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It takes a village to raise an idea.....

1/24/2019

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There are folks out there that call me clever; some have gone so far as to tell me I’m brilliant, but I don’t know if I deserve such accolades.  Sure I like to dabble in designs and be creative in my rug hooking, but am I a genius?

I’ve been known to land on a decent idea now and then, either accidentally or prompted by those around me who think more outside the box than I do.  I’m pretty crammed into my own personal square, my arms and legs are contorted, folded in tightly around my torso with my head tilted hard to a shoulder so it doesn’t stick out and destroy any attempts to stay within the lines.  I’m comfortable in my box and don’t see leaving it in the foreseeable future but I do occasionally entertain moments of inspiration where I amaze myself but other times I come away with a blown mind by someone else’s incredible vision.  At those times my inner voice wails, “WHY didn’t I think of that!?” 

The book I’m writing for “The ABC’s of Rug Hooking”  inspired by the Alphabet I’m hooking was only supposed to be a fun, colourful poster until someone more insightful suggested it would make a lovely book.  A lightbulb moment for me, why it never dawned on me is one of those mysteries I’ll take to my grave, or at least to the publisher.  Ideas are always so darn easy once someone plants a seed.   But for this scenario perhaps I am a genius; keeping people in my entourage who are smarter than me.    

This morning is a perfect example.  My hubby, my biggest supporter and fan, is a genius.  The fact that he married me pretty much proves it, but I digress.  I heard words come out of his mouth this morning and couldn’t believe it hadn’t dawned on me before.  I mean, really, because it’s so bloody obvious I must be dull and dim-witted to miss it.  It concerns the Nautical Riser project I’m working on that we were discussing as we were looking at the new pattern stretched across on my hooking frame.  He says,  “Why don’t you put rope across the top of the first riser and at the bottom of the last riser so it is a continuous link of rope that stops the eye from drifting off the landing.”      
  
My eyes weren’t quite open at that point, I hadn’t had a coffee yet, but hearing this they flew open and I sat up from my whiny, I didn’t sleep much  last night inclined sofa position, and cried “OMG, that’s a fabulous idea!” 

So I will be designing an end and beginning pattern for my Nautical Riser collection.  In the meantime I’ve started on my next installation, pattern number 9 with 7 more to go.   This one is two stylized fish flanking the name and design of our boat.  CATALYST II, Nonsuch 33.  The center is left open for those who wish to add their family surname or boat name as I did, and I should add we would love to put on for those that buy the pattern.  I have toyed with the colour plan but haven’t fully decided where the reds will be, it being the constant that runs throughout my hooked riser rugs.

I finished my Paddles yesterday and was very happy with the way they turned out.  That little #3 line of Antique Red under each paddle makes it pop, as if they were hanging on a wall in the boat shed.  I used a Blue Ombre (pictured above) for the background and cut it down the various shades from a soft blue to a brown, graduating them so the darker bits were on the bottom.  I really like this one and it takes its place on the risers fitting in beautifully with its predecessors. 
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I have also bought Velcro strips to attach to the rugs to the wood riser.  In the past they were stuck on with packing tape and kept falling down to trip anyone on walking up or down the stairs.  Then we had a leak from the a rain a week or so ago and hubby thinks he has fixed the problem so after the next rain to be sure there’s no more water getting in, I’ll place them back on the stairs.  

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First Beginner Class of 2019!

1/22/2019

5 Comments

 
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A good indication of a person’s character is how they make you feel even after they’ve left the building.  I’m sure Elvis worked his magic, but for everyday folks, people who come in and out of our lives no matter how briefly, they can also leave a lingering impression.  

It was never truer on Saturday at my first beginner class of 2019.  These women were fun and talented and took to rug hooking like fish to water.  I can’t think of a better way to spend my time than teaching the technique of rug hooking to a group of delightful women that wish to broaden their artistic talents and add another fiber art to their portfolio.  I was suitably impressed with their efforts and enthusiasm. 

But on this particular day there was something else afoot, working behind the scenes. I found myself in the presence of two exceptional women whose energy lit up the room and I believe if I was gifted at seeing auras, theirs would have blinded me.  

It’s amazing how strangers can cause such an emotional reaction.  I’m usually quite excited from teaching and come away from the experience elated, but these gals drove it up a notch to make me feel like I was walking on air.  And call me crazy but after the class, I felt sad as they walked out the door. I know this must sound superduper, stalker type weird, but there was something about them that drew me in and sucked the 'poor me' right out of my being.

