Blog Archives

Fearless Fiz.....

7/31/2015

Have you ever felt the pit of your stomach rise to the back of your throat? Has your heart ever raced and pounded in your chest so loud that it drowned out all else around you? Has a thought so terrible that’s beyond comprehension flooded your mind until you’re fallen into a pit of despair? That was me Thursday evening.

We went sailing with friends and rafted up with another Nonsuch for a dinner on the water offshore of Bachman’s Beach. Our pups were running back and forth the two boats with not a fear among them. Poodles are water dogs and have webbed feet so we aren’t overly concerned if one falls in the water. We would crawl naked through fire to save them and to date we haven’t had any near misses. We plan to get netting to surround the boat along the stanchions but until that happens we watch them closely. They never stray far from mom as I seem to be the center of their universe.

We broke bread on our boat and then went to the other one to have desert. We dined and socialized until the sun sank behind the horizon.   It was a beautiful night, a bit cool but extremely comfortable. Mary sat up in the bow wrapped in polar fleece, watching the Mahone Bay lights grow closer while the moon illuminate our way. We both motored home and it was late when we moored.

Gregg rowed our guests to shore while I cleaned up. Our tender is small and will only hold so many people, pups and picnic coolers at one time. When he came back to the boat we puttered a bit, not wanting to leave our Sea Cottage. There weren’t any mosquitoes out last evening so that made it even harder to leave. If not for the fact that we didn’t have jammies and dental floss and tooth brushes we might have stayed put for the night.

We turn on the stereo system and we listened to wooden boat songs while we worked. At some point I realized that Fiz wasn’t with us. We looked for her in the spots she likes to sleep but she was not below. I rushed up on deck and did a quick scan and started calling her name.   It was dark up there without lights in the cockpit area but enough moonlight to see she wasn’t there.   I grabbed a flashlight and went to the bow while Gregg shined his on the water to the sides and back of the boat. My heart was in my throat. My precious Fiz might have fallen off and was either swimming and trying to stay afloat or had drowned. I saw a mound and my heart sank but on closer inspection it was a large patch of a golden coloured sea grass floating on the water. We are calling her name and hear nothing. The night was as still as one of those snow globes you shake and watch the flakes flutter to the bottom. It was close to 1:00 am. No lights were on in the houses on shore, the water was quiet, if anyone was staying on their boat they were asleep. There wasn’t a breath of wind, the water was smooth as glass and not a car on the highway so you could hear a pin drop.

Then I heard the voice of an angel. “She’s here!”, Gregg said.   She was lying on the seat behind the binnacle, hidden from view because of the wheel and radar instruments, unconcerned that we had been calling her. She was probably watching us thinking, for goodness sake you goofs, are you blind?

Joy washed over the both of us although for me it was a slower process. I’m the queen of worry and my overactive imagination had drifted to several scenarios, all of which weren’t good for any of us.   The panic I felt was slow to leave and it kept me awake for an hour or two when we finally reached home and crawled in bed. In between beating myself up for being careless with one of the most precious babies in my life, I knew we were horseshoe lucky and mighty thankful for it.

This was an important lesson learned and happily, from a positive outcome. We are going to have to keep close eye on our Fiz. She’s fearless that one. She is the one climbing on every surface, following us everywhere we go and is the only one to attempt going up the steep companionway steps. She figured out how to do it on her own. She jumps on the aft berth mattress and then easily clears the last step to the companionway door. The rest of our guys wait to be lifted through the doorway, as they should. We will now have to watch our Miss Fiz with her independent ways.

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My hands....

7/28/2015

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My hands are sore today. They normally go through life unnoticed until I break a nail or sustain an injury, but now a constant throbbing lets me know they hang by my side. It’s uncomfortable to squeeze them tight or open flat; the aftermath of hard labour scouring the boat. I’m systematically cleaning our Sea Cottage one area at a time and yesterday was the transom.

The only feasible way to do this was to be in a dingy on the water, a rubber Zodiac, and hang on to a rope or the davits with one hand to keep from floating away while scrubbing the back end with the other. SOS pads, a toothbrush and rags with various cleaners did the trick but it was rough to keep in position as the boat shifted and heaved in the wake of passing boats. I was on my knees, back and forth on my sides, on my rump, on my back and on my stomach, whatever it took to do the job. At one point hubby snapped the below candid shot of one of many contortions.

Diesel exhaust buildup and years of grime disappeared to exhume the white Gelcoat beneath. All of the metal for the swim ladder and davits were in a sad state of rust from years of neglect and salt water. At the end of the day when I crawled on board, stiffer than a cadaver from all the bending and bowing as the boat rocked up and down, the rust was gone and the coveted sparkle remained.

Sitting in the living room this morning I examined my sore hands. They are lobsterish in colour, swollen and shiny from the abrasive cleaners and stiff from the death grip on the washcloths and rope.   There are boat bites, abraded knuckles against the metal fittings, and scratches from rubbing on the edges of brackets. They tingle and feel tight but despite their overall condition I have to marvel at their existence. They are an incredible engineering of flesh and bone, the most useful tools I use. How lucky I am to have opposable thumbs, they’ve graced me with a myriad of cleaning solutions.

My hands turned 56 last birthday so either genetics or the ravages of hard work are making them prematurely tired and worn. It seems my hands are always in water with dishes, cleaning and bathing. They are used hard but they have a lot to be happy for. They may not be model worthy but they are good solid hands, without long term aches or signs of arthritis.

My hands take scratches and cuts like true soldiers, each one leaving a mark, every scar a badge of honour. I’m proud of the hands they’ve become although they are looking a bit abused. They have wrinkles and spots some call liver, are freckled and scarred, sometimes as rough as sandpaper with not enough hand cream in the world to touch pantyhose.

