Blog Posts

Hit & Miss Minis

1/25/2017

Hit & Miss Whale

Hit & Miss Butterfly

y back is back, so too am I.    Funny how certain postures and positions can do you in. Remarkably I was able to sit and hook, with support pillows jammed into the curve of my back to keep it rigid and straight and at the proper angle, but getting in and out of the chair was a bit of a challenge. Nothing makes a person feel older than not being able to eject yourself from a chair with a smooth and fluid motion. Getting out was painful, bent and clutching the chair arms, moving at a snail’s pace as not to jar the tender nerve waiting to dance upon the bone and send me into a spasm. I looked and felt twenty years my senior. Of course there are sighs and noises that escaped my lips, dins I’ve only heard when working in a nursing home, or when our friend Peter comes over for dinner. Poor guy, I think a couple of knee replacements are in his future. Oh, the sights and sounds of the less nimble, clackity clack of bone on bone, the song of our future.

But I must look on the bright side on this post icey, storm day of yesterday. All is calm and the sky is as clear as was my prepubescent face, the wind has died, no longer stripping shingles from my roof to scatter about the yard. Today, my cup is half full. Although at times my back still creaks in protest, I’m on the green side of the grass, the roof hasn't leaked despite numerous attempts by mother nature's fury, and I have two more hooked pieces to feel proud about. (We have a roofer coming first thing in the Spring....hopefully it can hold on, to its shingles that is...)

I started a series called Hit & Miss Minis of 12" x 12" rugs. The first was the whale done in blues and turquoises, then the Butterfly in golden oranges and now I’m working on the Canadian flag, well in time for this year’s 150 birthday celebration. If interested, the patterns are for sale. We have them in 12' x 12" but if anyone is interested in a 16" x 16" size let us know. The actual pattern for the whale has an eye to be hooked but I thought I would look for an oval button to sew on.

I’m making these rugs into pillows for a display in the shop. I have to admit that hit and miss is striking, it catches the eye immediately when walking through the door and I do love to have more eye candy for the studio. I'm sure these will be popular kits, beginners love to start with hit and miss projects, practicing those straight lines to perfect the technique before moving on to wavy lines and circles.

The lineal structure of vertical and horizontal lines is very pleasing to view but I have to admit, there’s not much hit and miss to hit and miss anymore. Before it was whatever was on hand, using up cut strips, worms leftover from previous projects, but now with unlimited dyed wool to choose from, it is colour planned and calculated. I choose to do mine with a monochromatic feel, all colours blending, but perhaps I’ll mix it up on the next one.

Below is the work in progress for the Hit & Miss Canadian Flag I will finish tonight. I stayed with the reds and white to represent our actual flag colours. I hooked the background in a #3 cut and pixelated the loops instead of following the holes in regular hooking. I find white doesn't fill in as well and I didn't want to see where the tails started and ended nor did I want to pack it tightly to keep the shadows of the loops from showing.   I might not have used white if I'd thought it through. Perhaps a slightly off white, with a wash of the lightest colour would have been less stark against the deep reds, I even toy with changing it but then think....who am I to change the actual colours of our flag.    For monitors that make this look more pink, I assure you it is tones of red, some are even brownish with an orange undertone.   Come by the shop to see!

Hit & Miss Canadian Flag

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Pain Purgatory...

1/17/2017

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I zigged when I should have zagged and flared my sciatica. Although in the past I’ve been down sometimes more than I’ve been up, once I realized my limitations and was careful I haven’t had an episode for a couple of years knock on wood! So I was a bit deluded this last snowstorm and feeling pretty cocky with the shovel. I really need to keep reminding myself I am not a spring chicken, nor am I a man with the upper body strength to be lifting that kind of load. Three shovels full in and I felt the pull, like a rubber band being stretched to its limit taking me to pain purgatory between 6 and 7.

After all that talk of cleaning on the boat, whining about shoveling snow might sound strange, but there’s something about the angle to which my body reaches when holding that bloody tool that does me in.   My son offers to help and I should really take him up on his offer, but I’m one of those mothers that don’t like to interfere, he’s married now and busy with his new life, I don’t want to be one of those woman that can’t let go but I guess I need to find a happy medium and call on help from time to time. Considering the consequences, I really should do a shout out because being bed ridden or sofa bound cramps my style. It’s been a week now and I still find it difficult to get in and out of chairs, stand for long periods and getting in and out of and driving the car is the worst.

I’ve always been fiercely independent, being on my own since I was a teen. My first hubby was a scallop fisherman, away two weeks and home three days and the current one (hopefully the last), is a geologist that works out of province.   Through necessity, I’ve learned to take care of myself; I can muddle thought must things dealing with everyday living.   It’s going to be rough when I’m old and not in charge of my life. Living with limitations and might be a fate worse than death. For me, independence is one of the biggest perks of my life.

At the worst of my flare-up, I shuffled around the house, bent over and uncomfortable, grabbing on to counters and furniture to help pull me along.   Putting on my shoes and boots was an act of concern, thank goodness I no longer have footwear with laces.

I’m not exactly a convalescing beauty. I strayed from the shower for a bit worried I might slip and fall, and if I dropped the soap, well I wouldn’t be bending over. I feel like one of those Walmartians posted on the internet, with my pajama bottoms jacked up under my armpits to keep the waist elastic off my lower back. Although my look is out of necessity, many call it fashion. I’m reminded of a picture burned on my brain of an older gal, on the heavy side, wearing only pajama bottoms, pulled up over her sagging breasts, perhaps harkening back to the day of strapless dresses I guess. She was happily pushing her cart around Walmart without a care in the world. Would I ever go out in public looking like this, hell no, I can’t imagine it. I guess pride is dished out in uneven doses because I got way too much while others were cheated. On the flip side, perhaps I admire her for not given a crap what others think. I could have used a little less of that particular trait.

The biggest concern was food, or lack of it. Mother Hubbard’s cupboard was practically bare. I was down to crackers and cheese the last two days before I made it to the grocery store for provisions. The town I live in is so small you have to go outside its boundaries to change your mind; nothing delivers not even the pizza joint, but then again I wouldn’t have wanted anyone from the outside world seeing me at my worst.

So I lived with my Urkel look for a few days before going back to work. I still have a twinge or two to mind when sitting, and I’m very careful when I bend. Just another hurtle to jump....well crawl over gently.....

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Recreating a piece of the past......

1/13/2017

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By Guest Blogger Edwin Corah

The first time I saw the original rug was in Sept. 2015 when I was visiting my wife's aunt in Nova Scotia. I was showing her and her son some of the rugs I had hooked. My wife's cousin said he had some rugs that his mom's mother had hooked years ago. I said I would like to see them so the next visit we looked at three old rugs. They were in very poor condition, as they had gotten wet and rotted, disintegrating and what was left was pretty much a black mess. I took pictures of the rugs and decided I would hook one of them. One end of the hit and miss geometric was intact enough to see the original colours and I wanted to recreate it with as close of a colour match as possible.

I had tried to find the pieces of wool to do this but had trouble so I waited till I went back to Nova Scotia which was September 2016 and brought some of the rugs and pictures to Encompassing Designs in Mahone Bay to speak to Shane on matching these colours and he was up for the challenge. He did a wonderful job. I created the pattern and started hooking the rug in October and finished in December 2016. Edges still need to be finished.

The original rug was one of my wife's grandmothers from Princeport Nova Scotia. Her daughter remembers her mother drawing the design on jute backing and hooking the rug with dyed wool stripes that were made mostly from strips of used wool clothing. Stanfield's "long johns" were frequently used and cut into strips as well. She recalls the rug design was her mom's creation and was made during the Great Depression in the 1930's.

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Gossip

1/11/2017

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I highlighted Harem last week and feel Gossip deserves its day in the sun. There is a show at New Ross Farm dedicated to farm life and Harem and Gossip are on display.

Gossip - 18” x 35 ½   Sometimes when settling down with paper and pencil to create a new design, I can begin with one idea and end up with a totally different outcome.   Initially I had planned to draw a couple of hen chair pads but the first bird’s beak looked like it was talking and the idea was born to have a brood all clucking away, gossiping in the henhouse. This design was one of those cases where the name of it adds to the content so I positioned the word "Gossip" along with other hen speak around the outer border. At first glance anyone would know the story this rug tells because the hens really do look like they are tossing a bit of gossip about. They look excited and jubulent as they walk around the barnyard. Perhaps they're squawking about an unwanted rooster in the hen house. Or perhaps one scarlet Red Hen has been caught crossing the field to a neighbouring farm for bit of cock-a-doodle-do. Perhaps the rooster is showing a little too much attention to a new chick, getting a few feathers riled from his regular brood.

Coincidentally, I had a discussion about gossip the other day with Shane. He’s still young, and appalled that people that like or love you can talk behind your back. He's been raised in a home where gossip is second place to conversations about our own lives and the world beyond mostly due to my no nonsense second husband. Not that we are perfect, we gossip too, to a lessor degree, but I always found our lives busy enough without having the time to bother about anyone elses. And I've been grist for the gossip mill, having a previous, volitile marriage that provided more than its share of dirty laundry fodder that was bantered about like a ball on a ping pong table from one end of town to another. Being on the wrong side I learned how much it can hurt. Not that I don't share the occasional tidbit with friends to make conversation interesting, after all talking about myself can only hold an audience captive for so long....

Anyway, Shane has been disillusioned when he found out someone he liked and respected said something about him and it hurt. He thinks friends and family should be loyal. The poor, deluded boy..... Me, the wise old hen, knows the scoop. I’ve been on this planet long enough to know that everyone does it. Idle gossip is everywhere, mostly innocent stuff but sometimes it’s hurtful and condemning. But still, it’s only talk, only words, conversations, not like sticks and stones that can break blood vessels and bones. Gossip can only hurt if you let it.

Realistically, after discussing the weather and what we've had for breakfast and what extraordinary thing our kids did that day, what’s left? World news is depressing, so it boils down to local tattle to entertain. There isn’t a person alive that doesn’t share the odd juicy tidbit, who’s doing what to whom. As long as others are screwing up, it makes us look better right?   Until of course it’s our turn on the rack and then it’s another matter.

My interpretation of gossip is “If you won’t say it to a person’s face and don’t want them to know you’ve said it, it’s gossip”. Sometimes it comes down to opinions, we all have them like that common sphincter that's part of our anatomy. Mostly it's mild stuff, but some take gossip to higher levels, making an occupation of it, living viacariously though others, excelling until they should be awarded a PHD for burying their nose where it shouldn't be sniffing. I’ve been around a long time and I can’t name one person, myself included, who hasn’t said something behind someone’s back at one time or another. Ah come on folks, own up to it. “I heard Ben and Veronia broke up.” No matter how sympathetic you are, it’s gossip especially when we begin to surmise why it happend. Gossip in a dictionary is defined as typically involving details that are not confirmed as being true, no matter how we think we might know best, until you've walked in another person's shoes it's only conjecture, but the tongues continue to wag filing in the gaps to embellish the tale.

I'm not preaching or apologzing, I'm tarring myself with the same busybody brush but I take comfort in knowing that the majority of us aren’t mean, just maybe a bit bored and need a little titilation. It’s conversation. We can’t take it personally, and besides, what we don’t know won’t hurt us most of the time. I know that same person that said something hurtful about Shane would jump up to defend him with their life, so we need to get over it, only sweat the stuff that’s life threatening or immoral.