I know I’ve been in need of an emotional enema lately.  I’ve been feeling lower than the sole of a shoe for most of 2018 and I’ve been working hard to get it to ankle height so far in 2019, and was feeling optimistic I’d make it to a knee or perhaps a thigh by summer.  These infectious gals scraped me off the floor and took my mood to the top of my crown in one felled swoop. If only I could bottle their personal magnetism, I’d be snorting it daily and world peace would be plausible.      
Anyway, I don’t want to drone on but I walked away from the shop in a bit of a question mark???  I recanted the conversations we had to hubby in the car on the way home until I’d hammered it flat and ran out of words to describe the positive energy that had zapped me.  I’m never like this.  I’m not a person who gets excited that easily, my feet are planted a foot deep and my personality is more of a flat liner than any kind of zigzagging arrhythmia.   

You can learn a lot about a person in a short conversation and their positivity and optimism was absolutely contagious.  Anyway, I felt compelled to share this, putting my mental competency on the line.  It was just a weird and wonderful experience to be touched by strangers in such a way that it rewired my brain for the rest of the weekend.  
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Daytime Hook-in every Wednesday!

1/17/2019

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Hand Rails, worth hanging on too....

1/17/2019

2 Comments

 
When we bought our boat the topside teak was in bad need of a facelift.  Naive and not knowing the price of teak, my first thought was full replacement, but my experienced husband assured me it would rejuvenate beautifully.  Of course I thought he was joking, it looked like crap to me and he’s known to be cheap, I mean frugal, so I figured I’d be working for nothing.  But I ended up being totally blown away at the amazing resilience of this incredible wood.   

I tackled the handrails first.  The finish was scratched and the wood suffered bare areas and the varnish had turned white as water had gotten in under it and in some areas black mold had moved in.  They looked dry; as if they’d crumble in my hands and I wasn’t hopeful they would ever look anything but old.    Gregg thought it best to remove them because we were experiencing several leaks below that we couldn’t pin point the source of; the sealer was missing in areas and what remained was dry and crumbly and looked suspect.    Reinstalling them with new sealer would hopefully guarantee years of problem free maintenance suiting our mantra of “an ounce of prevention”.   Also, the varnish needed to be on the underside of the handles for the finish to last longer.  Any place water can get in will ruin the finish within a season and this was a job that should last a few years.

So we removed them.  Unfortunately one had a hairline crack and snapped clean through so the first job was to glue it back together.  Then Gregg was called away for work in Alberta and left me to refinish them, which I was very happy to do.  I went to work with the heat gun removing all of the varnish.  It was slow tedious work but I must say I enjoyed every minute of it.  There’s something rewarding in seeing a transformation begin.  The only drawback was the heat.  At times not only had the humidity beaten down the garage door to stifle me, but the heat gun radiated enough warmth that I could have been a contender in a wet T-Shirt contest.   Sorry, there’s no photo for that!

Funny how the rails look so small on the boat but in the garage they spanned the length of the six foot work bench and hung over both edges by several feet.   They were curved and rounded which made them awkward to work with so I had to clamp them to the surface to stay in place while I melted the finish with the gun.    At times I used a card scraper but I found the gun more effective especially with the rounded edges, used in conjunction with a small sized paint scraper it was the most effective tool I found to do the job. 

There were grooves in the wood where the finish had settled and turned dark so I used the edge of the scraper to dig at them, the varnish was brittle and would flick out, I can still hear the little crunches as it cracked free.  I fussed more than I needed too but I had plenty of time on my hands, with a month to go before Gregg got home so we could install them and launch the boat.   
 
Once the sanding was complete I used Two Part Teak Cleaner, recommended by Doug at The Boat Locker in Lunenburg.  It would bleach the wood, taking care of any mold that might have been lingering in the cracks.   The first time I used it I couldn’t believe how Part One darkened the wood, and then when I rinsed it off and applied the Part Two, the wood looked fresh and clean. Another thorough rinse and then I let it dry.  I laid them on their sides to apply the Epiphane Gloss to the bottom area that would mount to the boat. I put on eight coats to seal it. 