My hands have caressed silk and cleaned toilets. Proud hands not afraid of a hard days toil. They are winner hands, doing work that looser hands won't do. Able hands, strong with nimble fingers. Combined, they have the strength to hold on and pull myself up but also the gentleness to clasp a loved one’s hand. They are friendly hands that wave to passersby, while driving me to destinations known.

They are talking hands that help enunciate my words, and are animated throughout a good tale. They assist directions to show the way and exaggerate size. The reach up high and scoop down low. A finger pressed against lips help to share secrets. A thumbs up confirms approval but also shows distant perspective.

My hands don’t like the heat. In the humidity of summer, they swell like boiled wieners. It’s extremely uncomfortable as if they might split from the pressure. Maybe that’s why they are so wrinkled, swelling and stretching, then looking like a Shar-Pei when deflated.

My hands love the cold. Although they appear fat and stubby in the summer they look long and lean in winter. I love my hands in the cold, they feel like cool ivory and my rings are loose fitting and swing around on the finger, when they swell sometimes I can't get them off or on. My hands like to garden; digging in the cool earth. They toil hard to reap rewards. Those same hands lovingly arrange the blooms in a vase and caress the petals.

I should wear gloves when I clean but I like to feel the cloth in my hand, touch the surface that I scour. My hands are very tactile, they like to feel what my eyes see, verify the pleasure of beautiful materials, the softness of objects and all things in nature.

My hands love to play with my hair, twirling the silky length into short spirals. They scratch my itches, swat at flies, and cradle a china teacup like a lady after piling firewood like a man.   These hands have wallpapered, stripped furniture, built window and door frames, shingled houses and roofs and painted our entire home. They love to prepare food, serve it to my plate and then to my lips. They cradle my face when I read, pluck my wiry chin and powder my nose.

In my youth my hands played guitar, making beautiful music at least to my ears. When I was sick and housebound, my hands learned to play the piano. They did the best they could but were clumsy interpreting the notes...too much delay between the brain and the fingertips, there was enough fluidity to recognize the song but the music stuttered to the tune of annoyance.

As a majorette, my hands twirled a baton in the annual parades. My hands worked the stick through my fingers and threw it in the air to be caught eight out of ten times.

My hands create art, they drew portraits and painted landscapes My hands held the brush that made my thoughts appear in oils on the canvas. They’ve designed and hooked rugs and knitted dishcloths. They've fondled exquisite beads and made beautiful jewelry. They play cards and board games, decorated cakes, carved wood and cross stitched, typed many thoughts to paper, and signed my name.

My hands washed the elderly and bathed the young. They changed diapers and burped babies. They brushed dogs and scratched bellies, picked for fleas and ticks, caressed lovers and touched the cold hands of those who have passed.

My hands are invaluable. Never magazine beautiful, they couldn't rest on their laurels. They’ve had to earn their keep with hard work....my hands have served me well.

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Organized Crime

7/23/2015

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I love the above sign, the misspelling is a chuckle for sure although shoplifting is no joke. It seems that our county has been hit by a gang of thieves. The local Chambers have warned that a group of four woman are shoplifting the stores. They range in age from 16 – 44. They are organized in that they work the sales staff, one distracts, one buys some inexpensive trinket while the other two pilfer their fancies. Pretty sleazy! They may not buy their goods but I hope they pay in others ways, let the bad karma take care of these warts on the ass of society!

As a shop we are no stranger to theft. It’s a sad part of retail that I can’t quite wrap my head around. I think if I couldn’t afford to hook I might look for other ways to be creative than run to a local shop and stuff my purse full of contraband. If anyone has to steal wool, maybe this isn’t the craft for you.

Of course not all thieves steal because they can’t afford the goods. Case and point there is a couple that come in and the wife is decked out in brand labels from head to toe. I’m sure every outfit I’ve seen had a price tag of $500- $1000. She looks like she walked off the runway and there’s no denying she has an incredible sense of style. I may be a plain Jane but I know quality when I see it! While she’s looking like a million he pockets cutter blades and goodness knows what else I may have missed before I caught on to him. Now I don’t give him the opportunity to shop lift, sticking to him like a flea on a dog, maybe the reason why he hasn’t been in for a while. I wonder if he steals because his wife bankrupts them with her shopaholic ways….but then again maybe she’s a pilfering fashionista.

I never understood the need to take something that doesn’t belong to me. Where is the pride of ownership in that? I couldn’t sleep at night. They made a mistake at the dollar store the other day and rang through one set of aluminum trays when I had three. I went back into the store to pay the $2.00 plus tax, although not much money, a heavy cost to my conscience if I’d ignored it.

Anyway, look out for the Hot Fingered Quartet. If rumours are true, they were caught in one shop in Lunenburg and had to hand over their haul. Somewhere on Facebook their pictures are circulating but I haven’t been able to find them. We are all on alert here and are offering a special for these gals, so come on down for a five finger discount and go for the grand prize draw! We are offering a lovely ride in a cop car and tour of the local police station!

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Out'n Aboat

7/22/2015

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It seems I'm lagging a bit on the blogging.  Summer is a busy time for the shop and lately my social life is blooming more than my gardens. Last night we celebrated the 60 birthday of our friend Peter with a perfect meal at a mutual friend’s house; the satay chicken with peanut sauce was a finger licking, five stars.   It was a fun evening and the megastar, after the charming Peter of course, was the divine Black Forest birthday cake. The slices were bigger than our smiles as we voraciously scraped the last crumbs off our plates.

I finished my Sail Away project and decided to rename it. A fresh new look deserves a new name. From now on it’s Out’n Aboat and we have kits ready to go. I’m happy with the colour plan, I think it will be popular with kids and the nautically inclined.   It would be sweet in a brass porthole the perfect frame for the subject matter, a trivet for a teapot or simply hung on the wall or resting on a kitchen island.   A cute little accent piece for your home or boat, adding a bit of seafaring whimsy.

