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To hell and back......

9/29/2015

I’m not going to sugar coat it; I’ve been to hell and back. I hate being sick and I don't make a good patient. I have a persistent headache and feel rough around the edges so I'll try to be kind and keep the story clean but if you don’t like the word phlegm or poop, maybe you should back away from the computer. If you proceed, please excuse the ramblings of my black and blue, mucus riddled brain.

I picked up a nasty bug last week and I've felt like crap ever since. I suppose working with the public has its disadvantages when it comes to germs, but I don’t recall anyone coughing and sneezing around me so I don’t have a clue where it came from. Maybe that’s a good thing because I might seek revenge for the pain and suffering and the tragic waste of a perfectly good weekend being sick and flat on my back.

Cold germs are silent and sneaky. I probably picked it up from buying produce that someone hacked on in the grocery store. Yes, it happens, people sneeze all over the fruit and vegetables, I’ve seen it!   It seems that the younger generations don’t know about coughing into your sleeve or using a Kleenex to keep the spray in check. All I can say is wash your apples and lettuce as if they carry germ warfare cause it could take you down like big game. This thing I’ve been battling was a full on, hostile invasion from the Planet Phlegm….it’s snot a joke!

Thursday evening my throat felt scratchy and a small headache was forming. Friday morning my left nostril was plugged and dripped like a facet but I went to work, saying to myself, I’ll get over this quickly and be right as rain on Saturday.

Up until then, I’d dallied on the outskirts of sickness with unrealistic optimism, because on Saturday I walked through the gates of hell. I awoke to a full blown attack on my sinuses, head and throat. Having to work and be pleasant made it worse. Both nostrils were now plugged so I became a mouth breather, while my useless nose continued to drip. The pressure on my head felt like I was being squeezed in a vice, and my brains pounded in protest. I was on duty at the shop and on my own and I dragged my sorry carcass around, blowing my nose constantly as not to drip on the customers. I lost all the skin around my nostrils, rubbed raw by the Kleenex and my eyes were streaked with petechial hemorrhaging from all the violent sneezing. I was a sight for no eyes!

The shop was really busy; people kept flooding in the door wanting to chat about rug hooking and I did my best to look happy and helpful and I must be an incredible actress because I pulled it off. Charlene, bless her heart, happened by and helped with demos because I couldn’t have bent over the frame without getting it wet! Luckily she was there so I could run to the bathroom to brace for sneezes.

I apologized to everyone that came in, but no one seemed to care that they might be entering a petri dish so I gathered I looked better than I felt. Even though I was ready to leave at three, desperately wanting to leave at three, somehow I managed till five and then got out of there like a flash of lightening, picked up provisions at the Save Easy, went home, took the pups out to pee and then threw myself on the sofa for a nap that lasted two days.

Have you ever sneezed so much that you wet your pants? Hahaha! Funny isn’t it? Have you ever sneezed so violently that you did other things in your pants? Not so funny! I'll spare you those details but really, I felt as if I was in the boxing ring, being knocked about enough that I thought my brains would bruise or concuss as they crashed around in my skull. When that burning feeling seared deep in my nasal cavity, the warning that another bomb was rolling off the phlegm line, I prayed I’d have enough time to prepare, squeeze my buttocks and bladder tight, hold my ribs with one hand and my poor head with the other so I wouldn’t explode and fall apart.

For me, the worst thing about being sick is being alone. Sure I have my pups and they did their best to keep me warm as the chills racked my body into clammy sweats. And they were there when a fever overwhelmed me, chapping my lips as if hell fires torched them, leaving a ring of hard crusty scabs, but being alone without human company means there is no one to make a hot tea with lemon, feed the pups, pee the pups, fluff my pillow, make food and do the occasional bit of soiled laundry if you get my drift...   Life doesn’t stop while a person recovers; duties prevail, so I had to drag myself off the sofa to tend to all our needs no matter how much I wanted to rest.

You would not believe the state of the house after only three days. Every surface has a rumpled, damp Kleenex on it, dirty dishes everywhere and food left out to spoil. Now that I’m feeling better I’m not proud of my laziness but really, I didn’t give a hoot while it was all going down.    I had the big “poor me” happening, steeped in so much misery I think if the reaper came to the door I’d have flung it open and said “take me!”