Then I mounted both rails on 2 x 4 strips of wood using the existing screw holes, leaving a gap between the handle and the wood to varnish easily around the base.   This allowed me to work on both sides at once making for quicker work.   This was the fun part, watching the mirror shine build.  I sanded between the coats, vacuumed and wiped them down with Epiphane thinner.   The result was amazing.  They looked like new rails off the factory floor.   Hubby was right! 
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Gregg and I installed them, a tricky little job, me on top adding the sealer and holding them in place while Gregg was below with screws and the drill.   It’s been three years now and they are looking a bit dull as the shine has been weathered but this year I plan to sand and put on two more coats to bring back the brilliance and they’ll be good to go for another few years.  I also want to have covers made for them as the sun is brutal on the finish.   
 
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The broken area now glued and taped to hold.  You can see how badly they need to be stripped and re-varnished.  
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Me with the gun and scraper. 
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The miracle chemicals, but make sure you wear eye protection, a mask and gloves.    
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Left rail is bleached and finished, the right rail has been coated with Step One and waiting for a rinse.  
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The bow pulpit teak, wheel and handrails ready for installation.  
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Sleep, why do you forsake me?

1/11/2019

6 Comments

 
There’s not an ounce of sleep in my 150 lb body.  I’ve thrashed about and turned like a chicken on a spit.  Hot then kicking off the covers,  then chilled and wrapping myself like a burrito, hot and cold, hot and cold, never a happy medium.  It’s enough to fracture sanity.  All I want is sleep SSSLLLLEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPP!

I’ve counted baby goats, in cute little wool sweaters, that frolic through my mind. I’ve breathed in, deep and long, then out nice and slow, calming breaths, but nothing seems to quiet the pounding surf of my thoughts.  I hear my heartbeat in my head, like a loud drum, persistent and insistent, driving me crazy with its rhythm.    I keep trying to find a position that quiets the roar between my ears;  I think of Poe’s telltale heart, but mine is under the covers not the floor boards.   

It’s 4:30 am.  I’ve tried reading several times.  Light on, light out, light on, light out, light on and light out.  Usually my book quiets my brain.  I read till my eyes close and the book drops which wakes me enough to place the bookmark and set the book on the bedside table and turn off the light.  More times than not I can drift back into dreamland, but not tonight, those few short seconds of consciousness rev up my brain into over drive and I’m wide awake again.  I’m frothing mad from courting sleep, she’s a fickle date, she won’t come across, conform to my desire.

I’ve been working on finding solutions to my problem.  We bought $6.00 blackout curtains from the Giant Tiger on Tuesday.  I was blown away at the price, the yardage of faux suede would have been more expensive to buy at the fabric store to sew myself and then having to buy and fiddle with large grommets makes me ponder how can they sell for such a nominal amount?  The curtains kill the light but these questions kill my sleep.  
 
The street light and several lights from the neighbour’s house bother me, keep the bedroom vivid and it burns into my brain through closed eyelids.  Sometimes during a full moon the room is so illuminated I can almost read without the lamp on.  Not good to sleep in a bright room, melatonin needs darkness to produce in the brain, the healing element that ironically helps you sleep.  The room is black as pitch now but tonight it’s not working.  Tonight I am as hyper as a cat on a hot tin roof with its tongue in a light socket.     

My brain races around rehashing my day, my week, then plans I have for the studio, new designs, how the woodwork needs paint, what I’ll wear to work tomorrow, the growing pile of laundry I can no longer ignore,  begging the question once again, what will I wear tomorrow; the apartment we have to get ready to rent, the leak in my studio that started after Wednesday’s rain, the faucet that might be going in our house kitchen, what we’ll have for dinner tomorrow night, the price of eggs, will I still have hair in 2020?  It all tumbles through my thoughts like an out of control freight train.

So I got up, ate a few peanuts and hit the laptop.  I yawn as I write which is pissing me off.  If I’m that tired why don’t I sleep?  A million dollar question for sure. 

Earlier I turned on my phone and saw a lot of Facebook friends are up, the little green dot signalling they are online, some with different time zones so maybe it isn’t that late where they live, but others are close by. I guess we are all in the same boat, a middle of the night club of restless, middle aged, irritated and exhausted women.  I wonder if Anne is still awake, is Deborah struggling again?  We three seem to be in sync. Misery likes company, too bad we couldn’t get together, have a glass of wine and chat; be the tooth picks that hold each other’s eyes wide, instead of our own brains sabotaging and working against us. 