Sailboats flying colourful spinnakers are commonplace in this county. Lunenburg Yacht Club has sailboat races and sometimes we see the boats from our house with all their brightly flying spinnakers across the horizon. I believe I’ve captured the Kaleidoscope of the colours of spinnaker cloth in this little 10” diameter rug. The stylized border, a cross between a life preserver and a compass pulls the same colours from the sail for a perfect blend.

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Covey Island getaway....

7/20/2015

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Our sailing getaway wasn’t quite what I'd imagined, the lousy weather could have been a killjoy but we didn't let Mother Nature derail our fun. It's always nice to have sunny weather on your only day off but it's a crap shoot and is what it is.

Leaving the harbour around 7:00 pm Saturday, there was less wind than a mouse fart and dull. Even though the water looked like glass, we put the sail up and hoped things would change. We could have motored but we weren’t in any rush and limped our way with the occasional puff. This wasn’t an evening to be somewhere fast, it was about togetherness and being in the moment. We reached Covey’s Island before dark and rafted up to a friend’s boat for the night. They came aboard after our dinner of scalloped potatoes and ham that I heated in our propane oven, another new experience for me, followed by a round of butter tarts. We played Skip Bo with our friends, a card game that lasted past midnight. It was fun sitting in our beautiful Sea Cottage, having a cold beer and playing a game as the boat rocked gently from the waves.

The sleeping quarters were very comfortable. I made up two beds. They are large enough for two people but throw in four pups our sleep is becoming compromised from all their little bodies shifting throughout the night while whoever slept on the outside fought falling out of the bed. Henri and Jake bunked with me and Fiz and Honey with daddy.   It’s usually cooler on the water even when it’s humid so my flannel jammies were perfect and the polar fleece blanket over the top sheet was cosy. The dogs slept all night long, knocked out by the fresh sea air. Like I said before, it’s the best cure for insomnia because I didn’t know a thing until morning. There were campers on the shore and I heard them hoot and holler as I drifted off to sleep, but overall it was a very quiet night’s rest.

I’d say it was a pretty relaxed belated anniversary but by mid-morning Sunday I got antsy and started thinking about getting out the polish. It’s a big boat with a lot of cleaning and I have to work in increments to allow a bit of rest in between. So I grabbed my magical products to scour and polish the gel coat inside the cockpit. Years of scuffs and yellowing are instantly gone with a bit of elbow grease behind the gritty cream. It’s a three step system, first the clean, then the polish and on top of that wax for a mirror finish. I’m at the cleaning stage of a job that will take the entire summer, hopefully my arms don’t fall off before all the polishing and waxing. It’s rough going and at times I wanted to give up as my fingers protested but I’d set a goal for one side of the cockpit seats and stuck to it even when the rain was beating on my head.

There is nothing attractive about sailing. No wonder sailors choose to pick up broads on shore, if the wenches onboard looked anything like me, it would have been the best form of birth control ever!   The air was drenched in moisture making me look like a drowned rat and it washed the makeup off my face revealing the blotching beneath. I couldn’t wash my hair because the humidity in the air wouldn’t allow it to dry it. I don’t have the luxury of a hair dryer onboard because they need 120 volts of power and the boat only has 12 volts off the batteries. We’d have to be on shore power, plugged in at a wharf to run appliances. We are able to charge the cell phone and tablet but that’s the extent of electrical products.

No one seemed to care that I looked like a bird after an oil spill. I avoided the mirror as not to frighten myself or confirm what I knew would be staring back. The harbour was quiet with all the fair weather sailors at home for the day, good for me I thought, no witnesses! We live in a small town, we know everyone and they know us, with every boat going by there is a wave and a bit of conversation. We’re like fish in a bowl for all to see. Before rowing to shore, I pulled a ball cap over my dome just in case someone caught a glimpse of me. Of course sailing in the dry, warm air is a delight. The sun kissed skin, the wild, windswept hair, a cross between Red Skeleton and Phyllis Diller but as long as it’s dry, and flying with crazy abandon I can handle it....stuck to my cranium like it’s been lubed down, not so much.

The pups are taking to the boat readily. For them, anytime they are with us is gravy. Unfortunately they wouldn’t use the pee pad so we rowed them out to Covey’s beach for bathroom breaks. They loved exploring along the shore of the island, happy to have the freedom to do a leg stretch and run. They waded in the seasonably warm water and it took hours for them to dry, so I knew my hair was never going to look anything but oily and flat. Oh well, it’s not like anyone cared. I don’t have to tie a pork chop around my neck to get a pup to kiss me and hubby seems to see what’s inside before any horror that might be happening on the surface. Shiver me timbers, thank goodness love is blind!

We motored home Sunday afternoon and sat at the mooring doing a bit more cleaning and hooking while hubby installed a new battery. The fog was rolling in and although there was a lot of wind, it was also raining. There will be plenty of time to sail in choice conditions so we don’t have to cram every minute on the water with the Dacron hoisted. Not all days will be picture perfect but what is perfect anyway? This getaway was special, time together doing what we love. What could be better?

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A "Little" getaway....

7/17/2015

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Hubby working on stuff. Cleaning a raw water strainer that picks up floating grass when cooling the engine. Not as glamorous as oven cleaning!

I hate to bombard you with stories of our boat....be assured the novelty will wear off, maybe not as fast as the skin on my knees and knuckles from all the scouring I’m doing but as in all things, I’ll reach a balance. For now the boat is new and consumes my every waking thought. It’s tough to go to work, or be at home when I want to be floating on our beautiful sea cottage.

