several years. My contribution to the earth may be small, but if everyone does their best, the quantity of good would be significant. AND, thank you to everyone who responded to my email and sent postcards to Washington for the upcoming hearings on global warming.

Feel the green. Celebrate spring and St. Patrick's day. Drink green koolaide and eat fish and chips. Fish and chips are way better than corn beef and cabbage, and anyway, no one in Ireland really eats that stuff. Yuk. Go rent The Quiet Man, Far and Away, The Devils Own, The Matchmaker or Father Ted. Add a lilt to your voice and a shamrock to your button hole. This is the melting pot, America. Everyone has a bit of the green in them somewhere. My mother said the Scottish and Irish she had in her was what made her interesting. Well, it certainly made her a firecracker. It may have been diluted to a weak Irish tea by the time I got it, but I cling to it nonetheless.

Just returned from seeing Mike off at the sky ride for the airport. He is off to Alabama for a hazardous materials course. Will be exposed to several toxic substances. Am trying not to think he could be at any kind of real risk. Suppose he could come back as some kind of radioactive super hero with a spandex suit and start glowing in the dark, but rather doubt it. The girls and I are on our own, and right out of the box my car is dead as a doornail. Must call a tow truck to haul its carcass to the mechanic in the morning. I think the car is getting back at me for thinking about shopping for a hybrid.

Days continue to be eaten by the house monster. Gobble gobble and still the scrapbook pile gathers dust and the sewing remains undone. Did get a handyman to come in and get several jobs done. Shade has been hung over the kitchen sink just in time, as the morning sun is growing stronger each day. Will no longer need to wear sunglasses and grope blindly for the coffeemaker each morning. The kitchen faucet having gone completely wonky, traveling at will around the sink is once again grounded. How nice to have a husband for hire! Simply hand over "honey do" list and credit card.

Watched the Oscars. Dresses were lovely, event boring, but Inconvenient Truth one best documentary and song. And Happy Feet best animated film. Excellent! Brings global warming to even more people's attention. Can't help wondering how much Bush must be seething over all this...bad Julie, it is wrong to wish bad juju on others, karma will come back and smack you on the side of the head. Oh hell, it already did, with a $800 + car bill! Barely survived the week driving Mike's Ford Focus. Shifting, shifting, tippy toe trying to get clutch in. If someone offered me a car free, I would refuse it if it was a stick. Darling PT Cruiser was finally back in the bosom of family on Thursday.

Submerged myself in the office and completed a scrapbook page for the pet book. Had to wear a face mask because of the accumulated dust. This is quite a breakthrough after months of staring at the piles and wondering what would topple first. Rather momentous event as it was becoming dangerous in there. This will be Dusty's entry. Sobbed my way through writing his bio. How will I ever get through this album? Have decided I must set aside time to scrap each day like I set aside time to knit.

And, speaking of knitting, Beth and I are
embarking on the great Icelandic sweater knit-a-long.
Ok, there are only three of us on the trip,
the guide and two trekkers, but we've ordered our Lopi yarn, and are hoping for something resembling this when we finish.

For those friends who have followed the Loincloth Butler story, the movie 300 opens at last this Friday, March 9th. Have bought my tickets in advance for the IMAX screening. If I'm going to see the Loincloth Butler nude, I want it to be on the big screen. Have never managed to sit through any IMAX film without getting nauseous from motion sickness. Since this film doesn't involve planes flying through canyons or stampeding herds of wildebeasts on the African plains, maybe I'll be ok. Here's hoping all those six pack toting Spartans keep my brain distracted and I can keep my popcorn down. -Tigerlily

In The Bleak Midwinter

2007-02-01T08:37:00.000-08:00

In the bleak midwinter, frost wind made moan,

earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,

in the bleak midwinter, long ago.

The days are long, cold and dark. At this dullest and brownest and bleakest time of year there is little to perk interest. Not work inducing weather. Find myself more desirious of sitting swathed in blankets clutching a cup of something hot than doing anything constructive. Knitting is always appropriate while storms rage. Have made a great start on the Wing of Moth shawl and am also cabling my heart out on Teampal Breachain hat. Got a ball winder and umbrella swift for Christmas and find winding hanks into balls great fun.

Here is the Moth laying in my Boston fern, trying to look moth-like. Below is a closeup of the fir cone design of the first shawl segment.

Movement equals warmth, so I began the new year with cleaning out closets and cupboards. Clothing, books, cd's, etc. were boxed and sent off to Goodwill. Next, I set myself the task of washing all the plantation shutters. Washing the shutters involved getting out the ladder, which in turn led to vacuuming up insect corpses and wiping up the windowsills, and after all that I figured I might as well go for broke and wash the windows too. Limited myself to one room or 3 windows or so a day. Sounds rather pathetic until one takes in the 10 foot ceilings and the size and number of windows. After three days the main floor is finished. Had thought that by keeping things bite size I wouldn't send the fibromyalgia screaming and would still have part of each day to do something easy like scrapbook. Failed right away. Daily duties became herculean. Kept dinners simple and hobbled to couch to sit and atrophy in pain each evening. I feel very old and rather crisp. Something always goes crunch when I move. Next week: upstairs.

Five weeks of Friday snowstorms. Temperatures dropped to zero and below, and hung about in the single digits for a week. Then things warmed up to the twenties, a virtual heatwave. Was able to shed two layers of clothing and actually wear only one shirt at a time. Douglas County took advantage of every clear day to work on streets and sidewalks. A very large plow broke its blade on the ice lake in front of our house. Didn't feel one pang of guilt as it was Shea's fault for creating the blockage by pushing all the model home snow up against the fence on the opppsite side. With nowhere to go, water from melting snow all the way up the hill backed up at our house. Two days later Shea Homes was out clearing the sidewalk. When yelling at the HOA and Shea Homes sales office does not bring results try and have a large and very expensive piece of county equipment break in front of your house. It works wonders.

This week Mother Nature decided to change things up a bit and send the storm on Saturday. Poor Mike was out in the cold again all day Sunday. He snowblowed past the empty lot to the mailboxes in hope of keeping the walk open now that Shea finally plowed the 4 feet of old frozen snow off of it

Mike flew to Portland, Oregon for a three day seminar, and while he was there he rented a car and drove down the coast to Astoria, just for all us Gooney's. This film marked Elisabeth and Sarah's childhood memories. Mine as well. Who hasn't wanted to find pirate treasure? For the fans among you, it is all there. Mikey's house and Data's, right next door. Cannon Beach, the three rocks, Astoria Museum...everything just as you remember. Please visit Beth's blog to read her entry and see the pictures. http://ringbright.blogspot.com/2007/01/goondocks.html

Just in case you haven't had enough pictures of the bleakness and cold, here is one more.