My dear mother’s philosophy was best, she would say, “When they talk about me they leave someone else alone”. How wise she was.   And then there’s, “People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones” and “He who is without sin can cast the first stone”.....well, if we all took a good look at ourselves, there would never be any broken glass.....

Gossip - Designed by Christine Little
Hooked by Jen McAdams

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Harem

1/5/2017

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Harem has been a staple pattern in the shop for 14 years. It might be a bit of an oldy, but it's still a goodie, as popular today as when it was first introduced. A timeless design is one that appeals to the masses, isn't dated or trendy. Being rug hookers who drool over and covet wool, a sheep design is like crack to an addict, a;ways sought after and ageless.

The lambs tongue border is the perfect framing for a family of sheep and the army green background overdyed on several textures and solids feels like grazing grass. I decided to leave the faces blank for a bigger statement, at first trying to get in the details of eyes and mouth in the small space but they came off looking angry and had to go.

Each sheep is a different plaid or herringbone, mixing up the those colours for the heads, ears and legs. I hooked this version about a decade ago, and it has gathered a lot of attention hanging in the shop. I’ve been asked to sell it many times but I don’t part easy with my pieces, and they serve the shop better by inspiring clients to buy the pattern or order a kit. Someday the rug will be on the floor in my home, that’s the plan anyway and in the meantime it hangs for my enjoyment when I walk into the pattern room. This family portrait of sheep always evokes the memory of my wonderful father-in-law, one of the loviest men I have ever met.

What’s not to love about sheep? They are of course, responsible for our addiction to wool and for that we are truly thankful! I’ve seen Harem hooked in many different colours and sometimes the rug hooker makes fun little changes like puts socks on all the sheep or perhaps adds a sky with grass and flowers. I love hearing about the little changes rug hookers have made to personalize the design, making the sheep their family, one had two of them hooked like twins, some wore hats. The possibilities are endless.

This rug design was inspired from a cute “Little” story told by my father-in-law, James (Jim) Little. He and my mother-in-law were part of a group of friends made up of six couples, airline pilots and their wives who socialized together. After they all retired and the years went by, one by one the men all passed away until only Jim remained. When the group went out for dinner, he merrily referred to the six women as his harem, thence the ram and six sheep. Jim is now gone as well, he died a couple of years ago and the only one still standing from the group is my mother-in-law, Wynn, who is now 98 and blazing a trail to 100.

Harem 18 ½” x 36” http://www.encompassingdesigns.com/signature-designs.html

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Holiday Store Hours

12/24/2016

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Encompassing Designs Rug Hooking Studio
will be closed between Christmas and New Years.
We will be back to serve all your rug hooking needs on January 3rd!
In the meantime, if you are coming from a distance and would like to get into the shop call ahead (the day before) and book an afternoon appointment and
I will happily open for you.
My home number is 902-624-6411.

We wish you all a happy and safe holiday!!!

YONDER STAR
Designed by Christine, beautifully hooked by Jean Wentzell

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58 and hopefully many more!

12/16/2016

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The other day, while trying on clothes I’d forgotten were in the back of the closet, I was stunned at my reflection in the mirror. I don’t make a regular habit of scrutinizing myself, never have, and with my changing eyesight it’s all a blur anyway . I know I’m not one of those roll out of bed beauties, I accept that I’m average and don’t dwell on it. I clean up well and if I’m getting gussied up for an evening out perhaps I steal a glance or two to make sure a piece of toilet paper isn’t stuck to my backside or maybe a rouge tag is flashing “new purchase”, but other than that, the mirror and I aren’t close buds.

I can’t say I was shocked at the image staring back; maybe a more suitable word would be surprised.   I can’t remember the last time I lingered in front of the mirror, perhaps it was summer when I’d tried on a bathing suit for the first time in years, and things weren’t looking bad so obviously they’re going downhill faster than I thought, gaining momentum as time slips by.

To put it bluntly, my skin is dripping, slipping, sagging, heading south and trying to leave the building like Elvis. For the past twenty years or so, I’ve seen cellulite accumulate and send ripples up and down the back of my legs but that’s pretty much a “so what”, nothing you can do about it and I’m not willing to do the grueling treadmill or a standing bicycle, crunches and stretches to win a losing battle. We gals are soft creatures, lack the muscle our male counterparts are blessed with, we turn to jelly over time and that’s okay, as long as we all do it. I’d hate to think my body was disintegrating while y’all keep looking buff. As long as were all wading in the same wrinkle pool I can live with it.

What surprised me was the rate things have been changing. A few months ago the front part of my legs were looking fine but now the skin is falling down like pants without a belt. Dripping down the insides of my thighs to land on my knees. As we age our knees get wider as all the skin ends up there and I thought whoa girl, I used to see this in the nursing home and knew it would happen eventually, but at 57?

The skin on my arms is looking pretty wrinkled as well. I’ve been getting a bit more sun exposure these days with the boat and I know tanning is hard on skin but I haven’t gotten that brown, maybe a shade darker than cream. I’m still strong like ox and don’t have bat wings and there’s a muscle in there that feels like a medium to hard-boiled egg. I could wrestle a small child and hand them a can of whoop-ass. All the work on the boat has offered up a nice set of biceps and of course cutting wool at the shop, and stirring dye pots, best workout ever!

I feel like a contradiction. I always say aging doesn’t bother me but perhaps it does or why am I writing this bit? I’m two years away from being 60 and that’s ten years away from 70 and only twenty years away from being 80 and we all know how long it takes to kiss twenty years goodbye. Guess I’d better pucker up. 58 years have whizzed by on the wings of a hummingbird so I can hardly expect the next 20 or thirty to go any slower.

I saw a video of Tina Turner at 79 in high heels and a mini dress, low cut at the chest exposing the sides of firm breasts. The dress sleeves were organza and you could see through it to arms that glistened, creamed up to show tight and firm. I know we all don’t have the same skin, some of us have a longer shelf life than others and for me, at 57 with only three days to 58,   there isn’t enough spandex and grease to make me look that smooth and shiny. Go Tina!

Anyway, not sure why I’m writing this? I don’t want to make a big deal out of aging because I accept human fate and the inevitable. I’ve never valued the outside of a body as much as the inside. The person I am trumps what’s happening to my outer shell. I faced facts of aging the first wave of hair loss, it ain’t gonna be pretty! I wouldn’t go back for anything, unless of course I could learn to hook earlier, I’m very content and happy with my life. I am truly blessed.

I plan to go gracefully. No alterations, tucks or tweaks. If I do anything it will be the nonsurgical Spanx, it shrinks, sucks in and drops at least 10lbs, you just have to wrestle it up over the loose flab. It might rearrange the organs a bit but a small price to pay to look good on a special evening out, all tucked in with the feeling of firm that used to be natural.

Until a short while ago, the numbers of my age meant nothing; I barely gave it a thought. But you see this year is troubling. My mother passed away at 58. I was born in 1958 and in three days I will turn 58. Is this some sort of sign? Paranoia is tapping me on the shoulder. It feels like a bad omen, like signs leading to the Bates Motel where life expectancy isn’t on the list of recreational activities. At 58 I am only beginning to discover what I was meant for, there has to be more time. I mentioned my worry to a few friends and they said they felt the same way when a parent predeceased them and they became the same age as when they passed and then they try to brighten my day by saying I am much healthier than my poor mom had been and perhaps this is true. I hope it’s true!   I can’t die yet….my pups need me and all my rug hooking friends might miss me…… Hopefully Sunday when I turn 58, it will be nothing more than a change of number, not the stars aligning to foil me.

Good lord, after all the backbreaking work I did on that boat, working my fingernails down to nubs and sweating like a leaking hose in the sweltering sun, I better live to enjoy the fruits of my labour. Thinking the next Mrs. Little will reap my reward is getting my knickers in a knot. I said to hubby one night on the boat as I was doing a last bit of waxing the cockpit in the dark with only a flashlight to illuminate the area, rubbing until my arms almost fell off, “You’ll be lucky to find another woman to do this kind of manual labour, working like a man beside you. He agreed. I have a whole year to worry about being 58 and if things don’t go well for me, you’ll have big shoes to fill wifey #3, and you’d better like poodles!

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Snow Cones

12/14/2016

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Monday was our first snowstorm of the season. Time for a tire change, root out the warm clothes and ready the shovels. We had to close the shop; the roads were icky and dangerous. There’s always relearning to adapt to the conditions so it’s best to be off the highway with all those folks tempting fate that speed through it as if they have an appointment with a bent fender or worse.

I sat in the house contemplating hooking and I looked outside at the pristine snow gently falling to earth and thought, what does one do when it’s snowing outside? Then it hit me “I’ll make a snowman!” Someone was in the shop on Saturday telling me she would like a pattern of a jolly cone snowman to compliment all the Cone Santa’s that she’s been pulling off her frame. I lost count how many she’s hooked as gifts for family and friends. No two alike and so sweet!

Our Cone Santa pattern has three sizes of santa's so I thought I would stick to the same plan. So I started with the 12” high Snow Cone and made him squat and fat. I decided I would hook them all in the same colours, just manipulate the green, gold and red to highlight various areas. The first one has a wonderful hat with a red background and swirls of white. The second one which is 14” high, more of a tall pinhead kind of snowman, with a vest of red and white squares, these two features will make them cohesive when they stand along a mantle or table. The third one at 9” high and will have a red and white stripe either on his hat or coat. We’ll see…..

I hooked them in a #5 cut but they can be done in the wider strips. I prefer #5 and the detail it allows but it slows down the progress a wee bit although I managed to finish two in two days. Is this bragging? Tonight shouldn’t take long to do the smaller snowman; he’s only 9” high so he will practically hook himself. On Facebook, someone called me #1 Santa’s Elf the way I whiz through them, but they are only small and can be whipped up quickly once the colour plan is down. But I do like the thought of being an elf…..sounds like fun!

I must say making these snowmen while sitting by a fire is the most comfortable way. No wet mittens, cherry nose, frost bitten cheeks and icy feet.

Pattern is available now on Linen $45.95. Get yours and hook one or all of these delightful Snow Cones in time for Christmas. Cheers!

Copyrighted pattern....please do not copy!

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White versus coloured Christmas lights....

12/12/2016

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I’m having an internal debate. White lights versus multi-coloured. It really comes down to choice but are we being fed a pack of malarkey to slant the vote one way? Is it snobbery that proclaims white lights to be better, classier over the not so sophisticated, old fashioned, multi-coloured? Who decides the fate of one over the other? Are there light police or people that think their excrement is a breath of fresh air, calling all the shots? How can Christmas lights be good or bad? Isn’t Christmas one of the most colourful holidays of the year? Why try to dull it down?

How many of you out there have white lights when all you really want is a bit of colour on your tree, like you had when you were a kid? But you can’t be the only one in the neighbourhood to stand out. See the eyebrows lifted on all those white lighters and feel the shun from those that can’t see past the tilt of their nose?