I’m still cleaning the boat and by the looks of things that will be ongoing for some time.   Last night I was literally upside-down in the fridge compartment. It was a long way to the floor of it and friends were handy in case I needed to be hauled out, but amazingly I contorted and anchored my feet to the sink while my head and arms were pretty much at the bottom to wipe it dry after swabbing and rinsing to wash away the years of neglect.   Now it would pass a white glove test and I won’t be afraid to put food in it.   The boat comes with a large freezer/fridge compartment and then beside the sink is an ice box. We’ll probably only need to use that for overnight jaunts and I’ve been freezing Ziploc bags of water to pack it well to keep things cool. The fridge/freezer would be more useful on long hauls and apparently worked like a charm on their trip from Newfoundland.

I finished cleaning the propane stove. I’m a nerd about stainless. I like things shiny. The previous owners weren’t very kind to this stove and allowed food and moisture to sit on it so there is pitting and scratching. It’s difficult coaxing a shine from unloved metal. One of the grates was severely bent, a pot must have fallen on it and hubby managed to straighten the rod and that went a long way to help spruce it up. Of course the grates were blackened from being burned where the pots sit over the flame and that can’t be changed. I prefer a propane stove with the black metal things that sit on top of the gas vents; this one has a grill that covers the entire top of the stove to sit the pots on. Although it’s a perfectly serviceable stove and expensive to boot, I’m not a big fan because this crow has her eye on a fancy new stove I saw at the Binnacle, the dream store for boaters.   It is highly polished stainless and a window in the oven. I’ve not told hubby and it’s not feasible any time soon, but somewhere down the line I want one like it in our boat! My very own new and shiny stove to covet and clean and buff to a mirrored finish, not a grease splatter or fingerprint will remain from my diligence. When I own something I take care of it and making things shine is instant gratification for me, like polishing silver for instance, it’s almost orgasmic. As a small child, my mother called me “crow” so this obsession with sparkle has been going on for a long time, maybe from deep down in my DNA. My mother had the shine bug as well, keeping her appliances in mint condition; even pots and pans were in amazing shape for their age. Unfortunately, I’m stuck with this windowless appliance for now because the gimbaled boat stoves cost an arm, a leg and a kidney or two, but I’m going to start stashing away a few bobs here and there and in about twenty years I’ll be able to afford one just like it! A girl has to dream!

We are doing our first overnighter soon. I’ve planned the menu and will cook up a storm and pack it in containers. At this point I’m not doing any prep on board until we are set up with a full pantry of ingredients to draw from. I’ll cook at home and just reheat everything on the water in aluminum foil trays.

A Greek salad is a great traveler with lots of veggies that won’t wilt. I’m thinking scallop potatoes and ham for dinner. A ham is the perfect choice; great for sandwiches for lunch, good to fry for breakfast with eggs, and then a few slices for dinner. I like to boil the crap out of my hams so they aren’t salty and it makes the meat tender and juicy. Then I bake it basted with a glaze made of pineapple juice, maple syrup and mustard. I’m getting hungry just thinking about it! And I plan to make butter tarts for my dear hubby who is working hard cleaning and maintaining all the less interesting, although important aspects of the boat such as the engine, electrical and water system.

This weekend will set the precedent for all sails to come on how the dogs fare with their pee pad.   Hubby can always take them to shore in the tender in the morning but I hope it will work out with the pad in the cockpit before bedtime as rowing to the shore of an Island in the dark with four pups might be rough. Stay tuned for the result.

So today I need to tackle the berths. After the cleaning I’ll make up the beds with nautical striped sheets found at Costco and polar fleece bedspreads that will double for throws to keep us warm in the cockpit when sitting outside in the evenings or when sailing in cooler temperatures.   Soft and luxurious and resistant to dampness, these blankets, made from recycled pop bottles, offer the best insulation against the cold. They are a rich, yummy navy, as nautical as any blue can get.

I’m packing my hooking to bring to the boat for something to do in the evening. Our Sail Away kit needs revamping with more interesting colours so I’ll be hooking a boat while on a boat. How apropos!

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Catalyst II

7/15/2015

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I’ve been a bit of a no show lately. We’ve had company and the distraction of our new boat that arrived at the dock last Tuesday all the way from Newfoundland.

I always thought a yacht was a large, luxury vessel, a swanky, rich man’s toy, but the dictionary reads that it’s any boat, large or small of power or sail. Although the word yacht has a pretentious and boastful ring, who argues with Websters? So the Littles now have a yacht moored in Mahone Bay harbour and let me tell you, it’s the best thing since sliced bread with peanut butter and chocolate sprinkles.

The boat represents an introduction into a different life style. I feel as if I’ve been reborn as a water nymph, or maybe that’s a reberth, ha! I’ve been caught up in a vortex of bliss and having the time of my life, wired from the adrenalin rush of being on the water, the wind in my thinning hair. The fresh air is exhilarating and I’m so tired by the end of the day sleep comes on like a freight train. I would prescribe sailing as the perfect medicine for insomnia!

It’s not all glamour. I’ve been cleaning and polishing like a shine addict. The boat is filthy. On the whole everything looked normal but under and behind every locker and surface is a disaster! I lifted the floor grate in the galley last evening and almost fainted from the unexpected black grunge. I've cleaned disasters in my day but this is a supersized, pig sty. I could have used a trowel to scrape out the myriad of dirt. I don't think the poor thing was ever thoroughly cleaned. My poor little boat! By the time I’m finished my elbow grease will have scoured, polished and waxed every square inch of her beamy beauty.