I got up Monday morning and thought I would go to work. I was feeling better but there was a dry tickle setting off round after round of coughing fits. My nose was now clear but my throat was tight with sludge. It has to come up, one hack at a time, a painful process and not one to share in public, but I seemed close to 70% and was fueled by the fear of getting farther behind in my work.

I made breakfast and was almost able to taste the eggs. Not being on my feet for a few days I felt weak and maybe a little dizzy. My head still pounded although it played a duller tune. I look like hell, was rather frightened at the sight of my reflection in the mirror, so I lay back down on the sofa for a few minutes at 10:00 am and woke at 4:00 pm. Good intentions aside, my body was obviously telling me I needed more rest.

I don’t get sick often. When I had environmental issues I didn’t get a cold for almost 15 years. I was told the body won’t allow anything else to get in as it has too much to deal with so when I finally got a cold that first time it was a good sign things were beginning to perk properly. Even though I work with the public I usually don’t get anything going around, so this was a bit of an insult after all the knocking on wood and bragging, “I don’t get colds!”

I’m the chicken noodle soup momma when anyone gets sick but when I’m down for the count no one comes to my door with a pot of homemade remedy.   Shane swears my soup has healing properties, he feels instantly better after a bowl, gee wouldn’t it be nice if the soup angel visited me?    I wasn’t in any state to make soup, I’d probably fall asleep and let it boil dry.   Funny thing through, chicken noodle soup was the last thing on my mind. As I lay falling in and out of consciousness, I craved blueberry pancakes, smeared with butter and drowned in maple syrup. It nearly drove me insane with hunger. Strange food choice to yearn for when I probably couldn’t even taste them, but I would have swallowed them whole if someone served them up. Instead I ate eggs several times a day, nature’s perfect food, easy to cook and soft on the palate.

Funny what goes through a person’s head when you’re feverish? Especially dreams. I had nightmares and daymares that woke me in a state of panic, horrific things that only the realization I was safe on my sofa could clear. I won’t tell you what I experienced because that would be too awful to have out in the universe but I lay awake between each horror filled story trying to analyze why my fever-addled-brain was being so nasty to me.

So after several naps after rising this morning, I managed to get to work today by early afternoon. I’m drained inside, walk like the living dead and still hack like a sinused old man. It feels like I’ve run the phlegm gauntlet and barely made it out the other side. Yes, I do go on, it was only a cold, but it was the worst one I’ve ever experienced. There’s some nasty business going around, a less healthy person might not fare so well. From start to finish I put in a rough four days and I’m pretty stoked to be alive right now!

And if there is a positive note to this tale, I will say the timing was perfect to be sick this past weekend. This coming weekend is the Annual Scarecrow & Antique Festival and all hands will need to be on deck, perky and bright.   If it had to happen, it picked the right time and hopefully, now that it's almost gone, I’m good for the rest of the year.

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I need a buffer.............

9/25/2015

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Those that know me well know that I’m basically shy. Stick me in a situation where I know everyone I might come off as the bell of the ball, but in a group of strangers I shrink like wool in the dryer.

I’ve always been this way and will leave this mortal coil worrying about all the strangers I’ll have to meet wherever I end up. Usually I avoid large public situations like the plague. Social interaction that involves one on one conversation is my greatest fear, ironic considering I don’t have any problem one on one with my keyboard. After hello, which I’ve mastered sufficiently, I’m a fish out of water. I mumble, stutter and avoid eye contact as I try to say something profound while searching for the nearest exit.

As a small child, being a consummate day dreamer didn’t allow much for human interaction so verbal social skills were never developed. Then married at a embarrassingly early age and sheltered from anyone outside the stranger than fiction mother-in-law, also left little chance to develop socially. Party talk, light and casual banters, stuff of a bit more grist than the weather, completely shut me down.  Once I get to know you and of course if the topic of the conversation is something I am familiar with, I’m all in, sometimes to the point of not knowing when to shut up. But if plunged into a group of strangers that I share nothing in common with, I become awkward and nervous and tend to blurt out something totally off topic like, “Did you know a bot fly will find a body within seconds of it dying?” Maybe my subconscious is saying these things purposely to chase you away, like a dog barking at the window until the person walks out of sight. There’s probably a name for me, anti-social or socially arrested, the “R” word, but political incorrectness or not, I is what I is, an embarrassment onto myself. The art of conversation is just that, an art. Something fine-tuned and honed with years of practice. One usually starts with the foundation in childhood and builds the levels as the years pass. In my case, I never made it out of the basement.