I’ve fallen for this propaganda before. The need to be “in” made me throw out the coloured bulbs for their newer replacement. Then I joined the haters that proclaim loudly how coloured lights are tacky when what right does anyone have to rain on anyone's parade? Oh the power of marketing.....someone came up with this white light takeover and it hit Vogue and all the trend followers jumped on the bandwagon until the coloured light folks became second best.

Like most families, I grew up with coloured lights, those large bulbs that heated the room and if left unattended caused a fire or two. When one bulb blew out there was a scramble and scorched fingers to find the offending culprit so the set worked again. As a child I stared into that magnificently lit tree like a crow in a jewelry store. They were like sparkling jewels, rubies, emeralds and sapphires. Their glitz reflected in the tinsel and mercury bulbs surrounding them for extra glimmer and the tree projected on the ceiling and the walls, expanding their beauty to fill the entire room. Those memories will stay with me forever....

But now those coloured bulbs have fallen out of fashion, somehow are low class. It’s all about the white light now. God forbid our lights clash with the tree ornaments. We are asked to hang white lights on our businesses, a united stand for the town, strings of them spanning the entire length of the downtown area. We want to delight visitors to see the row on row of diamonds twinkling as if the cosmos have chosen to settle on our town. Some have rebelled, perhaps for the mere act of it or maybe they can’t afford to switch when they have perfectly good lights with years of life remaining. As I drove through town I marvelled at the twinkling buildings, most white, some coloured and I was torn between which ones were most appealing, which ones speak to the artist in me, which ones would spark a child’s interest? It was unanimous; the coloured lights held more delight. I felt young and as I basked in the glow of the multi colours, a portal to my childhood.

I conformed and put up white lights and that is all I have on my home tree but maybe it’s time for a change. I found some delightful led mini lights that run off a battery pack and put them on top of my kitchen cupboard for the pot luck hooking party, draped along old tins and speckle ware that display there. I put them in a large bowl of blue and white china balls, and the lights glow like the embers of a fire. Their shine is full of awe, a depth that transports me elsewhere, to a time when everything about Christmas was a wonder. I do like the white lights, they remind me of diamonds, a girl’s best friend, and the best part about being a grownup, I can have it all.

On my way home from work Saturday evening I drove by Mary’s house. Her front window framed their large, ten foot Christmas tree ablaze with lights, peppered with hundreds of miniature orbs of colour, predominately red with green and gold mixed in. It was the most beautiful tree I’ve ever seen. Tall and stately, it was so exquisite it tempted me to knock on their door to bask in its glow. I’ve never had that feeling from a white light tree before. I didn’t act on my urge, I had pups waiting for me needing to go outside so I passed by but the picture lingered longer than the actual view. I’ve thought of it a lot over the weekend.

I came home to my little LED slights that I’ve left on day and night since they were hung. They make me far happier than white lights have ever done. I can be classy elsewhere, use silver napkin rings to keep up with the Jones. This year our tree will have white lights because that’s what’s stored in the attic and maybe I won’t change as they are too good to discard on the basis of their lack of colour, but I will subsidise with the multi coloured ones for a bit of nostalgia elsewhere, relay the warmth of my childhood and all the fond memories this time of year brings.

So my decision? My vote is for multi coloured on a 60/40 split. I like both and will use them appropriately. I just don’t like being told I can only have one or the other or that somehow I’m less sophisticated because of an “inappropriate” choice, rebel that I am....

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Preparing contours on rugs for finishing

12/9/2016

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Hooking an odd shaped rug leads to the challenge of finishing those edges. Not all rugs are cookie cutter flat sided, squares or rectangles The simple circle with its lack of corners is easy to whip but some shy away because people tell them it’s more difficult, therefore missing out on the opportunity to experience a lovely round rug that fits in any space of the home and is never askew.

Recently my aunt finished hooking three Christmas stocking for her grandchildren who live in London, England. She’ll soon be flying to spend the holidays with them and those stockings will be hung with care in hopes that Santa will soon be there. What a beautiful gift of a grandmother's love, a gift that will keep on giving well into adulthood as part of their tradition. Who is too old to not appreciate a stocking full of goodies?

When it comes to working on a stocking the easiest and fasted part is the hooking. The sewing that follows is all hand work, tedious and finger pricking. It’s one of those bleed projects, a good one for quick testing of blood sugar levels. Everything has to be done by hand, no cutting corners or stitching around with a machine. Oh the dreaded needle….my worst nemesis.

First I sew the zig zag using the machine. I leave an excess of 1 ¼” all around the finished rug for working with. That’s the easy part. Once the stabilizing stitch is around the rug it can be cut out.

The changing shape of the stocking holds all the challenges of finishing. Straight sides turning into inside corners and then following around the toe. Folding over the 1 ¼ selvage on an inside corner takes a bit of ingenuity and the best practice I’ve found is to sew in V’s in these areas and then snip them in close to the row of loops and then it is easier to pull it toward the inside of the stocking.

I like to simplify jobs when possible so instead of using a needle and thread to sew this excess to the back of the rug to keep it in position while I sew on the backings, I use an iron, a wet towel and steam it down. Quick as a bunny! The stocking has to be lined or when Santa puts toys in and children take toys out, they could snag a loose loop or that wonderful curly mohair hooked into the piece for accents, and pull the entire length of it out.

I prefer doing the lining separately from the backing so that it is engaged before I attempt to put on the back pocket. I think it’s the simplest way for me but I’m open to suggestions if someone has a faster way! That backing pocket needs more work, with a hem on the top of an 1 ¼ high to make it sturdy enough to accept a hanger. That can be done on the machine before it's hand stitched on.

So this is how to prepare the stocking for the liner and the backing pocket.

Finished all the hooking, trimmed all the strings and then steamed to perfection!

I've zig-zagged all around the stocking then add the V's to the areas that curve inward. Cut right into the V as close to the edge as possible leaving several strands of linen before the edge of the loop so the rug edge isn't compromised.

The V makes the outside edge of the excess agreeable for positioning on top of the back and once streamed it will lie perfectly flat to the back. The toe area needs to have a fold here and there to deal with the extra linen as I lay it down around the curve.

I position the excess edge with my fingers then lay on the wet towel and steam flat.

All steamed and zig-zagged. The excess is now flat to the back of the rug. Quick and easy and in my book, better than having to hand stitch it there.

11 Comments

Stocking Contest Winner!!

11/30/2016

1 Comment

I am very tickled over how many people put on their thinking caps and offered Christmas stocking design suggestions! Between the emails, the website and Facebook I was gob smacked at the response. All were brilliant.

The ones that tweaked my interest, I listed on a piece of paper to help pare down for the final decision and the list kept growing and growing! Of course I want to do them all but one has to be the winner, not that any of the suggestions were losers!

I really liked the Flamingo idea and that one came in really early after I posted the contest. I imagined the possibilities and could see that pink bird as clear as day, but then other great ideas kept flooding in to take me in all directions artistically, I was dizzy from the shear numbers.

Several people requested trains filled with toys, which I’d never thought of before and it sounds like something I should do. One response was that I do a busy Christmas bee in honour of Honey with her recent problems, that one touched me for sure.

There were several dog suggestions, including poodles but the winning suggestion has to be a design that is globally interesting and a poodle, although my favourite breed, isn’t on the top of everyone’s list.   Speaking of dogs, that cute King Charles pup was adorable and I would like to do a series of canines on stockings so if you have a fur kid and want to hook a stocking for them, let me know and I will come up with a design. I would really like to add to the doggie collection, we have a few now, an Airedale, a Chihuahua, and a Welsh Terrier but we are open to any breed, let us know!

The one suggestion with a snoozing rug hooker while Santa peeks at her from behind her chair was cute, and a little mouse in bed covered for “Not A Creature Was Stirring” made me smile. There were lots of suggestions for our new Canadian national bird which is something I will consider for later, but for this contest, I couldn't leave our American friends out of the fun.

I even had three suggestions from as far away as Japan, along with drawn examples of a bunny and a cat and a beautiful Mahone Bay Three Churches.   How cool is that?

The old mercury ball idea is a design I already have in progress and needed to put the finishing touches on. I need to dig that out and revisit it.

So, get to the point Christine, everyone is waiting! The stocking idea that really knocked my socks off, pardon the pun, was “Rug hooking hooks would be awesome especially if you found the stocking Christmas morning filled with Shane's beautifully dyed wool.”     I thought, how clever and I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. I do have a rug pattern with lots of hooks but these will be special Christmas Hooks, colourful with fancy handles, sporting seasonal sayings and festive motifs with wool worms between them, waiting to be hooked. I was so thrilled I whipped up the design last evening and just now drew it on linen. I'm so tempted to hook it! I've been designing stockings for years but nothinbg specific for the rug hooker so this one's for you! Hopefully Santa will stuff it with all kinds of beautiful wool!

So the winner is, A stocking called "Hook Me A Stocking" suggested by Suzanne Chaddock I’ll mail it out pronto so you have it well in time to hook for the holidays if you so choose.   Please send me your address and we will pop it in the mail! Congratulations! Thank-you everyone that participated!

1 Comment

Stocking Contest

11/27/2016

4 Comments

A BIT OF FUN!

Here is blank outline waiting for a 50th Christmas Stocking design to add to our collection of 49.

IMAGINE, 50 CHRISTMAS STOCKING DESIGNS!!!

What should it be? Hmmm....let's have some fun. Whoever is the first to suggest an idea that tweaks my interest, something I don't already have, I will design it and send you a
free pattern on linen.

So suggest away! As many times are you like!

You can check out the ones we have by clicking this link: http://www.encompassingdesigns.com/seasonal-designs.html

4 Comments

Honey by any other name would be as sweet.....

11/24/2016

9 Comments

I’ve been very quiet of late; I’ve been waiting for word from a cardiologist about one of our pups and it’s been a cloud over our heads. Last Friday Honey, our oldest toy poodle had an episode in the middle of the night that was concerning. I thought perhaps it was an asthma attack. I rocked her in my arms and caressed her ears, a relaxer for her, until the moment passed and she slept. The following morning she coughed and wheezed again. I called the vet and they said bring her in right away as they close at noon. I was slated to teach at 1:00 and I hadn’t bathed or washed my hair yet so I donned a hat, threw on some clothes, called Deb at the shop to let her know I would be a bit late for the class and we headed for Chester Basin Animal Hospital.

The news wasn’t great. After the stethoscope exam, followed by an x-ray and blood test, we were told our baby had a heart murmur, an enlarged heart and two lungs full of fluid. The words congestive heart failure were mentioned along with other possibilities, some not so good, others an easy fix. Diuretics were prescribed and we went home a little more dismal than the drive there. Honey responded well to the meds and her lungs cleared quickly, I could tell by the depth of her breathing and slower heart rate. I was feeling optimistic as my heart wrestled with my intellect. I was working on the premise that until the experts call it she was fine, but after the followup visit and ECG I had to accept the verdict, congestive heart failure.

Honey is 11, our first poodle. She is as dear to me as if she birthed from my womb. Experts say that we spend a lot of time starring into the eyes of our furry kids creating bonds that equal that of a human child, mother relationship and I'll agree. I can’t begin to explain my connection to all of my babies, but its love it its purest form and although I care for them, protect, love and feed them, they give me far more in return.