We’ve had company until yesterday when we took them to the airport. It was sad to see them go, never before have I been so pampered. All I had to do was hint at something and it was done. Men were falling over themselves offering to help and I allowed them to wait on me, giving purpose to their day. I grew accustomed to seeing the backsides of men at the sink, washing and drying the dishes and tidying the kitchen. To some this may be as rare as a Bigfoot sighting, but it was a regular occurrence for the all too short week.

Hubby’s brother Terry was part of the crew that brought the boat home and I joked I’d like to adopt him, but alas, he has a wife and lots of grand-kids to go home too and I can’t compete with that. If you look up Terry in the dictionary it would say, “Smart, funny, delightfully domestic and willingly helpful”. He even piled our firewood!” Come and stay anytime.....please!...... really, when are you coming back?

There were four guys, hubby of course, his bro Terry Little who lives in Whitefish, Ontario. Peter Redden is a good bud that lives down the road and Tom Folkers came all the way from Mexico anxious to embark on a bit of male bonding and the thrill of a lifetime voyage and adventure.

And what an adventure it was. Even with a mishap or two, they managed to arrive home in record breaking time, two days before their projection. They arrived whiskery and salty to the bone, all smiles to be home in the land of sun and warmth considering while sailing the coast of Newfoundland to the Bras d’Or Lakes they wore winter coats, hats and gloves.

When pulling all-nighters, they worked in four hour shifts, one guy at the helm and one on watch all day and night. Hubby called it delivery mode, not sightseeing and dallying. When the winds were about 10 knots they killed the engine and sailed, anything under that they motor sailed. A few times they stopped at a marina along the way to refuel, pick up supplies and grab showers if a facility was available then moor for the night. St. Pierre Miquelon was a planned stop. Hubby and Peter had been there before on the Halifax to St. Pierre sailing race but Terry and Tom hadn’t so it was a must see on the way. It was the beginning of the tourist season so there wasn’t much happening; they dined on French cuisine and eager to get going set sail for the next leg of the journey.

It was a long trip for the wives. I’m a pro at being alone but the other gals found the time dragged being without their better halves. That didn’t mean I wasn’t bothered though…the excitement of having our boat home, so I could check her out and reap the rewards of her purpose made it difficult.

Catalyst II is her name and although I’m not totally enamoured with the cutesie cat inference and decal around the lettering, it’s growing on me. The boat we have is a Nonsuch, a catboat design that has the mast in the bow, making more room below in the cabin.   That’s the reason a lot of Nonsuch boats have feline referenced names.   I can live with it. It’s unique. Meow.....

The guys arrived home safe and sound, smelling of the sea and diesel fuel, sporting scruffy beards and tired bodies but what a sight for our sore eyes. Mary and I rushed to the wharf with her pup Ruby in tow. I’m not sure who Pete was the happiest to see, his wife or the excited pup. Spinning like a top, her tail created a breeze as it wagged for daddy.   I left my pack home to meet hubby at the door later because it was a time for the adults to gather and toast this joyful homecoming.   There were ten of us in the cockpit raising a cheer of rum, the traditional drink of the seafarer.

I didn’t waste any time checking out our new toy. We had purchased her sight unseen which is risky business. Hubby’s work schedule coincided with the time needed to do the inspection and then winter set in to bury the boat under snow.   We worried that the boat was misrepresented and not in the shape reported because we’d been down that road before. A sleazy thing some boat owners do is advertise pictures of the boat when they purchased it, so the wear and tear they piled on is a shock when you see the actual vessel. We were resigned to the fact that whatever was wrong could be fixed but hoped she was as well-kept as we were told. The surveyor said she was in good shape so as long as he wasn’t the seller’s best friend we had to take his word for it. Overall we are over the moon. There is a thorough cleaning needed and some minor cosmetics and a few parts have to be updated but she’s the boat we hoped for.   I’m now in love with another inanimate object. I smile when I drive by and see her bobbing up and down on the mooring. That’s excitement to see me!

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The third installment.....rugs for all seasons!

7/9/2015

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Jean Wentzell has a special place on one of her walls to hang a rug. She decided to do seasonal pieces that she can change to reflect the time of year. So far she has completed the fall, Patches and winter, Winter Games. It's easy to think Christmas when considering a design for winter but she requested that I design it whimsical and about the season, not just the holiday.

Featured is the spring installment called First Signs and Jean is currently hooking it. The big screen door makes a perfect border, framing an outdoor scene of the garden where robins socialize around the bird bath. A picket fence separates the sky from the ground adding a point of interest in the middle of the design to merge the two. There will be a lot of green in this piece; the tree leaves, the bushes, grass and daffodil and tulip leaves, a challenge but with varying depts and mixtures of colour with a sprinkle of texture it will be outstanding.

I love this project. Seasonal rugs barely hit the floor when they have to be taken up. This way there is always one in play for viewing and becasue they hang on the wall they will provide many years of enjoyment. Jean has started the one for Spring and will be finished in plenty of time for the season. Next will be a summer design with all the fun and beautiful possibilities this season explores. Stay tuned!

Patches hooked by Jean Wentzell

Winter Games hooked by Jean Wentzell

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Heat and humidity, a miserable duet....

7/7/2015

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Yesterday you could have fried an egg on my thigh and that’s certainly not the sizzle appeal a woman wants. My hotness was due to the blisteringly heat and humidity of summer. It came on like a Mack Truck out of nowhere. Too much too soon. The air was thick with moisture, like having a warm, wet towel wrapped around your entire body while trying to breathe through the weave. Even after a refreshing shower I was instantly sticky once back outside. I could barely breathe through the film of heat that coated my skin like Saran Wrap. I tried to garden but the water dripped from my brow and I felt dizzy. I was soaked and suffocating by my own sweat.