I didn’t have many friends as a preschooler or through grade school, and in our house; children were mostly seen and not heard. I was a quiet little wallflower, hanging out in my own little world of make believe which has the life learning skill set of zero. I wish now I’d been more extroverted but you can’t mess with genetics or environmental conditioning after the fact, they are what they are.

I was married very young. If I use an apple analogy, I would have been in the green stage and nowhere near ready to fall to the ground. I was a child bride at 16 with the maturity of day old wine. My mother-in-law was certifiable, not any kind of social role model for me unless gossip and bingo were required. The only other outlet, other than school where I was almost mute, I worked in a fast food restaurant learning the fabulous life skills of multi-tasking and getting a meal on the table in minutes. This skill has served me well but I never leaned the art of small chat, the gift of gab to deal with the customers. Luckily they did most of the talking while I wrote down what they said. I only had to reciprocate with questions of simple word phrasing, what would you like to drink? Do you want ketchup, tartar sauce or coleslaw with that? Not exactly the basis for flowing conversation and the repetitiveness of it all left nothing new to learn from.

I’m shy, I can’t deny it. In a new situation, I need what I refer to as a “buffer”, someone to stand between me and the stranger until I’m familiar and then I’ll either do a mean dogie paddle or drown. If the conditions are right, once I gain a bit of confidence, I have no problem talking your ear off but until that moment develops, I’m as closed mouthed as a wired jaw.

So I was well out of my comfort zone, a couple of Sundays ago, when I pulled up the big girl panties and forced myself to step into a social situation that was beyond my scope. That weekend was the Annual Rendezvous for the Nova Scotia Nonsuch Association at the Lunenburg Yacht club.

My mouth was dry and my hands were wet as I put one foot in front of the other and walked out on the wharf where all the boats were tied up. I had my camera, the excuse I was there to take pictures for my hubby who couldn’t attend. I was asked several times if I was a reporter which was neat, I mumbled no and kept snapping.

The boats were amazing. There were 16 Nonsuch yachts of various lengths of 26 30, 33 and 36 feet. For me, they are a beautiful sight; there is something about this design that captivates me and my pulse raced as I looked upon their beamy hulls.

Unfortunately, the boats all came with owners, all revved up from the afternoon race and full of celebratory chatter. They wanted to flock together, toast their good fortunes and eat fried spam, identified as a mystery snack that they readily ate. I tried it, was the first one to identify it from a childhood experience and was told I had discerning taste. I cleverly said, “But I like Spam” in my best Monty Python accent. There were chuckles and you’d think that would have eased me into the fold but after my big spam comment, I was as tongue-tied as ever.

The energy was palpable, a fun loving group, blessed with a beautiful day on the water and a chance to show off their fabulous boats.   I managed to stumble through a few conversations but I was a jittery mess. Even owning a Nonsuch, a common denominator with everyone there didn’t help. I’m new to this lifestyle; don’t know all the terminologies of the boating world and fear being viewed as an unknowledgeable dimwit. I am like a new boat on the hard waiting to be launched, I need time to gain some experience.

I was turning to leave when I spied Jane, or maybe I should say she spied me although I was doing my best to be invisible. Our friends Chris and Tina, owners of the Nonsuch, “Felina”, who had planned to be there and were going to be my buffers, had to pull out when Tina’s father suddenly passed away and they were off to Ontario. They insisted I attend and they actually asked Jane to keep an eye out for me.

I’ve only met Jane a couple of times and was in awe of her ability as an amazing orator. I think she could manage speaking to the queen without batting an eye, be clever and interesting enough to charm the old gal and secure an invite to a palace dinner. Life is so unbalanced in so many ways. It’s funny how two people could be such polar opposites in the art of conversation.

My brain started churning. I think we are fairly close in age, we might have been in the same lineup for the gift of gab handout. Per the usual, I was probably daydreaming and missed when my name came up on the roster so she got a double dose. The powers that be, tired after a long day of doling out characteristics declared, “Jane, I’m not sure where that head-in-the-clouds Christine is, so you receive these last two shots of the art of conversation, go forth and mesmerize.” Then I’m spied in the corner playing with my thumbs and I’m told with a sigh, “My child, go forth and do the best you can, I suggest you find a good buffer.”