Since this all happened I was happy to dwell in Denialville. predicting easy, fixable stuff. There is always hope until it’s taken away. Apparently there’s a study going on researching slug slime. As slugs move along the ground and grass they leave a trail of slime that carries a parasite that causes all her symptoms. This is easily fixable with Advantage Three, the tick and flea killer. I had my fingers crossed for this option and it could still be the underlying cause, but the word came down today that she is in the first stages of heart failure and although somewhere down the road there is a bleak ending for my Honey, she should live for a few more years comfortably. She will be on meds that sometimes destroy the kidneys and she will have to play less hard and be constantly monitored for decrease in heart function. Not exactly the most fun for a little dog that won’t understand.   It wouldn’t be the worst thing to die while running with her pack, catching the ball or chasing the one that does. She would die with a smile, not a bad way to go. She has this funny habit of running back and forth in front of the one that catches the ball as they bring it back to me. She runs offense like in basketball, blocking the player so he can’t make a move. If she’s the one catching the ball she expertly works it back and forth with her paws like a pro soccer player. She’s adorably hilarious!

I had a German Shepard that passed a few years before her and I handled it badly. I loved that boy more than life. He was my first dog; he came to live with me at 18 months old and had a teddy bear temperament. He was smart and beautiful and our life together was pure bliss. He died at age nine and I suffered greatly; mourning for years, and his collar still hangs from the backdoor knob. I didn’t think I would ever love another dog, it broke my heart to even think about betraying his memory. Somehow I thought another pup would replace him and it felt disloyal. I thought I loved him more than I could ever love another dog, but it’s funny, I love my four poodles even more, above and beyond, my heart must have grown bigger to fill it all in. I asked someone once who always had a new pup soon after the older dog had passed, “Which dog have you loved the most” and he said without pause, “The one I have now”.   I thought a lot about what he said and I began to see it differently, a new dog is not a replacement. Anyone that loves and has lost a pet knows they can never be replaced. They always keep that special piece of our heart exclusive to them and our hearts grow to accommodate all of them. The new pet is just that, a new experience, a new beginning....simply new.

If not for rug hooking I wouldn’t have my sweet Honey. A customer’s husband wanted to purchase an Ott-lite for his wife for Christmas and I told him I was planning a trip to the city that weekend and could deliver it to save shipping costs. So we planned to meet in front of Staples. He called to say that he was running 20 minutes late. A friend and I had already completed our Staples shopping and thought we would go into Pet’s Unlimited to see the animals. Okay, stop that....don’t be saying “Oh Christine, puppy mills....at that time, I didn’t know such a thing existed.

So we go in and there she is behind the glass. My friend notices how I’m lingering in front of that particular window and say’s “You should buy her” but I shake my head. I hadn’t even thought about another dog, but there was a tug on my heart strings, I could feel the tingle of it as I looked at her sweet, little face.

She was a mess. Covered in excrement she was a sight, but her little tail wagged and she pranced around having fun with the other pups in the cage. My friend said, “you should hold her”, pushing me closer to the ultimate decision. The staff wouldn’t let me touch her because apparently, crazy nut jobs would come in with parvo on their hands and try to touch the puppies to make them sick. Parvo is a death sentence to puppies. I can’t even imagine something so completely insane.

Anyway, I called my husband who was working in Alberta. It didn’t seem like a decision I should make on my own and I needed a push over the fence I perched on. I asked what he thought about a puppy and he asked if it was already in the car. I laughed and said no, and he said because I’m left alone so much I should have company and that cinched it. They let me hold her then, she was no longer their worry. She was a stinky little critter; a bath was going to be high on the list. I bought a carry cage and off we headed home, wondering what I’d just done. A poodle for goodness sake. About as far a cry from a German Shepard as they come. I knew nothing about this little bundle and her needs. This was going to be a learning experience for us both.

We were inseparable.   She and I had the best times together. Life seemed to have more purpose; a hole had been filled that I never realized existed. She went everywhere with me and hung out at the shop, greeting all the customers like it was her job. She was the cutest little peanut ever.

She was born on September 11th so I always said good things happen on that day too. She turned 11 this year and I was planning on having her for another nine, 20 years being the only acceptable age before thinking about the inevitable. Despite the horror stories of pet shop dogs, she was always the healthiest of our pack and the other three came from reputable breeders. She’s the most fun with toys and balls and loves everyone, gets along well with people and pets. She is just a Honey of a girl.

The initial shock hasn’t worn off yet so I’m misty, my throat seems lumpy.   We are entering into a world I know nothing about so I need to get educated. Once familiar with all of this it will be less scary. I’ll do whatever needs to be done to give her a quality life as long as possible. We’re pals she and I, we’ll continue to look after one another for as long as we can......

9 Comments

Riser #1

11/16/2016

1 Comment

I've finished my first stair riser and I'm pleased as punch. It's as nautical as it gets with the compass rose front and center, the port and starboard red and green stripes on the edges, the deep blue border to represent the ocean and the rope cascading down each side.

It is sitting in place waiting for some Velcro. I think that will be the simplest and easy way to hang them in place. I'll need to make a trip to the fabric store but in the meantime on to number two. I'll wait until I have a few of them to install to see which order they will be hung, hoping they flow well.

Tonight, at the Wednesday evening hook-in I'll start the mermaid. I can hardly wait to pull the first loop. Even though I've been busy at the shop, I've thought of little else all day and can't wait to see the results from using our new Glaze sparkle. I hope her tail turns out as fabulous as it is in my head. I hope I can bring it home! I look forward to shading her body in skin tones, giving her life. And her wild and crazy curly hair, oh my.

Starting a new rug is like falling in love for the first time or perhaps the second or third or more; really any time you fall in love is wonderful. So much Adrenalin and endorphin's floating around I'm a bit high but then I don't have to explain this to any rug hookers out there, you get where I'm coming from. Pure joy baby! Hadn't had this much tingle since we bought our boat!

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All through the house a creature was stirring....it was a mouse!

11/15/2016

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I’m a nature lover. I understand how all creatures exist to create equilibrium and most is good. But there are a few things I don’t like, a couple of examples would be fleas and ticks, parasitic nuisances that taunt my fur kids, but I know they have a place in the food chain and fill a biological niche so I just have to deal with it.

Unfortunately I spend a lot of time picking over four pups when the ticks are running rampant or if a flea infestation occurs. Both of these crawlies are in the grass so it’s unavoidable unless you can teach the pups to use the porcelain throne and flusher.

Ticks have been rather harsh this fall, and it seems every time my pups go outside for a pee I’m picking off invaders. Henri is a cream boy so you can usually see where they’ve hopped on his legs or ears and get them before they settle in. The same for Apricot Honey and Red Fiz, but poor Jake is as black as coal so a visual check is difficult. Then I've discovered the odd flea, even harder to detect but such is life, it’s our lot and I don’t mind putting the health and welfare or my little family first, even when I lose sleep because of it. Why do I lose sleep you ask? If I find a flea on one of my babies at bedtime I will stay up until the elusive bastard is dead! I can't curl up all snug in my bed knowing something is crawling around and biting one of my babies!

I feel the same about our home. I don’t appreciate or want creatures crawling around my house either, acting as if they own the joint. Unless they contribute to the mortgage these unwanted pests need to respect boundaries. At 5:00 AM the other morning I heard a heavy footed mouse walk across my bedroom floor, went under the bed and disappeared under the baseboard molding, squeezing itself as flat as a pancake to make it through the crack. In my half dazed state, I thought Fiz had gotten out of bed and was walking around, her nails clickity clacking along the floorboards. I looked over the side of the bed and seeing nothing, I called out to her. She didn’t come. That’s when the light bulb blinded me to the creepy truth, what scurried under the bed was a mouse, and by the noise it made, a rather large one.

Then I hear the critter scratching through the wall as it headed to wherever it hangs during the daylight hours. Honey, a keen mouser now fully awake heard it too and was immediately up and looking over the side of the bed, ears perked. Now I know why she spends so much time hanging in that area sniffing and obsessing.

I don’t like killing the small creatures of the earth. I find it difficult to dispose of an animal just because it’s in search of a meal. I always think, ”Imagine how I would feel if a giant squashed me like a bug; my body exploding under the pressure of a large digit”. But now, they’ve crossed the line, leaving the basement and walls to infiltrate the inner sanctum of our life.

I say the mouse was heavy footed because it sounded big, like one of my dogs with nails scratching across the floor. I was a bit nervous as I swung my legs over the side of the bed in search of my slippers. Visions of a rat running up the inside of my pajama leg was a very detailed picture as I fumbled in the dark.

We had to kill a mouse a few weeks back that got into stored almonds in the pantry under the stairs, dragging away a pound of them into its basement den. He even stored some on the shelves, hidden in the vacuum cleaner hoses stored there, a stash for future reference. That close to our canned goods was upsetting but vindication for being anal about washing the tops of the tins before opening them. I read a story once in Reader’s Digest about mouse pee on a pop can that almost killed a man.

So we laid a trap and sure enough the next morning we found a rather large granddaddy of a mouse pinned under the metal bar. It made me sick and I thought of it for days, the buggy eyed death stare playing on my guilt. Although many are grossed out about mice, you can’t dispute their cuteness and it only wanted food to feed its family so I felt miserable for our actions. I thought of the killing for days and stopped hubby from reloading the trap to go for other family members. Plug up the hole I said, stop them from stealing in the first place.

But now I’m angry at the little buggers, crawling around inside my house in the still of night, probably leaving turds and toxic urine for my dogs to find. Crawling over our things, infiltrating our cupboards where we store our food. So it’s full on war now. Traps will be laid and the numbers will fall if they don’t keep to the basement because anything above the main floor is fair game.

There seems to be a large number of crawly things of late. Ticks are rampaging, looking for that last warm body before the cold temperatures send them underground. A friend had one on her face last evening after hugging her pup. I’ve been averaging three to four a day for a week.   Having four pups ups the ante for their success. They are members of the spider family, have good eyes and lie in wait. Some of them are so small you can barely discern them from a speck of dirt.

An then there are fleas, not as ominous in that they don’t make your pets ill with limes, but it’s a parasite that multiplies quickly and will lay eggs that slide down the hairs of the dogs, dropping into the rugs, beds and any place they lie. One night last weekend we stayed up late watching Netflix and I was hooking. At 2:00 am before crawling into bed I checked the pups one last time and found a flea on Honey.   Although I scraped across it with my fingernail, usually rendering it motionless until I can finish it off, Honey moved and the flea escaped into the surrounding underbrush of her fur. Knowing it was there I couldn’t in good conscience go to bed so we went downstairs under the Ott-lite and I checked every square inch of her for an hour and a half until I found the elusive little bastard. A flea moves quickly so it was always one step ahead of my nimble fingers but finally I found it and it will never bite again. I squished the blood sucking parasite between the nails of my thumbs then gave it a watery grave down the drain.

I can’t use chemicals on my guys. Anything that will kill a flea or tick on contact for up to 6 months repels me. No one can convince me that that kind of killing power on flesh doesn’t affect the animal. Understanding how absorbent the skin is, and how everything we put on our bodies from lipstick to shampoo ends up in the liver, it has to be in all the animal's body tissue and organs. I want my babies to enjoy optimal health and I want to be able to bury my nose in their warm bodies for snuggles and kisses without absorbing God knows what.