This gal is not a sun worshiper. You will never see me laying on a beach or sitting outside on a lawn chair unless I’m under a canopy.   I’m pasty white for all seasons, somewhere between a cadaver and a bed sheet. It’s not so much that I dislike a tan; I can’t bare the heat on my skin. It burns me and I can't breathe. It feels like the world is closing in on me. If there’s a breeze, a slight movement of air to flow over my skin, I can go outside and manage without losing my cool, but when there’s high temperatures and humidity, it kills me. Like daylight to a vampire, I hide inside, shut the windows and draw the curtains.

Before, when it stayed hot for days and weeks, the upstairs of our house was unbearable. Every room has a ceiling fan but they don’t cool the air, they just whip it around making our moisture clad bodies feel slightly cooler as the perspiration evaporates. Turn the fan off and the heat closes in like a thief in the night, stealing your very breath away. I know we all get hot, I see hubby glistening from perspiration, but he never seems to mind, he says it doesn't bother him.    I joke that maybe in a previous life, I was burned at the stake as a witch, or buried alive before embalming assured you were dead. There has to be some reason for why I panic when I get over heated.

Without air conditioning the pups could never sleep in deep heat and humidity.   The poor babies would twist and turn trying to find comfort, so I can’t imagine what a dog locked in a hot car must go through. It’s the stuff of nightmares! Even when I used to wet their paws and stomachs so they could lay with their little legs up for the ceiling fan to beat air down it was only a temporary reprieve until the hair dried. I had a table the same height at the foot of the bed so they could drink from their water dish when needed. It was nasty, fitful nights of panting and heavy breathing for us all. Even a window fan gave little comfort when the air outside was only a few degrees cooler than inside. Sometimes when it was really bad we slept downstairs on the floor.

Luckily we no longer have to suffer inside the house. The heat pump we put in a few years back has been worth every dollar and then some. Now we are able to sleep without gasping for breath.   My pups don’t know how lucky they are, they’ll sleep easy without a care in the world. We bought a double split, one unit for the downstairs and one for the bedroom so we have comfort on both floors.

I’m what I call a “cool air jumper’. When I have to work I begrudgingly leave a comfortable house to run to the oven on four wheels. I dash as if the sky is falling to escape the sun beating down on me.   A closed up vehicle baking in the sun is a sweltering hell.   I turn the key and open the power windows and sun roof to expel the pressure built in this metal and rubber cooker while fiddling with the air conditioning buttons before I suffocate.  I’m gasping for cool air and sweating bullets, my hair sticking to my head and damp clothing hugging my body; so much for the shower and ironing my shirt.

The air conditioning hums to life and cool air begins to blow through the vents. Only then will I begin to calm. I’m dry by the time I reach my studio but the fifteen second dash to the shop feels like the air is stealing my breath away. Sadly, this oppressing humidity is only getting started. Usually we have two weeks of this kind of weather, back to back days of wilting like an ice sculpture in the desert. Give me snow any day. Putting on a coat beats wanting to rip off my flesh to get bare to the bone for relief.   I don’t know how high the temperatures went yesterday but it was almost too much for this gal. I stuck my nose out a few times and the heat almost melted my freckles. Heat and humidity, you're a miserable duet…

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Ticked off!

7/6/2015

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(I’ve mentioned dog poop and anus today, so if you don’t like this kind of talk, don’t read.)

I came home from work Saturday and took the pups out to play catch. They run around wildly chasing a ball, with tongues hanging and smiles split from ear to ear. If anyone says a dog doesn’t smile, drop by the house and I’ll prove you wrong.

Henri, Honey and Jake are ball crazy. The happily play together and whoever gets the ball first is then chased back to me so I can toss it out again.   Fiz, is more of a one-on-one girl, she will chase a toy and bring it back but not play with the pack. I think when she was a pup she got trampled in an avalanche of legs as they all scrambled for the ball. She’ll chase me around the yard when I engage her but mostly she hangs around my legs, sometimes with her feet in the air waiting for me to bend down and scratch her belly. So true to form she did and that's when I felt a tiny bump around her neck. That groan moment when you think a tick might be sucking away at your baby’s blood, growing obnoxiously fat and about to pump disease into its host, the ungrateful parasite that it is.

Sure enough, It was a tick, a very small one so probably the deer type, the kind that carry disease. Over the years, I’ve found the best way to pull off a tick intact is with my fingernails and a quick tug. They don’t know what hit them so they don’t have the time to regurgitate their stomachs into your pet.   The vets don’t recommend it but I’ve never left a body part behind. I know there are all kinds of gadgets to remove ticks, several are in the drawer upstairs, but truthfully, what works best is my fingernails. So I yanked the bugger out, he must have been recent because it wasn’t very bloated and didn’t leave a red mark.

I’m a self-proclaimed, mighty flea and tick hunter. I'm like a baboon digging and checking for bugs. I don’t spray or give any pills or liquids to my babies, so it’s down to lots of handling. Every morning I feel their ears and head, and give them a total body massage to detect any telltale lumps. My fingers are as adept as any braille reader, I can feel the slightest change, almost like the princess and the pea. My fingers float gently over their skin and sometimes I’m fooled momentarily by a tight curl but if there’s a freeloader on any one of my babies, I find it!

The same goes for fleas. Unusually my dogs don’t scratch themselves so if one starts I’m on them immediately. If I find one then I start my routine of checking twice a day. Each dog has a different area where a flea loves to dine. The best time to check is right after a pee as soon as they are inside. We have a routine they seem to like. I say “it’s flea time” and one by one they jump up on the sofa and flop on their back to expose their soft bellies. If a flea recently jumped on board, that’s where they hang.   I kid you not, my babies know what I’m looking for....and when I find one its crushed between my thumbnails and I let them smell it. They know mommy is saving their hide from being nibbled.