Jane spied me as I was about to leave. She wouldn’t take no for an answer so I stayed. It was hot so she handed me a bottle of water and dragged me around to the various boats for a tour. It was fantastic seeing below each vessel and all their custom upgrades that made them unique. No two were the same and I got a lot of interesting ideas for ours. Everyone was so happy to show me around and tell stories of the changes and work they’ve completed and I was actually able to add a few words to the conversation about my teak restorations.

At times I felt like a puppy at Jane’s heals, following her around to be introduced, shaking hands with people whose names I nervously forgot. She was the ultimate buffer, a perfect conversationalist between me and the stranger. I tailed her like a shadow; if she turned around quickly I bumped into her. As the evening wore on I relaxed a bit, had a lovely meal and stayed until the end, met some very nice people and I look forward to next year’s rendezvous when hubby, my #1 buffer till death do us part and I, bring Catalyst to join the fleet for some fun-filled days on the water.

I know what you all are thinking. Christine must have low self-esteem. But that’s not really where all this comes from. I’m tongue tied, a by-product of too much imagination and not enough interaction. I really didn’t learn any verbal social skills as a child and just like piano lessons, the earlier you start the better you play. Even today, there are times when I run out of things to say to good friends and stumble. That’s why I don’t like talking on the phone, the pressure to converse and fill the pauses can be paralyzing. I was always quiet and closed mouthed, preferring to observe my way through life. Unless you are interested in things we might have in common like rug hooking, blue and white china, dead bodies or poodles, to name a few, I just don’t know what to say to you.

I’ve been a daydreamer most of my life, more so in my youth but I’ve been guilty over the years of staring into space from winning the lottery, having a dozen or so poodles at my feet, a horse in the backyard, perfect gardens, looking good in a bathing suit, being short listed for the Giller Prize for my novel, why heck…even win it! Let me tell you, my interview on CBC radio and acceptance speech in front of the mirror is literary genius…...

Unfortunately as a child, when I should have been interacting with other kids I spent most of my time behind the closed door of my bedroom, hanging around in my head pretending I was everything I wasn’t in real life. I really liked my invented self; you would have liked her too. She was phenomenally friendly and outgoing, a chatterbox and one of the most intelligent, good looking, poised, talented, fun loving kids you could ever meet. I was fearless and spontaneous, with a sharp wit and contagious smile. Sometimes she even had an accent adding exotic lure to her charm. She was the bell of every ball, whose foot always fit the glass slipper. Yes, it was fun pretending, but the big problem with living in your head, it’s only ever a one sided conversation.

Imagination is an incredible tool; a brush that paints beautiful, happy ever after scenarios, a place where the sun always shines and tears are only for happiness. Even now, at 56, when all is quiet and I find a rare moment without distraction, I swing open that rusty hinged door of my imagination and step into a world where I never need a buffer........

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53 Visiting Rug Hookers from the US

9/24/2015

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Group photo by Susan Lord

Lynn Soule (below) who organized this Green Mountain Bus Tour

T’was early on Monday, and all through the shop
All hands were on deck, making everything pop
The patterns were hung in the back room with care
In hopes a bus load of hookers would soon be there.

The wool was all nestled and snug in the shelves
So beautiful you’d think it was made by the elves
With me in my apron, Deb, Shane and friend Sue
We waited to see when the bus would come through.

When out on the street there arose such a clatter
We sprang to the door to see what was the matter
And what to our wondering eyes should appear
But a gigantic bus, driven by one hooker’s dear,

Fifty three hookers all lively and quick
All waiting for patterns and wool that they’d pick
More rapid then eagles they flew through the door
While the bus driver hollered “We leave before four!”

The chatter and laugher could be heard for a mile
It’s tough to recall who wore the best smile
Armloads of goodies and photos abound
We wished you’d stay longer; new friends that we’ve found.

As soon as they came they were preparing to go
It was a quick stop for all, then on with the show
The driver sprung to his wheel, to his group gave a whistle
And they all took off like the down of a thistle.

We gathered in the doorway to wave our goodbyes
The big bus of rug hookers, each one a dear prize
And we heard them exclaim as they drove out of sight
Happy hooking to all and to all a good night.