So back to the mice. Creatures scurrying around the house and under my bed is just wrong. I’ll let hubby do the dirty deed while I turn my head and try to put it out of my mind. Lie in bed at night waiting to hear the snap! I promise I won’t gross anyone out with the details but we will pursue our hunt until the walls are silent. No more scratching and clawing their way through our domain, keeping us awake and Honey on guard. Be warned Mickey, Minnie and clan, it’s time to find new digs so vamoose or succumb to traps at breakneck speed, pardon the pun......

0 Comments

Rising to the occasion...

11/14/2016

5 Comments

I've been requested to sell the Country Flavour stair riser designs so I’ve gotten off my duff and redrew them. The pictures I posted way back when were only quick, rough sketches and then I got distracted so never got to finish them properly.   Now someone wants to hook 12 of them for their home so I was happy to finally add the polish.

While tweaking the patterns I kept thinking about the idea of doing a set of nautical ones for the shop. I’ve toyed with hooking some of the country version designs because I can visualize them in my head and know they will be fabulous, but I’m really more of a nautical gal, loving anything near, in or on the sea.

Anytime new thoughts cluster in my head they are always the most exciting and pressing and the other evening while in bed, ideas were rattling around keeping me wide awake. So by morning I was sold on the idea and needed to make it so. I’d finished my compass rose rug for the boat and had the compass on my mind so that was a first choice for a design and I’m using up some of the leftovers from that project.
The designs will each have the rope borders hooked in “Straw” 6 value so they will frame each side causing the eye to travel up and down the steps with ease. There is a stripe on each side that will be red for the left or port and green for the right or starboard, once again offering a continuity between the risers.

Red will be the common denominator throughout the series, marrying them all together with a rich glow as only red can do. I love red, and I love the primary colours so they will be used more than others in the crayon box but I will deviate at times with other wonderfully nautical turquoises, teal’s oranges and greens for an eclectic feel. I’ve already planned the wool for the mermaid and it kills me not to jump right in on that wonderful tail, but I have to finish one before starting another.   As much as I love mermaids, I’ve never hooked one before so I plan to put my all into this vixen of the sea. She will be exciting to watch come to life with wild curly hair and a beautifully detailed scaly tail.

The background of the compass rose riser is what I refer to as my port and starboard herringbone that we sell in the shop. It’s beautiful wool to hook with and has two distinct stripings of colour, one green and one red, thence the port and starboard name. When hooked the two colours create twists and turns like a swirling ocean.   I also used this is my large rug for the boat and loved the look, alternating the two colours throughout.

The wonderful rich green is our "Green With Envy", a 6 value swatch that created a bit of shading in the S for South. The N and the S both have curls on the ends that represent a stylized wave action, adding to the overall nautical feel.

I’ve been working at home on the designs and have five ready to go. The whale might be next or perhaps the signal flags or maybe the colourful buoys, so many to excite me, how do I choose? I might not get them all done immediately, distractions do come up, but I can pick away at them in between other projects. They are small designs, 5" high by 29" wide and can be completed in two to three nights so we will see. I know these risers will look smashing in our beautiful shop, real conversation pieces. I'll have to be careful not to fall down the stairs or perhaps fall up, when I can't take my eyes off them......

5 Comments

Winterizing my life....

11/3/2016

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Catalyst leaving Mahone Bay harbour one last time for 2016. Hubby at the wheel, friend Peter is hauling up a fender and hubby's brother Terry is waving from the bow. A male bonding day on the water. Me taking the picture from the shore wiping at the tears. Parting is such sweet sorrow.....

I’ve had a very jam-packed summer and early fall. Between recreational pursuits and the shop, each day was filled to capacity so there was little time for extras. In the past I’ve only had work on my plate but now with our boat, I’ve had a large serving of smelling the roses which has made me remiss in my blog, the easiest to sacrifice as I run out of hours in the day and fall into bed with a tiredness that runs bone deep. I’ve never played so hard in my life and I like it!

But all good things come to an end and the sailing was put to bed last week; although that doesn’t mean the work is over. Catalyst II has to be packed up, winterized and covered, drained of her fluids and replaced with anti-freeze. I joke it’s like we’re pumping through embalming fluids to preserve her.

Like a fish out of water I hate to see her wallowing on land, resting on jack stands surrounded by a sea of boats all waiting for kinder weather. As much as I love the changing of seasons it would be nice to drop winter, or make it milder like the west coast so the boats never have to come out of the water.   But then of course, we would be inundated with settlers to our mild climate and Mahone Bay would have high-rise development and traffic jams.   I think I’d rather have our beautiful harbour-side town kept more on the quaint and charming side of living.

So now with the boating behind us and the weather turning cold, it’s time to get to work on the neglected house. I took last week off to scrape and paint, up a ladder to work on the second floor windows. I’m no stranger to ladders or staging and I do enjoy the work, but once again I’m pushing the envelope waiting this long as paint goes on hard at 13 degrees Celsius and should not be applied below 10.

Then I look at the sad gardens. I didn’t pull a weed all summer so the backyard is packed with dying matter, drying and turning the colours of autumn, but not pretty like the trees along the highway, this is one ugly mess. From past experience I can gauge that every couple of square feet is a bulging wheel barrel full of dead growth to dispose of. I groan thinking about winterizing the gardens but its necessary and better done now while it’s crisp and dry than waiting until the dank wetness of spring and its flourishing mold.   There are still a number of days left for yard work, I just have to make time and do it. Help is welcome, drop by with rubber boots and gloves anytime…

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A s'mothering style of parenting

10/29/2016

2 Comments

.Written this past summer.

Sunday afternoon was as near a perfect day as one could order; warm to hot with a breeze that caressed and cooled.   Dozens of boats headed out of the harbour with white sails fluttering like butterfly wings. When it’s hot on land, there’s nothing better than being on the water.

At one point I looked out of the living room window to see three girls being hauled behind a motor boat in an inflatable plastic dingy. It was bouncing up and down, surfing the wakes of the traffic on the water. It looked like fun but I’d probably never try it because I swim about as well as a rock chained to a cement block.

Sound travels easily over the water and I could hear their infectious squeals and laughter through the screen door and I couldn't help but smile. They were having the time of their life, as only kids can do, totally in the moment. Then my smile turned into a frown and a shudder washed over me like a wave breaking the shore. It shocked me really and I spent the next few minutes trying to analyze why the only emotion evoked by watching kids at play was dark and foreboding.

Before I could figure it out the boat sped up and started making large circles in the water, the wake behind it rose and fell quickly, bouncing the inflatable in the air and then pounding down on the waves. The boat made the turns tighter, like a cinnamon roll, until it was too sharp so the little blow-up craft capsized, sending its occupants into the ocean. There were screams as they hit the cold water.

I grabbed the binoculars; the maternal part of me tingling with concern that they might not be wearing life-jackets. I see it often, boats going out and not one person on-board wearing them. Luckily, they were all fitted with rather blingy looking jackets, colours of the rainbow to match their brightly patterned bathing suits. They were all okay, and didn’t seem to mind the spill into the harbour and the power boat was heading toward them to pick them up.

As I watched, it donned on me that I’m as fun as a sack of rotting potatoes. I never learned how to enjoy play.   In my youth, fun came with the steep price tag of warnings and the fear invariably took a shine off the moment. I’ve said before that my father was a Hallmark card for worry, everything was destined to kill us. Fork stabbings to the throat for eating too quickly, neck breaking falls from tumbling up or down the stairs, rising too high on a swing meant broken backs and body casts, the innocent teeter totter could snap spines and tailbones, choking on anything from milk to steak and worst of all, drowning in ankle deep water. My dad might have been the greater source of worry but mom went along with it, so they are both culpable in the angst department. I joke that their nurturing was an act of s’mothering safety.

My dad saw danger in every action so it’s amazing we survived adolescence. Knowing now that shit happens, I wonder how many times he actually saved us from peril. After all, his predictions came from actual events on the news that we ingested along with our dinner every night. People died or injured themselves all the time and he’d say, “See, didn’t I tell you not to do that?” and we’d have to agree.   I thought my dad was brilliant! I’ve never had a broken bone and managed to get through my childhood relatively unscathed, but then again, living in a cocoon might have played a big part so who knows for sure what determined our survival.

Prevention was his style. If you don’t do anything, nothing can happen. That said, I would never have experienced a plastic, rubber, wood, aluminum or any form of dingy unless it was on dry land acting as a planter.   Anything on the water frightened the living daylights out of him. His toes cramped in cold water, so he feared not being able to save us and it wasn’t “if”, something might happened, he was “certain” it would. It was only a matter of time before one of us died in a terrible, water related accident, our small bodies lifeless, floating and bloating.   He spread his fear all over us like butter on toast, until we could barely breathe, smothered under the weight of the confining fear. And even worse, his warnings adhered to my own thoughts, so now doom and gloom rattles around in my grownup brain.

As a kid, I was sent for swimming lessons but badges weren't awarded for perfect attendance. By then I had such an instilled fear of the water how could I float with a rigid body, stiffened like rigor mortis and poised for disaster. Being screamed at by dad, “Don’t go out any farther or you’ll drown!” when barely past my ankles created a bit of panic when taken out to my waist by the instructor in an attempt to get me to float. She must have thought I was crazy from the blood curdling screams, flailing arms, red face and tears; the panic was drilled in deeper than the water I splashed around in and I should mention, besides the fear, the water was icy cold in the early morning and a disgusting brown sludge squished up between my toes making the water cloudy and brown all around me. Not exactly inspiring to open my eyes under water, yet another skill I failed at. When I asked what the brown stuff was, the instructor said, “That’s poop”. This was pre-sewage treatment-plant time, when all the bay toilets flushed into the harbour. All aspects of learning to swim were a shitty experience for me.

I know how my father felt; I am his daughter. Either through genes or environment I see danger in everything as well. When things go wrong, and sometimes they just do, it destroys me because I didn’t call it and save the day.   But I was smart and bit my tongue with Shane, locking the disastrous thoughts in my head to stop the insanity from tainting him. He’s much more adventurous than I ever was and he swims like a fish so I think I was able to stop this reign of fear from spreading.

I look out at those capsized kids without a care in the world and it’s a foreign concept to me. I’ll bet drowning or sinking to the bottom of the harbour is the last thing on their minds. I wonder how I would have turned out if danger hadn’t been the cornerstone of my childhood? 'Carefree Christine', two words never used in the same sentence, EVER!

I’m not saying I would rather have my head in the sand, go through life oblivious to potential danger because I like knowing the score. I like being aware of what’s coming at me, that’s one of the reasons I always sit with my back to a wall. Perhaps I say this because that’s all I know, but I do believe children shouldn’t be burdened with thoughts of bleeding to death, dismemberment, broken bones and decapitation. Yes, warn them of train tracks and strangers, don't let them hang out second story windows, suggest looking both ways before crossing the street, don’t let them eat Halloween apples from a house you don’t know, and suggest they wear clean underwear.....a set of reasonable guidelines for a safe and productive childhood. Skipping a rope or swinging in an old tire from a tree branch doesn’t need to come with lectures and consequences of bodily harm. There has to be a happy medium, the key word being happy. Shit happens, this is true, but you can’t fret about every step your child takes or they'll never learn to run, or worse, never go water surfing in a plastic dingy.