If Henri has a flea they are usually on his head so I look for the telltale droppings. Sometimes it’s just a bit of dirt from outside but to be sure, I put it on a wet Kleenex and if it leaves a red stain, its blood from flea poop. Then I go hunting! And no hair is left unturned until I find my prey. They can be elusive and constantly on the run, staying one step ahead of me especially in the hairy thicket of Henri’s coat, but I eventually cross paths and bam! At least while they are fleeing....pardon the pun, they aren’t stopping to take a bite. There might be a small part of me that enjoys the hunt, I’ll spend hours going over them with a fine toothed comb, literally. When I find one it's a tiny adrenaline rush, the reward for all the picking. There have been times I stayed up until two or three in the morning because a flea eludes me. I can't go to bed and sleep knowing there's a parasite chewing at my baby. Fleas can create Flea Allergy Dermatitis from their saliva so allowing them to roost on your pet can be detrimental.

With Honey they are always on her belly, they hang where her umbilical cord would have been and Fiz, they like her back just above her tail. Jake is black haired and black skinned along his spine so they are harder to find on him but usually they race across his belly to escape the bristles when I brush his back. When I find a flea I act fast and rub my fingernail over it a couple of times to immobilize it. I don’t press too hard or it would hurt the pup, just a gentle scrape and they don't seem to mind. The flea tries to get away but after a few scrapes it slows to a crawl or stops moving, and then I am able to squeeze it between my thumbnails. Game over. I don’t believe in killing natures creatures big or small, but anything sucking the blood of my babies sure makes me a hypocrite. Besides, if you don’t get a flea infestation in check quickly, the house will become overrun with them. Luckily I’ve only found one flea in well over two years, probably picked up while on a walk downtown and annihilated swiftly.

Back to the arachnid. Even though they say it’s a bad year for ticks and with four pups that should up the odds of finding them, fortunately occurrences are few and far between. Maybe they don't like the cool breeze off the ocean, we see fewer black-flies because of it. Maybe it's because I don't allow the pups to wander into tall grasses or near wooded areas, but when it happens I usually find them quickly. Only a couple of times I’ve been fooled. They latched on in places I don’t touch, like the one on the rim of Fiz’s anus. As she walked away from me I spied what I thought was a willnot (you know, a piece of poop that will not fall off), went to wipe it and realized it was a supersized tick, so big it was about to explode. It had to be there for a few days and as I flushed it, I admired its tenacity for being able to hang on during her squats in the back yard. Knock on wood, nothing ever came of it. None of them have displayed any signs of Lyme’s disease so my diligence is paying off.

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Free Shipping!

7/3/2015

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A belated Canada's Birthday sale and to celebrate
the American July 4th holiday!
(shipping to the US and Canada only)

Free shipping on all orders over $50.00

Spend over $200.00 and receive a free gift!

Note: Excludes rug hooking frames

Friday July 3rd and Saturday July 4th!

Place a PayPal order off the website by clicking this link Contact Us
or
phone toll free 1-855-624-0370!

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Never a dull moment!

7/2/2015

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The subject of tonsils was recently brought up which reminded me of this tale.

If you ask any child what they remember about getting their tonsils out they'll probably say "the ice-cream!". Well I don't recall being offered any and my experience didn’t have such a happy ending.

I was about 28 when my tonsils came out. Bad smells and pockets of white bits that smelled like a cadaver took up residence in my mouth was putting a crimp in my love life. Constant complaining got me scheduled for surgery and I was on the way to the hospital.

Back in the day you had to report for surgery the day before so I arrived, suitcase in hand for an overnight stay. Waiting in a hospital is a pin in the eye experience, the hours drag. I had a book and I napped a bit and made a few trips to the cafeteria for snacks. That was about all the excitement until they called on me for my Barium swallow test. They wanted to have a look at my throat to check for pockets. Some people have areas in their throat that collect food. The food lays around rotting, stinks up the place until it dissolves and goes away. They thought I might have one or two as I complained about feeling bits in my throat after eating hamburger, a crumbled meat that might have gotten stuck in there and I was constantly hammering on about bad smells. The barium would have filled the cavities and showed on an x-ray. At that time they didn’t believe the smell was coming from the tonsils. It I had any of these pouches they would have fixed them while cutting out the tonsils.

So I’m down in what seemed like the basement waiting for my name to come up for the test. One by one the people waiting went in for whatever test they would scheduled for until it came down to two of us, me and an old man in a wheelchair, bent over like a folded book. He never raised his head off his knees. He looked miserable, I wondered what illness had crushed his spirit.

My name was called and I go in. So I’m asked to take off my jammies and put on the ever-degrading Johnny shirt and scoot up on the bed. I do this without question, I was taught to obey but in my mind, having to change clothing just for a white liquid to be swallowed seemed a waste of time. So I am watching her prepare this strange piece of equipment with a long tube and I’m beginning to wonder what I was in for. She approached the bed and told me to roll over on my side and asked “Did they give you an enema? “No” was met with a disapproving, wrinkled nose. Always shy and quiet, I asked in a mousy, barely audible voice, “Why do I need an enema to have my tonsils out?”

Surprised, she said, “Tonsils?” Then added, “I have you down for a Barium Enema”   I was thinking, “wrong end” and said, “No, I think it’s supposed to be a Barium swallow test looking for pouches in my neck”.   It turns out, the poor older gentleman in the waiting room was supposed to be “cheeks up” not me. So I was given the Barium orally, that vile, chalky white liquid, had the x-ray and got out of there. So I figured great, what else can go wrong?