Well I'm now too tired and stupid to think.  I’m going back upstairs to give it another go.  The pups are probably wondering what I’m doing downstairs.  It’s almost 5:00 am; oh joy, only three hours till the alarm goes off. Time waits for no insomniac.  
 
What a tough day it will be tomorrow, circles under the eyes and that vacant stare, stumbling over words as I try to form sentences like I'm drunk, tripping over my own feet and feeling ditsy, I mean dizzy.  I won’t be behind the wheel of the car tomorrow; it’ll be Driving Miss Chrissy for hubby.  It’s zombie land all over again.   

6 Comments

Barking up the right fundraising tree!

1/10/2019

1 Comment

 
How Much Is That Doggie....?   39" x 30"  Pattern available
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​Pam Langdon contacted me a while ago to ask permission to donate her completed “How Much Is That Doggie...?” rug to raise money in support of BC SPCA.   Contrary to what some believe, what you do with a finished rug is entirely up to you.  Copying the pattern is not permitted but once it is hooked you can give it away or sell it, or donate it to a worthy cause for a fundraiser.  Of course it is expected that the designers name is mentioned, advertising keeps us in business!  I do appreciate Pam contacting me as I was delighted to learn that my pattern and her fabulous hooking were going to raise money for a worthy cause. 

Pam wrote:  ​I have just finished hooking "How Much Is That Doggie...?" and love the piece.  It makes me smile each time I look at those beautiful creatures. Your brilliance shines through! The reason for touching base is that I'm wondering and hoping you would give your support if I take a slight bend and search for additional donation options. I am new to Vancouver Island and while I am whole-heartedly in support of the Humane Society, knowledgeable people and rug hookers tell me that the piece will not likely draw sufficient dollars.   Therefore another option I'm currently looking at is a Silent Auction in support of a much needed Hospice House for the Cowichan Valley where I am now living.  The Gala and Silent Auction will take on November 3.  Last year it raised $130,000.  Could you kindly let me know if you are supportive of my seeking other options beyond the Humane Society and Hospice should either of those not come to fruition?

​My husband and I moved from Ottawa to Mill Bay, BC last June so that we could be nearby our son, our daughter-in-law, and 18 month old grandson. We thoroughly love the opportunity to be with our family and our life on the Island.

I am a certified Ontario Hooking Craft Guild rug hooking teacher, and a Fibre Arts graduate (traditional rug hooking) St. Lawrence College, Brockville Ontario. Slowly but surely I am making rug hooking connections in our new surroundings and at the end of April will be presenting the Compelling Art of Maud Lewis at the Annual Thetis Island Wool Gathering. This presentation is based on a Mad For Maud course that I teach.

Update:  Great news from Marnie Watkin, Co-founder, Purica Foundation in Duncan, BC who generate charitable donations, fundraising initiatives and promotional support for key community initiatives.  This year the recipient of their donation was the much needed Cowichan Hospice House Project in Duncan, BC on Vancouver Island.

At the Havana Nights Gala Event and Silent Auction in Duncan on November 3rd, our collaboration “How Much Is That Doggie...?” raised $550.00 for said Hospice.

I am delighted that together we contributed towards this worthy cause.  Thanks you very, very much!  It has been a great journey with you across the miles. 
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Sincerely Pam Langdon
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New patterns and items at the studio...

1/9/2019

1 Comment

 
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Two more fun pillow top patterns.  LOVE YOU MORE!  Hooked by Anne Holmes. 
​Pillows are 18" x 18" 
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We now have an awesome colour photo of our hooked William Morris Strawberry Thief Pillows.  18" x 18"   Beautifully hooked by Marilee Pearson. 
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Why buy an entire skein when you only need a small amount of a particular colour.  We now have 1 0z skeins of dyed yarn for your punch needle and hooking projects.  
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William Morris Owl  18" x 18"
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William Morris Trellis 18" x 18"
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William Morris Seaweed Large   28 1/2" x 40 1/2"
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Vintage Vogue 35 1/2" x 22"
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Teddy Pair 19" x 25"

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Lots of new scissor  bling.  Special on...buy a pair of scissors sand get a scissor bling 1/2 price!  
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Blackburne Botanical  25" x 35"

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Village Vantage 31" x 22"
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Art Deco-rative 33 1/2" x 52"
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Serendipity 34 1/2" x 53"
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Wisdom & Grace 30 1/2" x 47"

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Fancy Fibers Galore!  $5.95 a bundle
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The art of thoughtful gift giving......