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Packing up one's life into boxes......

10/27/2016

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A few months back, hubby’s mother downsized into assisted living. At 97 it was the best thing as she experienced a couple of falls that concerned her. This week she turns 98, two years shy of a century and is still in charge of her life. There’s really nothing medically wrong with her, with bones as brittle as steel, five falls and not a fracture to speak of.

She’s also as sharp as a pin but felt it was time to think about paring down to only necessary possessions and a more appropriate living arrangement to prepare for whatever might be ahead. One needs very little to exist comfortably so it's amazing how much we accumulate over the years, building houses to accommodate it all and filling rooms, attics and basements with stuff we don’t really need.

The entire process of picking and choosing what goes with you, a lot of the treasures you amass falling by the wayside, children deciding what they wish to take, and what is left gets sold, donated or taken to the dump is daunting. This was food for thought as I look around my home knowing that today’s taste of the younger generation doesn’t include china or antiques and I wonder what will become of my stuff? I plan to pare it down on my own in the coming years with garage sales, but what remains could end up unwanted.

I spent yesterday unpacking the items hubby shipped home after they packed up and sold his mother’s townhouse. Like Christmas, there was a temporary thrill as I opened all the carefully wrapped items; I do love china and anything of class and character; appreciating all the finery, craftsmanship and grace of beautiful things.   But then I started thinking about the items I’ve accumulated and how someday, someone will be packing up my home and it soured the moment.

After my mother-in-law moved into an apartment in an assisted living residence, taking as much stuff that she could pack into her new digs, hubby and his two brothers were asked to go around her townhouse and put tape with their names on any items they wanted so when the house sold everything would be easily dispersed. Everything I unpacked had green tape and the initials G.L. on it and there was a sadness stuck to each item as sticky as the tape.

His mother wanted to give me her good china knowing I would appreciate it the most and I received five boxes to unwrap. That deal was back in the day when I was hungry for anything china but since then I’ve accumulated more than any one person would ever need so now in addition to the three sets I already have, the everyday Blue Willow, and two sets of china, one that came from my hubby’s previous wife/life and our wedding china, Moonlight Roses, I’m kind of up to my ears in dishware!   It was exciting opening all the boxes though, but also disheartening, knowing my mother-in-law loved these dishes and had to give them up. In a way I envy her. Her items are going to people who will appreciate them. I know she cared about her things because she fretted that none of her boys wanted the huge dining room set with a table and extensions that could accommodate 22 people. A lot of family dining and friends gathered around that table over the years with good memories attached but the set was large and chunky with a Gothic style and no one had a home big enough to stage that mass of mahogany so it went to auction where it sold and after the commission she received about $300.00. Very sad indeed....

At least she knows some of her smaller treasures will be appreciated and used by her kin. I might not have that luxury. Today’s generation doesn’t go for all that fluff, pomp and circumstance, and sit down dining is becoming extinct, a thing of the past.   I know Shane’s wife Ashley likes china but there’s going to be an awful lot of it, so I can’t expect it all to fit their lifestyle.

The monogrammed sterling teaspoons from Birks were especially hard to see. I love silver, but the engraved initials speak volumes of loss. Monograms always reminded me of how fragile and short life is, not something we care to think about on a daily basis. Back in my hunting days, perusing the antique stores and flea markets, I’ve seen beautiful silver dishes and platters perfect for the crow in me, but the monograms turned me cold. It felt like picking at the bones of the dead, stealing from them. Even if the monogram was an “L” I walked away, knowing unloading it someday would be difficult.

One of the treasures we received was a covered cheese plate that belonged to my mother-in-law’s mother, on the back was taped the word Canning, her maiden name. It is still in perfect condition, not a chip or scratch on it.

Packed in the boxes were some of the items we gave his parents for presents over the years. I never give a gift that without careful thought. I think I have decent taste so I gauge whether I would want this for myself to guarantee it will be valued. So quality items were returned to sender in the form of Birdsall Worthington vases and pottery dishes. I unwrapped her set of Royal Albert Petit Point china, eight place settings and all the serving extras, cake plate, cream and sugar, teapot and gravy boat. I don’t have extra storage for it all but couldn’t stand to see it given away to someone that wouldn’t appreciate it or see it sold for a pittance. I’ll make room, displacing stuff I really don’t need and haven’t used in years, stuff to cart out to the garage for a big sale in the spring.

I wanted to begin downsizing over the next couple of years while I can do it on my own terms, but I seem to be accumulating more stuff that comes with a family duty to care for. My poor son having to deal with all of this someday, quite frankly, I hope I’m dead when my stuff is picked over, I won’t have to see how meaningless my purchases were to a new generation of pickers.   I’m from a time that likes a lovely table setting, has a dining room table to entertain on. Today’s homes don’t even have that extra room let alone cupboards to store all of the paraphernalia that goes with formal dining. Unless you’re an old soul, young adults don’t care about polishing silver and drinking out of crystal glasses, serving platters and linen napkins. Everything today is disposable and meant for quick, carefree living. Once my generation has passed, elaborately set tables will become a faded memory.

I think perhaps I should use all the china stowed away, perhaps rotate it on a daily basis, get our money’s worth before it’s tossed. Not worry about breakage and scratches. Like saving your virginity, where does that get you? Allow it the purpose it was designed for. Use it up until nothing remains, and revel in the joy it brings today, not wait for a special occasion that might never come.

So I will make room for this new stuff of the generation before me, happy to have a part of my hubby’s past and try not to think how all my treasures will be someone’s unwanted wares to deal with. Am I sad? Of course, what I’ve loved will mean nothing. I spent good money for the items I have, in a time when they still meant something. If I could do things over with the smarts of gained experience I have now, my house would look a hell of a lot different; smaller and fit for a minimalist. I’ve been asked occasional if I could go back would I change anything and I say, “Not really”. Not in life experiences anyway, it made me who I am today and I’m happy with that, but I would care less about possessions, not worry about making my surroundings just so. A house guest once told me, “Your home might be nice Christine, but if you ever get cancer, it won’t mean a GD thing!” I saw a back-handed compliment in there and smiled but I don’t fully agree, a home is where comfort abides, and I’d be happy to leave this world from the cushions of my sofa surrounded by familiar, pretty things over a sterile, characterless and cold room of a hospital.

This morning I broke a pilsner glass. Moons ago, I’d bought a set of four at a flea market. They are crystal and lovely and probably expensive, perhaps an unwanted wedding gift or from an estate. Obviously, there wasn't much appreciation for them displayed among the lego, CD’s, ashtrays and bric a brac. I walked away with a steal of a deal and a big ole smile.

Now one is broken and I looked at the glass on the floor and instead of whining and going into a rant about losing one of my lovelies and how I'm a clumsy ofe, I thought to myself, “One less to dispose of, only three more to break.” Anyone who knows me would say, “Who are you and what did you do with Christine?!” I’ll admit this attitude is a lot less stressful than always being in protective mode. Carefully washing, drying and storing them, after begrudging their use in the first place. And all that worry that goes with seeing them plunked down a little too heavy on the tiled counter by guests that don’t realize they hold my holy grail. The old Christine believed in a set of even numbers, like four, eight, ten or twelve and would have been embarrassed being forced into the common, asymmetrical world of mismatched and eclectic. I think I like this new Christine far better!

Now-a- days, you can’t give china or silver away and antique furniture, built to last, is heavy, dark and gloomy to the new generation that goes for over-stuff and mass produced. Everything does have a time and like bell bottoms, class and finery will come back but not soon enough for me. Not much of what I’ve accumulated will be wanted in this new disposable world. I’ve accepted it’s too late for my stuff; someday it will be resting in the landfill, on the wrong side of the grass just like me.   I don’t mean to sound maudlin, it's a fact of life that's better accepted than denied to give us time to prepare so we don't leave a burden behind. I've been getting rid of things, there's a pile of stuff in the garage waiting for a big yard sale in the spring and what remains I'll be using, getting something out of it besides dusting and keeping it safe.

A family heirloom. Covered cheese plate.

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Dory Stories Rug Show

10/24/2016

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The closing event for the Dory Stories show at the Fisheries Museum in Lunenburg was a great success with about 60 hookers in attendance and a good (and noisy) time was had by all. Many thousands of people enjoyed the display. This season, the museum had over 80,000 visitors. Of those, 837 people took the time to case a vote for the Viewers Choice Award. I am proud to say that it was a clean sweep for South Shore hookers.

First prize went to Lorraine Burch of Chester Basin for her mat of the Lunenburg waterfront, complete with the Bluenose and a little dory in the harbour. Runner-up was The End of The Day, a small pictorial designed by Heather Gordon of Mahone Bay with two dories on a beach in the fog. Third place went to Lesley Marshall for her beautiful interpretation of Christine’s pattern of Blue Rocks.

We are all looking forward to next year. As a sequel to Dory Stories, the new exhibit will be called Tall Ship Tales. Each entry must be accompanied by the story of what inspired it , as we did with Dory Stories. Viewers were fascinated by the variety of interpretations and really loved to read the stories. Registrations are now being accepted for Tall Ship Tales. A copy of the form and guidelines is included here so that you can get started for the big show and make a plan to visit the Tall Ships Festival next summer in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia.

Well, I am feeling rather fine! Two of the winning designs originated from our shop. Lorraine Burch, 1st Prize winner (top photo), took elements from our Lunenburg - The Ark pattern which is always popular. There is little more striking then the Lunenburg Harbourfront and our Bluenose.

Lesley Marshall hooked our beautiful Blue Rocks design. Her realism is amazing. Those rocks, silvered and covered in grass and lichen are three dimensional. The building is sun baked and beaten by the wind. Everywhere my eye travels I see expert colour placement to make this rug a true winner.

Heather Gordon is a member of our Main Street Hooking group. Her End of the Day dories in the fog are fabulous. I'll have to ask how she achieved this look. One can almost feel the mist on my face and the ocean dampness in the air. Fabulous framing job Heather!

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Workshop on Colour Planning by Heather Gordon

10/19/2016

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Workshop with Teacher Heather Gordon

Working with colour can be the most enjoyable part of a rug hooking experience. Unfortunately, many people dread colour planning and it creates so much anxiety that they grab fibers that are on hand and end up being dissatisfied with the finished project.

Working with colour is not difficult once you have some general guidelines. This workshop is designed to provide tips for the effective use of colour. It is not rocket science so relax and have fun. You can do it!

We will cover some basic colour terminology, without going into all that dreadful colour wheel theory, so that we are all using the terms in the same way.

Then we will look at:

how to choose colours that really work well together
how to choose colours that are right for the design
how colour and texture work together to create detail and perspective
how colour draws attention to the focal point of your design
how colour creates an emotional response in the viewer and the “doer”
how to use contrast effectively

Bring the pattern of your choice and all the fibres that you think you might possibly use for this workshop. If you like the rooster theme, I have 3 patterns available (on request) and Christine has several rooster designs at the shop as well.

Contact me at 902-531-2384 or hagordon@eastlink.ca
Saturday, November 5, 2016 at Encompassing Designs 10 am - -4pm

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A pressing item.....