I’m in a ward because they didn’t have any private or semi-private rooms available. There was only one person in the room with me, a woman about my age who was obviously knocking on deaths door.   She was in terrible pain, singing a mournful tune with a chorus that went on and on. Cancer I thought, what else could be so awful? She was wheeled in a couple of hours after I arrived and the nurses checked on her constantly, so it had to be bad, very bad.   The woman was too ill to press the button for help, so several times I paged the nurses to come in to clean up after the latest wave of nausea. They left her a bed pan but she would miss it every time sending a shower of blood all over the floor. The spray of red contrasted the pale green tiles; it looked like a crime scene of a brutal murder. The nurses would come in, pull the privacy sheet, clean her up and take away the soiled bed linens and Johnny shirt.

Around the fourth time she was sick, I went out to the nurse’s station to tell them their services were needed once again and with the gravest of looks I asked if she was dying, after all I should know being in the room with her, what if she croaked right in front of me? The nurse sort of smirked, and explained that no she wasn’t dying, she had her tonsils out this morning.

I never saw that coming and the look on my face must have been precious.    She explained that adults suffer more than children who seem to breeze the procedure.

Well that was eye opening and a cause for concern. Not only did I not want to suffer, I sure as heck didn’t want be emptying bloody stomach contents all over myself. I was determined that this wouldn’t happen to me. The woman obviously was a wimp with no tolerance for pain, whereas I was known as a rock. I had a 12 lb. baby that was like passing a watermelon through a straw but felt no worse that the cramps of diarrhea. I reportedly sang in the delivery room, surely I could manage a little bitty operation for tonsils, the removal a small piece of skin hanging in the back of my throat. Really lady, have a bit of pride.

So the next morning they wheeled me into the operating room and the anesthesiologist started knocking me out. I was counting backwards from a hundred when my world turned black and I was gone. The operation was uneventful, my tonsils apparently were so far gone they all but fell away from the scalpel. Rotten was the word they used. Good news I thought, at least now my breath would be fresher…they hadn’t found any pouches so the only olfactory offender was the tonsils

I was wheeled back to my room. The other woman had been released so I was alone, except for the boyfriend I was seeing at the time who was there for moral support; another reason to hold it together. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for the nausea to hit. You must swallow a lot of blood during surgery that upsets the tummy and is catapulted out with projectile vengeance. My boyfriend held my hair back so I could let it fly into the pan. I was only physically sick a couple of times, but it sure was violent. There might have been moaning but at least I had better aim so I didn’t have to wear it. I know one thing; I wasn’t offered any ice-cream.

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Happy Canada Day eh!

7/1/2015

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On this 148th birthday of our country, the weather is blissfully perfect. A blazing sun and a healthy breeze are seamless for sitting on the deck, with an Earl Grey for sipping, watching the hummingbirds dart about and using binoculars to spy on the boats tacking back and forth our beautiful harbour. I’m sitting here writing waiting for the noon sun to pass, so I can work in the gardens without burning to a crisp.

This is a day to putter, pull some weeds, play with the pups, and lounge without a care in the world. Maybe I’ll hook the little snowman that’s been beckoning, or maybe I’ll nap. It’s a yawn type of day, nothing to stress over or commitment to be somewhere. Today time doesn’t matter; I won’t even look at a clock. Today is a come what may sort of day. No script or schedule to follow. The only requirement, on this festive day, is to give thanks for all the many blessings we share living in Canada.

And, within this wonderful country is our fabulous little town, Mahone Bay. We might be small geographically speaking, so much so that if you blinked while driving through it you’d miss it entirely, but in many ways we are bigger than cities. Our personality is rockstar huge. We’ve been voted, several times I might add, one of the best places in Canada to live. How prestigious is that! Even with as few as under a thousand residents we’ve made such a big impression that people want to live here! Why, our suspenders are stretched to capacity over that big ole accolade.

People make a town, not the ground, the wood or nails that hold it all together. We are a friendly lot; we love our small piece of the planet and welcome you to share it. It can’t be disputed, that’s what our signs says. “We love the beauty around us and welcome you to share it”. I’m told repeatedly from tourists who come into the shop how lovely the people are here. I’m sure there are little glitches from time to time, we can’t please everyone all the time, but on the whole we love the visitors who travel to see our quaint little harbourside town, support the many shops in the area and take home fond memories of their visit. We don’t have to be nice, we choose to be, maybe there’s something in the water but no matter the why, we welcome you to visit and we’ll show you a good time when you’re here.

I was at a shower last weekend and one of the questions posed to the bride was “If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be? Before I could check my tongue I hollered “Mahone Bay!”. It got a few chuckles, afterall most wouldn’t agree we compare to a tropical paradise, but I was serious. Really, I love this little patch of the earth. I've lived here my entire life and in my youth sometimes that was embarrassing to admit, small town girl stayed put from lack of options, but today, I stick out my chest and say, “Yup, I was born and raised here and proud of it eh! Then I throw in, “They’ll be dragging my dead carcass out of my house and planting me up yonder”.

I’m happy as a pig in a mud puddle, there’s no need for wanderlust. I say the only place on earth I would like to see and consider leaving my dogs for is Tuscany. I not sure where the appeal for Italy comes from, maybe it’s from watching the movie “Under The Tuscan Sun”, the countryside was certainly breathtaking, the relaxed lifestyle desirable. Other than that I’m perfectly happy to stay put. If I didn’t have my four fur babies, I would travel; I’m not opposed to it, it just that my babies are more important than seeing a place that will only fade from memory. My pups are my wards, I get more from them than I would seeing the world and I know when my life comes to an end, I’ll have no regrets.

I have everything I need right here, so much beauty in my life I almost feel ashamed to be this lucky. There are ups and downs, sadness, euphoria and long periods of everyday tedium, but what remains constant is the four seasons of splendour that surrounds me, a predominately safe and peaceful county where I'm awakened in the morning to the chirping of songbirds. So many others on this planet are not as fortunate. We Canadians are truly blessed.

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