1/8/2019

24 Comments

 
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At a hook in a few months back, the gals were all reminiscing about toys they’d manage to save from their childhood.  They recanted tales of favourite dolls and various toys being handed down and the joy they continue to bring.  

Sadness descended and I swallowed a growing lump as a memory surfaced of an incident that had been buried deep, so traumatic my brain had banned it to the dark cavern of thoughts and feelings of things better left forgotten. Now it was resurfacing, hauling with it all the woe and emotions of that time.   I grew very quiet, unable to speak as I swallowed hard and blinked back tears. 
 
I don’t usually speak of the estrangement from my older sister but recently a thoughtful gift from a friend helped add closure to a traumatic event of my youth. Because I find writing cathartic and healing  I decided to tap out the story on the keyboard.   I’ve written a book about my life called Burnt Carrots, and this incident will be added to the hundreds of examples I relay about the treatment I endured at the hand of a sibling.  I realize each narrative in itself is a ‘so what’ moment, but gather them all together and they take on a life of their own, rich with intent, like a great big bouquet of torment.   

Very little good remains from my childhood;  the negative stuff forced the happy moments through a mental shredder.   I was a pathetic little person; naive to a fault, impressionable and effected by every bump and grind along the path of my youth.  If self-esteem was a foundation, my house would have crumbled like bread without gluten.  As a child I felt unloved and even worse, unworthy of it. 

Memories are fragmented as I toil to put together the pieces, and one by one they surface and take their place in the puzzle of my life.  Sometimes when the pieces emerge, the emotions of that time come with them and sadness consumes me.  But sorrow aside I embrace each memory to better understand my adult self, realizing why I react to situations the way I do, how I sometimes feel the way I do, why negatives can sometimes outweigh the positives.  

I suffered low self-esteem from a bullying older sister that never liked me since the day I came home from the hospital.  I’ve thought about our relationship, or lack of a lot and spent a good patch of time and money with a psychologist trying to come to grips with why she didn’t like me even though she professed too. It is true that actions speak louder than words, and enough has happened that I was forced to accept the undeniable truth.   My mental health practitioner  told me to run and never look back, that my sister was toxic to my well-being; she told me the situation was hopeless as long as she wasn't willing to change.  She said that DNA wasn’t a good enough reason to build a relationship on, that I need to cut my losses and stop analyzing each event hoping for a different result.  She said the patterns were carved in granite, they would never change.  I understood what she was saying but misguided loyalty wouldn’t let me walk away.   Gutless to the bitter end to stand up for myself, it would take one last disturbing incident to bring things to a head and force me to face the ugly truth and when I reached my fifties that moment came crashing down and I knew we were over.   
 
I truthfully can’t remember one nice thing she ever did for me, any kindness she afforded me, any conversation that wasn’t loaded with judgement, criticism or a backhanded comment, “You don’t look fat in that outfit” kind of thing, offering any understanding or compassion for periods of my life when I struggled, my side of any story was never considered.  I was condemned unjustly and unfairly, without any provocation. Instead of trying to understand my situation or how I felt I was labelled a black sheep and slapped with a big proverbial scarlet letter.  
    
One year when my husband was out of work and I was ill from Environmental Sickness, I suffered from allergies to all man-made products, perfumes and heavily scented items which would have limited my ability to go into shops even if we had money to spend.  There was nothing extra for luxuries, like eating out in restaurants or buying presents.  When Christmas loomed that year I told my sister that we could not afford to exchange gifts. It was met with disdain, no understanding at all for our predicament and later I was told that she had spoken with my brother and they both agreed, and this direct quote was burned in my brain, “Christine, we think you’re ruining the family!”  It was hurtful that our plight offered no sympathy and that I was pitted as an outcast that didn’t care about family values.  It wounded me but I let it slide in her presence, I had been conditioned to avoid controversy with her, I never fared well when I talked back or tried to explain myself, but I later cried in my husband’s arms. 
    
In my formative years and beyond, my sister physically abused me and at four years her junior, the scales were always tipped in her favour.  I was kicked and slapped, and battered with unkind names, the latter of which inflicted the deeper wound.    Nasty nicknames and mean words hurt more than bruises, leaving their mark long after the black and blue faded.  Compared to her, I was very small in stature and less developed emotionally, so I faded into the background like a proverbial shrinking violet.  
 