10/3/2016

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As I perused the store shelves for a new electric clothes iron, it struck me that I seem to be doing this much too frequently. How many irons have I owned since I realized the merit of being neatly pressed? Over the past dozen years or so, it seems I can't keep one for any longer than two years. They either burn out or fall to their death conveniently after their warrantee expires. Of all the appliances I use, the iron is the constant fatality followed closely by the blow dryer, but that’s another story.

When the previous iron went caput, I sent hubby out to do the shopping and he came back with a bigass machine that was a workout.   It was heavy as the dickens with a surface that was too big for going between buttons or around pockets of a shirt without a struggle, but perfect for pressing flat items like sheets and draperies, which I might add, I don’t iron. It was an appliance for a man’s hand, big and awkward and top heavy when sitting on the ironing board while I repositioned the clothing item I worked on and is the reason it fell off after a light jiggle to the board. My ironing board has a metal resting surface at the end of the board but this big iron was too large for it to sit in the hole so it had to stand on the ironing surface while I fussed with the piece of clothing.   I’m sure you’ll attest to the fact that ironing boards are not the most stable of contraptions and mine rocked and rolled as if on the high seas. When it went over the side, I screamed “crap” and watched it fall, resisting the urge to grab it on the way down, knowing full well where that would lead. After hubby brought it home and following a sufficient amount of time as not to hurt his feelings, I gently explained to him these words of wisdom, “When you go out shopping for say diamonds, bring home the biggest you can afford, but as for appliances, try matching them to my delicate physique”.

So I’m at the store and looking at the ten models on the shelf, they all seemed to offer a little something different but the only function necessary for me, besides steam, is the automatic shutoff. There is nothing more anxiety inducing than coming home after work to find an iron has been left on, hot as Hades all day. The last one had a neat warning buzzer to tell me it was left unattended after a five minute lapse and then would go into sleep mode and stay cool until moved. Being a bit absent minded I forget to turn things off so I’ve trained myself, before heading out the door to check the stove burners and any appliance I’ve used. I get my worry wartedness from my dad and although at times it can be the death of fun, I wouldn’t want it any other way, leaving nothing to chance in a vigil to keep us all safe.

So I have another new iron, picked by the serious decision making technique of, eeny meeny miny moe, grab a poodle by a toe. I left the sixty-nine dollar one out of the choices, considering their life span; middle price range was just fine. I don't need anything fancy, it doesn’t need to make sandwiches or do the laundry; a simple shot of steam and an automatic shutoff is fine. I used it this morning and had a so-so experience. I couldn't see how much water I poured in the tank through the opaque plastic. There was a line drawn that said Max Fill but I couldn't make out the water level to know if I was below or above it. I’m not sure how this got past the design table but it’s a definite flaw.

The stream function button was on the right side of the two buttons on top of the handle, one for spray and the other for a burst of stream. My last one had the steam burst button on the left which worked well, my thumb lined up perfectly but now it's awkward. I iron with my right hand and this one seems geared for a lefty, imagine that, after all these years something would work for me, but too lated now because I’ve adapted to use my right hand.   The smaller size is working well, but is half the weight of the last beast so I have to hold it down firmer to get that perfect press.   Funny, I now think I’d prefer the big one back....maybe I didn’t give it enough love so it jumped off the ironing board in a bereaved state of neglect from all the cursing as I struggled with it.

I'll get used to this new inanimate object; maybe I’ll talk to it real nice so it lasts longer. The iron and I spend a lot of time together. We get together daily; I’m not one of those domestics that press the laundry as it comes from the dryer so it’s ready to wear. It’s barely folded or hung on a hanger without much regard until I need it. I iron whatever I plan to wear each day, and I have a lot of linen shirts that need that extra attention or I’ll look like I slept in the car. Actually by the time I get to work I look as wrinkled as before the iron hit it so I’m not sure why I fuss. Linen is lovely fabric but it's needy and demanding.

Iron designs are changing faster than seasons. It’s hard to believe they need to be upgraded so often, made sleeker, streamlined and flashy when really, it’s all about the steam. Instead of making them high-tech and modern looking, why not invest money on appliances that use less wattage or heat faster? Perhaps, making them last would be nice, get rid of the vulnerable molded plastic and bring back metal for longevity. I like an iron with a bit of weight or else I‘m muscling it down to aid in the press, plastic is almost lighter than air.   Maybe I need to find one that really works for me, then stock pile that model, buy several to cover the next decade or so...... Thank goodness I have more luck with cars.

I don't ever recall my mother getting a new iron. The one she used from my childhood was sold in a yard sale after she passed; perhaps I should have grabbed it up to press another 30 years of service out of it. Now-a-days everything is made so cheaply, doesn't last and is basically throw away.

Have you ever watched the movie “Manufactured Landscapes”? It’ll blow your mind to see the size of factories in countries like China.   In one that produced clothes irons, the 23,000 employees worked in a building one kilometer long. The camera pans over the area, row after row after row after row of workers at stations, each adding parts to irons. It was jaw dropping. One factory produced thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of irons daily so there must be a need. If only they could make them to last the factories could be downsized to church basements.

Hubby did a calculation. There are 7 billion people in the world. On the assumption that 2 billion people (5 to a family = 400 million families), can afford a replacement iron every two years, that means 200 million irons are bought annually.

That means that globally factories have to produce. 547,945 irons a day.
22, 831 irons per hour
381 irons per minute

Geez, maybe humans need to rethink worrying about wrinkles.

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Wanda's Boo-doir Hosiery

9/30/2016

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Wanda's Boo-doir Hosiery well in time for Halloween. Hang it on the door as a flat rug or sew a backing on to make a stocking perfect for treats.

That's no trick with this convenient bundle of wool you can order with the pattern. (hooks one stocking)

Order yours now, pattern alone for $40.95 or with the bundle for a combined price of $86.95, (save $10.00 worth $96.95 if bought separately)

Buy two patterns for a shoe to shoe display as seen above!

The wool bundle consists of 1/4 yard of boo-delicious orange and 1/8 yard each of the purple, black, gold and green for a witchy stocking and shoes.

Pattern only - $40.95
1 Pattern & 1 Wool Combo - $86.95

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101 of Rug Hooking Wool

9/28/2016

11 Comments

This may be a blog question. I need help. I want to learn more about wool. I have never sewn or had experience with fabrics before rug hooking. I had difficulty when asking my question of an instructor(s) in a recent rug hooking class - strange answer: such as "the wool has been sitting on a shelf for a long time - or is antique"??? The question has to do with the thicknesses of different wools I have or might buy or hook with. Some are quite flat, others very fluffy, but all deemed/sold as for use to hook in rugs. They say "felt" or for applique, etc. I do realize one can hook with anything if going about it for different purposes for textiles/tapestries!

So although I have this MS degree in Education, I do not easily come by these answers out of my bailiwick; so I'm a new learner here. I thought there were no "dumb questions". Five months after I took up rug hooking, I was traveling and was so excited to be in a Florence, Italy, fabric store, buying wool off bolts. These yards fit neatly into my suitcase. I returned home only to realize it was way too thin for my hooking - rolled off like silk from my cutter. That was my first bad experience with not knowing about the right kind of wool for this craft.

Now I know enough to buy from places that have it just for rug hooking. Still, I'd just like to know about the range of wools that are used and why some plaids, for instance seem to have a "high pile" is it called? While others are more compact - flat. I have loads of wooly pieces laying around here - from you, others, some passed down from my cousin who died of cancer, and others - I am sorting and wondering and wanting to learn more about wool. I am making a little rug/wool gallery for myself downstairs. Is there a book? The last time I asked about this, two ladies that taught that color planning class I was taking acted really 'defensive', and asked if I wanted to know who their suppliers were? I just think some people have experience and agendas in their past, and they just can't read me as a nice person who Just Wants to Know. So I thought of you and your blog - and how you vent sometimes - I'm venting - and that's the Thick and the Thin of it. :)

Anne Marie

Hi Anne Marie,

Your questions are very common so I thought I would reply to you by way of a blog to share what I’ve learned over the years with all of my readers.

Wool is not the holy grail and should not be shrouded in secrecy. My philosophy is that knowledge should be shared so we can all make the best choice when purchasing fabric. Our money should not be wasted on wool that is too thin, too unstable or not conducive to this craft. A bit of education will ensure better choices, because frustration should never come into play when rug hooking!

I’m a wool snob. I only use the best and sell the best in the store. I don’t like wool that falls apart in my hands or is too thin and stringy to keep a neat surface on my rugs. That does not mean I don’t appreciate a good recycled wool because there are fine specimens to be had at second hand shops. But buyer beware because wool is not all created equal.

What most hookers desire is a 13 oz weight in their wool fabric. This means that the wool weighs 13 oz per yard. This is basically those itchy, plaid wool skirts we wore as kids. I advise newbies to carry a sample of a good 13 oz weight when perusing the flea markets and recycled clothing stores. Feel the wool you hope to buy and then rub your sample for a comparison. Sometimes the wool in the bin hasn’t been washed in hot water so take that into consideration as it will be thicker after processing in your machines. Even if the wool is unwashed it should still have the property of a winter garment, a bit of fuzz and thickness to the weave.

I like to define wool by breaking it into two categories; Winter and Summer. That does not mean winter coat weight that weighs about 16 ounces or so, as that tends to be too thick. If you want to use a coat then I would stick to all the same weight for your rug as mixing a 13 oz and a 16 oz would make your project look lumpy. Coat weight is also more difficult to pull through the backing so it is usually cut into a finer strip to reduce the stress of the harder tug.

Summer weight, is the polar opposite and not good for rug hooking at all. Here is my trick. If you spy a suit or skirt in a bargain bin or hanging on a rack, ask yourself this question. Would someone wear this garment in the summer or the winter? If you think it’s a summer piece, drop it and walk away. Summer suiting, although 100% wool is only 7 oz and won’t felt no matter how much you beat it up. It’s usually a bit shiny and stringy and although it might be the perfect colour, pass it by and save your money for the good stuff!   It is also almost too thin to put through a cutting machine and slips around like a sleazy womanizer. When cutting a thin wool, you have to feed it through the machine as straight as possible or its spaghetti city. I personally don’t like my wool too thin, but have no problem using Pendleton shirts and skirts that tend to run around 10-11 oz.

Not all wools are woven or created equal. There are all kinds of weave patterns when making fabric. The best of course is the straight weave or plain weave. Plain weave produces the strongest fabric with minimal fraying. The weight of the wool and fuzziness is determined by the threads used when weaving the fabric. Think of the different ply’s of yarn. The denser the fibers used, the thicker the wool that is woven.

Some wools are woven more loosely and they won't felt enough after being washed so it needs to be cut with the wider blades, #6 to #8. Some herringbone wools are loosely woven and demand a wider cut but there are others, especially the one we buy and over-dye that can be cut very carefully in a #4. Someone told me they cut it in a #3 once for an oriental but that had to be deep concentration and a steady hand to feed it perfectly straight through the machine. Any deviation off grain would cut the fibers on the bias and therefore would degrade the integrity of the wools warp.

That is not to say that any wool is bad. Lots of rug hookers have preferences that we may not agree with or care to use. A thinner, suit wool could be hooked beautifully if you tear the strips wide, about an inch and fold under the fraying edges and hook the flat top, like granny had to do with cottons. Some hook with fine wools and just keep their scissors handy for trimming. Finer wools are okay cut in the primitive widths but cut narrow and they can fall apart.