There was collateral damage from my lack of self esteem. Believing I was unlikable, I tried to buy the attention of the kids in the neighbourhood with whatever I had to offer so they would play with me; akin to tying a pork chop around my neck to get a dog to lick me.  Be it Barbie doll clothes or marbles, they were bribes given to promote relationships, upping the ante to make myself more appealing.  My mother was frustrated with me, canting a broken record of “Christine, you’ll give your arse away”’ and as  a teen I did that a few times as well, desperately seeking someone to love me. Luckily I got over this early or perhaps my becoming a hooker would have taken on another meaning entirely.   

Throughout my childhood I’d never connected with my family, my sister’s hostility and my parent’s indifference left me outside looking in, unloved and misunderstood, and I struggled with it over most of my adult life, sometimes even now.  It’s probably the reason I trust to bury my heart in the companionship of dogs; their love is undeniable and true, without judgement or agenda.  That is why losing one is like losing a part of my soul.   

Memories aside, the tangible items of my childhood were lost;  either broken and discarded or given away, with the exception of one coveted toy; my beautiful Baby Magic doll.  She was created in 1966, had the ability to drink water from a bottle and would then cry real tears!  I just turned seven when Santa left her under the tree and there were squeals of delight when I found her Christmas morning.  She was the perfect gift for a budding little mother like me, desperate for something of my very own to love and even though she was an inanimate object, I felt loved in return.  I no longer felt alone.  

My baby had the prettiest dress.  The yolk was red with little white bows with a pleated white skirting.   The top of her head sported a red bow, crowning her silky, flaxen hair that framed the most beautiful, sweet face.  Santa was magnificent that year and left a wooden crib as well, a cream coloured bed that perfectly fit my baby and it had a satin edged, luxurious white blanket and a small pillow for sleeping comfort.  Her little hands were shaped to hold her bottle and she could lift her arms to insert it into her mouth.  When I pushed her arms down a big pout formed on her lips and she’d cry, tears from the water bottle finding their way to the manufactured tear ducts.   I’d rock her gently and coo to her and as I lay her in the crib, the horizontal positioning would automatically close her eyes for sleep.  When I picked her up, long, dark eyelashes would flutter at me then open and she would stare into my eyes.   She was marketed ‘The best doll ever invented’ and although was minus the heartbeat and warmth of a real child, she was my baby in every sense of the word, and it really hurt to discover the terrible ending that befell her. 
  
I loved playing mother and I doted on my baby as much as any child can.  The fact that she wasn’t real saved her many times as feedings were occasionally forgotten, after all my maternal sophistication was on par with the doll itself, but I tried my very best, positioning her crib next to my bed so her darling little face was the first thing I greeted each morning and the last thing I tucked in at night before I crawled under the covers.
  
Somehow, I managed to keep her in pristine condition, washing her face and combing her hair, giving her sponge baths and wrapping her in a terry towel that had a little pocket for her head.  I talked and cooed to my ward, loving her with my entire heart as any good mom would do.  Someday I hoped to give her to a daughter, or if that didn’t transpire perhaps a grandchild, but even if that never came to pass, she would have remained for my pleasure, a tangible link to the younger self that began my life and perhaps someday, if senility reverted me to childish ways, we could start anew.   
 
Sometime in the middle seventies, I asked my sister if I could store my doll and crib in her attic which she assured me was dry and safe from rodents.   Someday when I had a home of my own I’d collect her, the only piece of my childhood that I could literally revisit.

Years later on a random visit to her home, who by then had two daughters aged three and four and a house full of books and toys, the living room carpet rarely seen from the multitude of them, I nearly fainted when my niece came around a corner holding what remained of my Baby Magic. 

The doll was almost unrecognizable, filthy and naked.   Her hair had been butchered with scissors and what remained was sticking out in all directions in short, needle like sprigs around bald patches where clumps had been yanked out.   There were markings on her face and every square inch of her body was doodled on, senseless scrawling’s of a child.  I can’t remember if it was marker or pen but that’s of little consequence now.  The point is my Baby Magic was a virtual mess; a far cry from the immaculate, treasured doll of my youth.

I was shocked and speechless, my tongue almost numb.  When I finally formed words I asked my sister, “Why did you give my doll to your girls?”  She was belligerent mostly, told me that her girls saw it and wanted to play with it.  I should have asked how a four year old and a toddler climbed up a skinny ladder to the small ceiling opening of their attic to even see it.  And I had my doll wrapped in the blanket and then well taped plastic to protect her, not even recognizable as a doll in the first place.  

A whipped personality, I was never quick on the draw with words in a crunch, although I’m fabulous thinking up stuff to say later when it’s too late to be on point. The conversation was tearfully blubbering, my tears and my blubbering.  Apparently the crib didn’t stand up to the rigors of small children jumping in and out of it so that ended up in the furnace, kindling for their fire.   

I managed “But it wasn’t yours to give”.  She shrugged her shoulders and basically said “tough” and something about possession being nine tenths of the law.  The look in her eyes was pure defiance as they challenged me to continue.  Standing up to her was never an option, I’d learned over the years she could be cruel when the chips were down.  Unlike me, she was never short on words in a pinch and if I hadn’t been her main target, I might have marveled at how quick on the draw she was.  Her words cut sharper than knives, slicing and dicing my feelings with Ginsu precision. Without any backbone to put forth a case for my doll, I did the only thing I was capable of, I stood there and cried, not just sniffling with a few tears,
but convulsive, gut wrenching and wailing cries.  She could see how upset I was but there was no warmth in her demeanor.   Per the usual, there would never be any sympathy, explanation or an apology.  
  
I left her house and the road ahead was blurry through my tears, but by the time I reached home I was already turning this latest pain inward, blaming myself in pure Christine fashion.  I shouldn’t have trusted her, experience told me I couldn’t.  I should never have left something so precious in her care.  This was her typical behavior when it came to me.  I was never more than a piece of sand under her eyelid, deserving about as much consideration as the grain that caused the irritation. 

I was absolutely heart broken and yet, still unwilling to accept that another defining moment was begging me to wake up and acknowledge that my feelings meant very little to her.  Foolishly it would take fifty years to finally break the cycle of disrespect and walk away, closing the door on us and leaving most of the baggage on the outside of the door.   I didn’t escape totally unscathed, a list of mental scars will take more time to fade, but I felt lighter separated from all the proverbial bags that she’d stuffed with contempt to bulging proportions......    
 
 
.........So back to the present day. 

December ushered in my 60th birthday.  I’m a stronger person now, no longer willing to share my time or life with anyone that doesn’t have my best interest or show me respect.  It’s been a rough road, many shit storms have tried to dismantle my well-being but I’ve persevered and continued to grow in the warmth and kindness of those who genuinely care for me.  Life is too short and getting shorter all the time to waste on anyone or anything that doesn’t positively add to my life experience.   

I went to work on my birthday, Tuesday December 18th, and little did I know how the day would unfold.  Deborah Sweet had a Christmas present for me and said it arrived in the mail the day before so she decided to give it as a birthday gift as well.  I’m shy opening presents in front of people, I’ve been like that forever, I suppose it stems back to my lack of self-worth as a child, but I persevered, tore open the wrapping and was thrown for a loop.

My jaw dropped and hung like a brick as I could barely believe my eyes.   My chest convulsed and grew tight as I tried to suck in air.  Like a glass filling up and overflowing with water I could feel the blood rise to my cheeks, burning as it traversed and filled the blood vessels.  The tears welled up and I spun around to hide the raw emotion, but there was no holding back, like a damn breaking, salty tears splashed down my face.  I cried as the past memory and hurt rose to the surface, overflowed and then washed away in one felled swoop.  Like a flash flood, the waters filled the hole of my long ago heartache and then retracted, taking with it the pain that was stored there, a cleansing in its wake.    

Inside the box was a Baby Magic doll that she’d found on EBay. I’d told her the story of my memory the day after the hook-in, the emotion on my sleeve must have planted a seed.  How can I ever express enough of a thank-you for her thoughtfulness and her kindness?  She presented me with the top gift of my lifetime, not just a tangible item but a healing as well.  

Although she looks exactly the same, this Baby Magic is a miniature of the doll I had as a child which is even better.  She fits perfectly on the nightstand beside my bed. I can once again see her every morning and she will be the last thing I see as I turn out the light at night.  She is perfect in her little dress, and those beautiful eyes seem to stare at me from the past, linking me to the younger version of myself.   
 