Back in the day when I started rug hooking I brought home a lot of wools that were later discarded. It’s a learning curve as in all things. Just because coveted coloured wool has wooed you into buying it doesn’t mean it will work. Suppress the urge by breathing deeply to allow the brain to overrule the addiction. If you succumb, and we all do at times, it can always be used as a pillow back or a liner for a Christmas stocking.

Plaids of course are fabulous, bringing texture and depth to our projets. I put them in every rug, especially herringbone….I have a big love for herringbone! Of course it's woven in a special pattern and that's the reason behind any fraying. Plaids have multiple colours going this way and that making it a bit more iffy but not enough to turn your nose up on a piece of great plaid. Just snip off the frayed ends of the loops as you go or save them all up until the rug is finished. No big deal!

Sometimes a thin plaid like a Pendleton shirt, can be felted a bit more by throwing a pair of jeans in the washer with the wool. That will knock it around and beat it up more. Front loader machines are more gentle and don’t felt as well so sidle up to a friend with a top loader and say pretty please can I use your machine?

I’m a stickler about 100% content in my wool. Nothing in my shop has a man-made fiber. I started this to protect my cutter blades because polyesters and acrylics will dull the carbon steel wheels on machines that have a pressing action such as the Bliss, Fraser 500 and Rigby designs. Cutters that offer a scissors action fare much better and in Canada we love the Bolivar Cutter, made locally and an exquisite piece of engineering. These days, I’m just a wool snob, I like the soft feel of 100% wool. I like the way it dyes, tears and cuts, and especially the way it hooks.

Cutting wool properly is the secret to a happy hooker. Taking the time to put the fabric through the machine ensures the best experience. I never put through a piece more than three inches wide. If the wool is wider and cumbersome it slides off the edge creating drag off to the side so you are continually trying to keep it in place. Over handling it creates undesired movement and off grain cutting.

It is always best to cut your strips parallel to the selvage edge which is easily apparent when you buy new wool off the bolt, but when you buy a garment at a shop, unless you have a tailor background you wouldn’t know how the pattern was cut off the bolt. Really good plain weaves work either way but a herringbone needs to be cut following the visible lines you see between the V’s in the pattern. Over time, as experience gathers under your belt, you and your wool will become one.

Here is the explanation of a few wool terms.

Selvage – When purchasing wool on the bolt or roll, the selvage is the finished edge of the fabric. It runs parallel to the grain or ‘Warp'.

Warp – The lengthwise grain that runs along the entire length of the fabric. It is the strongest grain with the least amount of movement.

Weft – This is the grain that runs the width of the fabric and has a bit of movement or stretch to it.

Bias – The bias is at a 45* degree angle on the fabric. This grain has the most stretch.

In closing, whenever you ask a question and are not satisfied with the reply or feel you are being put off, keep asking around until you get the answer you deserve. Rug hooking is not rocket science nor are we working against one another to conquer the world. Rug hooking is a glorious craft that should be filled with a lifetime of exploration, learning and sharing. That being said, I hope I’ve answered your questions and shed some light on the thick and thin of wool.

11 Comments

Much ado about nothing......

9/20/2016

2 Comments

I'm beginning to believe I'm cursed.  Not in the evil sense, my head doesn't spin, at least not all the way around, but there are powers that like to play with me. Somewhere there is a voodoo doll in my image with a sharp pin waiting.......

I talk a lot about our boat. The best decision we've ever made was to buy that beamy girl, providing a perfect threesome in our marriage. She has enhanced and brought more joy than any single inanimate object, even the houses we've renovated can't top our cottage on the water. The fact that she likes to take the occasional bite out of me is off putting, but considering I'm in a small space, a bit clumsy and being tossed about like a cork in a bathtub, perhaps a few bruises are expected.   No matter, I keep giving her my all, making her shine while peeling away the years of use, hopefully she appreciates our efforts.

Since we bought the boat, the focus has been preparing for the Nonsuch Rendezvous, a yearly event where the local Nonsuch boats and owners gather, have a race and socialize and revel in this exclusive club.  I might enjoy teak refinishing and scrubbing the bilge, but there was a purpose in mind, make her shine for this event to introduce our girl to the group with her best bow forward.   We'd missed last year’s gathering with hubby working in Alberta, but this year being out of work was a plus, we would be there, front and center for the festivities.  It was guaranteed!

I'd planned months ago to have that weekend off.   Unless we are teaching a beginner class, I work Saturday’s alone so I needed to be taken off the schedule. Deb and Shane were primed and all my ducks were in order.  There would be nothing to stop us from being there, come hell or high water, we would be showing off the fruits of our labour and taking our place in the line-up, bow to stern along the wharf.  Or so I thought……

A week and a bit before the rendezvous I opened email and found a reminder from the Nicholsville Rug Rats Fall Fling that their hook-in was coming up and would I be there as planned?   Surely my eyes deceived me, surely it didn't say September 10th, the same day as the rendezvous?  I knew the event was in September and I’d asked for a reminder close to the time but I never thought for a moment it would be the same weekend and honestly my focus was all on the boat so there wasn’t much thought for anything else!   The wheels began to grind, the screech matching the groan coming out of me. What could I do?  I gave my word which means something; I couldn't let the hook-in down but how could I do it all? How could I be in two places at one time? So I chatted with Deb and Shane and they offered to do the hook-in for me. Hugs and kisses to them both! I would tell them what to expect and I could then go conscience free to the Rendezvous.  I asked someone to work the store as I knew I couldn't close it, people would be upset coming from a distance expecting us to be here.  All was once again clear sailing.   Or so I thought……

Two days before the rendezvous weekend Shane's cat ingested part of a lily. For those that don't know, and we sure as heck didn’t, any part of this plant or cut flower is toxic to a cat.  If not caught within two hours, before digestion begins, renal failure is guaranteed.   When Shane went upstairs to take his dogs out for a pee, he found Zoe with her face and mouth dusted with orange; she’d stuck her head into the heart of the lily and came out coated with powder which she licked off. He quickly looked it up on the internet and was devastated.  He rushed her to the vet who didn't give him much hope.  He was beside himself with worry, kicking himself for not knowing there was a deadly toxin in his home. We were on pins and needles as we waited for news while poor Zoe swayed on a tightrope of life or death.

Anyone who knows Shane can vouch that he wears his heart on his sleeve, and is an old softy for the creatures of this planet.   He doesn't squash bugs, not even spiders and if he can't help them out the door to freedom, he lets them be.   He totally loves his cats, Zoe and Molly and I know how I feel about my pups so I knew the great burden on his heart.  As much as it pained me to miss my special weekend, his cat would come first and if the outcome was bleak, I knew darkness would settle on his soul for a long while. If she pulled through, he would be joyous but would have to pick her up on Saturday and they needed one another. Over the next few days, we hung on to hope and felt helpless despair until word came that she would make it.   Shane was over the moon and we all breathed a sigh of relief.

The weekend had been structured; kitty first, the hook-in second and the boat last. I missed the Friday meet and greet at the Lunenburg Yacht Club because I had to pack up the shop for an early trip Saturday morning.  I did make it to the club for the dinner but couldn't really meet anyone or mingle while stuck at a table.  Then at 10:00, I rushed back to the shop to finish the packing and loaded the car. It was midnight before I got home. The stress was piled so high on my shoulders I bent when I walked.  Then I tried to sleep but after rushing around like a chicken without a head, it was impossible. No amount of reading could soothe my mind and after I turned out the light my brain blazed as I fretted over the details for the hook-in the next day.  Did I forget anything, the long lists of things to take were checked and rechecked in my head, tossing and turning until I fell into a fitful sleep around 3:00, then up at 5:30 to get ready to hit the road by 7:00.

I won’t lie, it hurt missing the Nonsuch gathering but I have a responsibly to the business and to my son. Being a mother, we sacrifice all the time.  It's our job as much as putting food on the table and clothing on their backs.   Good or bad, it's our lot and at the end of the day, we don’t begrudge any sacrifice that might be made because they come first, period the end.

So I headed to Kingston with my wares while Deborah navigated and my hubby attended the reunion on his own.   I tried not to feel bitter, I certainly give my all to rug hooking, have for many years.   It's not just a profession, it's my passion, but I need a bit of fun too.   It took a good week to let it go, all the while being told there would always be next year, but after missing two years in a row I'm not holding out any hope. Maybe we shouldn't want things so much, leaving the gate open for disappointment to slip in and run amuck.   If we don’t have inflated expectations there won't be any disappointments.   Putting all my eggs in one basket assured a bit of breakage but when it all boils down, no one died, big deal, get over it.

Once we arrived home Saturday and unpacked the car at the shop I was finished.  That final half hour drive to Mahone Bay was rough; I fought to keep my eyes open.  Deborah was tired as well but we made conversation to stay alert, I missed a turnoff that took us a bit longer to get home but we laughed with as much enthusiasm as we could muster.

After I arrived home I was too exhausted to drive to Chester for the Nonsuch dinner.  I worried that I'd fall asleep behind the wheel. My disappointment was swallowed along with a large bag of chips and a tub of Chocolate Peanut Butter Swirl ice cream, two very big no nos for my blood sugar. If I rested and then went down later I could bring pups and breakfast food to spend the night on the wharf with hubby, be there in the morning to chat a bit and feel a part of things with the other folks on their boats before they left for home but I kept yawning and nodding off every time I sat in a chair. I've fallen asleep while driving before and the fear of a re-occurrence is potent incentive to think smart.  It wasn't worth the risk, especially with the pups in the car, my maternal instinct was to stay put, lay on the sofa feeling sorry for myself, which I might add, I did with stellar proficiency.   I may not be proud of this fact, but I moped for days, inconsolable that I’d missed the Rendezvous yet again!

Maybe if the weekend before, a sail to Carter's Beach that we'd planned since the spring, had gone off without a hitch I would have been less bothered to miss the rendezvous.  But the first vacation I've taken in 25 years turned into a disaster, one with vomiting, crying, soiling myself and fear of drowning.  No one died, but I thought we all might, so that put a rather large crimp in the fun.  I'll tell you about it later, when the pain of it passes and I can laugh without clenching the various sphincters of my body.

So despite the disappointment for missing the Rendezvous, Deborah and I had a lot of fun in Kingston.  It's always lovely to see so many familiar faces and admire all their works in progress and the the rug show was once again phenomenal.

I must admit, the turkey lunch served by the Lion's Club men at the hook-in was memorable.   The gravy was lip smacking, the dressing divine, the mashed potato and vegetables were all tantalizing to our taste buds, and is there anything better than seeing men in the kitchen wearing aprons?  That’s dessert in itself! Not only did these chaps put out a superb meal, they tidied up and did the dishes. Last but not least, the actual dessert was an apple crisp with a crunchy topping and the right amount of tartness.  Yum!  Quite the spread and well worth attending for.

As we packed up our wares and loaded the car I was asked if I’d come back next year and I said without hesitation "Sure thing!" I won't know the dates for the 2017 Nonsuch Rendezvous or the 2017 Nicholsville Rug Rats Hook-in until next spring but really, what’s the chance the two events will overlap again? What's the chance there won't be another crisis, something to interfere? Maybe I should ask Murphy, he's usually following me around......