As gifts go it I don’t think my Baby Magic could ever be topped.  Thank-you to Deborah Sweet, you really are your namesake.  

24 Comments

The dying art of polishing silver.....

1/7/2019

15 Comments

 
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I managed to do a bit of writing over the holidays but never posted them as blogs.  Christmas is now dismantled and packed away in the attic, our company has left and New Year’s is in the rear view mirror.  The holidays can feel like running a marathon, so much squeezed into every day until it bulges at the seams but now life is back to a normal routine and the days are jogging along at a leisurely pace. 

Written in December. 

The Christmas season doesn’t begin until I complete a holiday ritual; polishing the family silver. Lots of little things like, candy bowls, vegetable dishes, a cruet, candle stick holders, and last but not least, my coveted tea set.  Every year I tackle the tarnish and make it all shine as brilliantly as the day it was manufactured.

When I say family silver, I mean in the immediate sense.  None of this collection is of heirloom status from either my husband’s or my lineage.  The tea set is the closest at qualifying as a family treasure, it came from my mother-in-law who was bequeathed it by a friend who passed away, while all else came from yard sales and antique stores.  I bought all of my so called heirlooms, back in the day when I became breathless every time I spied a piece dangling a price tag, sitting unwanted, unloved and tarnished.  Driving by a road side table, my trained eye would spot metal glinting in the sun and I’d risk whiplash braking to a stop.   

I’m well known for my polishing and every year we spent visiting my in-laws, Wynn and I would rescue the tea set from the back of her linen closet and I’d rub it affectionately to a mirror finish.  She would let it sit out until the dulling crept over the surface like a dense fog, then pack it away to await my return.   She saw the lust in my eye as I charmed the beauty to the surface, saw me wipe away the drool and graciously offered it to me when she downsized to assisted living.   I’d already purchased a set decades before but it was plain in design and was immediately stashed in a cupboard to make room for my new, fabulously ornate, almost family heirloom.  My new Precious! 

The week before Christmas, while traditional holiday tunes played in the background, three hours melted away along with the tarnish.  I use Silvo and Twinkle.  I prefer the latter, water based product but the Silvo is needed for the stubborn areas and then Twinkle cleans it up nicely.    By the end I was feeling it all over, the standing, the bent posture, the elbow grease sawing back and forth, rubbing with puckered fingers even with gloves on.  By the time I was at the last piece, the coffee pot, I was whining like a bad bearing on a motor and wanted it to be over, my enthusiasm was the only thing that remained tarnish.   

I’ve made up a name for my affliction, ‘Crow Syndrome’. Not sure when or why it began, I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but from a young age I liked shiny things and it grew with me until I had the income for it to burgeon into an obsession.  Those days are over of course; I can’t get excited over derelict silver offered for sale when I already have too much that will need to be reckoned with.    

I’m thinking my polishing days might be ending or maybe I should play it a bit smarter by bagging it up after the holidays so it doesn’t oxidize to the degree I feel like its scraping paint with a tooth pick.  All those little bits around the handles and engraved pattern take a lot of rubbing to remove the hardened charcoal patina, the result of sulfur in the air combining with the silver to create what’s called Acanthite.   I’ll probably keep the tradition going, I like a sparkling house during the holidays, but it sure would be nice to only do a light touch-up next December.   Leaving it all out to turn an iridescent black and blue seems unfair, forcing it all to be ugly ducklings, when they should be swans to behold.    

Another thought surfaced as I rubbed my fingers into cramps, there is no one coming after me that will continue the tradition.  When I’m gone, it will all be sold for a pittance or discarded along with the rest of my treasures.  Unfortunately, although the pieces have the potential to live for many more years, these beauties are cursed by my mortal life span and then it’s toast for us both.   I’m a dying breed.  The masses don’t want or appreciate silver or the maintenance that comes with it, only freaks like me.   

I don’t want to dwell on the inevitability of my death or the fate of all the stuff I’ve collected and cherished and surrounded myself with.  Now I’m blasé about it all, even begrudging the care and upkeep, I’d rather be doing something creative and fun.  The plan is to get rid of it in yard sales; maybe I’ll find a kindred spirit, cause a near crash for someone else on the hunt for the Precious!  Surely there are a few old souls left, suffering Crow Syndrome that still appreciate the formalities of past grandeur in the dining room.  
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