Thank-you to each and everyone one of you lovely rug hooking gals for making our shop part of your tour. Your enthusiasm for our products and fun loving spirits really made our day! We so appreciate your patronage! Sincerely, Shane, Deb and Christine

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Rug hooking should come with a warning label......

9/17/2015

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I found this blog in the archives from 2013.
I tweaked it a bit and thought it would be fun to repost.

Rug hooking should come with a warning label. It’s addictive and highly contagious. Named appropriately, you will become “hooked” and things will never be the same again. There isn't any cure, so once you’re infected it keeps coming back, time and time again, although at times, as life gets in the way, it can lay dormant in your system for periods of time before the next flare-up occurs.

Some may be stricken with a mild case of the hooking bug. They find it to be a casual enjoyment, a filler when there’s nothing else going on, while others will be severely bitten, consumed to such a degree that excess rugs, the by-product of this addiction, are forced into trunks and closets, hidden away as not to shock any observer with the degree of our condition.  Fortunately, this bug is not life threatening. No one has died from too much hooking, the most serious injury would be indirect such as tripping over a rug that doesn’t lie flat on the floor.

There are symptoms to this compulsion that vary in intensity. Everything from the extreme high of seeing and sharing our latest project finished…to the low of having nothing currently on our frame…..to the elation of finding a new style of hook….. to the hyperventilating panic that our stash is getting low.

The first sign that you’ve been touched by this all-consuming malady is the presence of random thoughts. Your mind skips all over the place until it settles on a project, making you dizzy from the excitement of it all. Some find relief by purchasing a ready-made pattern while others prefer self-dosing and sketch their own design. Getting this out of your system as quickly as possible is a must, because you can experience feelings of 'bursting at the seams' which means it’s now too late, you’ve reached second stage.

Luckily this stage doesn’t last long and as soon as your idea is laid to paper there will be a sense of release before a new symptom wells up to take its place. For this, visit a rug shop and take one to two yards of linen, this should provide some relief. Once your pattern is on the backing, along comes stage three, the overwhelming desire to hunt down and secure the wool.   This can be the most feverish stage and be warned, there could drool. Your eyesight may falter as you stare half delirious at yard upon yard of wool, while your brain plays tricks of indecision and screams silently, "I want it! I need it! Why can't I have it all?"

Forth stage is the actual hooking, the longest stage before the inevitable end.   Try not to get distracted so you can get through it quickly. Don’t let it lie around and fester, prolonged delays can lead to anxiousness, sleepless nights and subject you to a barrage of comments from annoying, over-achieving rug hookers who brag they can hook a rug in two week so what’s the matter with you? Remember, all stages are highly contagious and meeting in groups will spread it rapidly. Unfortunately, being exposed does not build immunities and you will experience the same symptoms for every project you do.   It’s a lifelong ailment, but be prepared for a long and delightful convalescence.

Side effects might vary from hooker to hooker:

1. Totally engrossed in your project and not aware of surroundings. Do not operate heavy machinery or drive while rug hooking!

2. Anal retentiveness, far better than anal leakage but can be just as frustrating.

3. If you think your floor stand will be erect for more than four hours, immediately call your friends and make an evening of it.

4. Be prepared to experience erratic behavior in rug shops; drool may occur.   The impulse to fondle, caress and spend money for wool that you hide from your husband can overpower you.

5. Hyperventilating can occur from the sight of a piece of wool that someone found on the store shelf seconds before you arrived and won't part with it.
Carry a small paper bag for such an occasion.

6. Insomnia may occur. Hooking in bed is dusty and will keep you sneezing and itching for a fitful night.

7. Stiffness in joints from prolonged sitting in one position.

8. Skin Irritations from gripper rash.

9. Drowsiness. Falling asleep at work from hooking past midnight the night before.

10. Irritability. When housework, husbands, meal preparation and dishes get in the way of completing your rug.

11. Anxiety from taking on higher doses of projects than you can handle.

12. Dry mouth may occur, take 1 to 2 glasses of wine.

13. Lack of sexual drive. Lust is only for ruggy not huggy!

14. Experiencing highs and lows in loop height.

15. Confusion when you can’t decide what colour looks best in a particular area, ripping it out, trying something else and then ripping that out and putting the first choice back in.

16. Hyperactivity. Rushing to meet deadlines of Guild meetings and hook-ins.

17. Excessive sweating. Already hormonal with debilitating hot flashes, don't you think a wool rug on your lap in 30 degrees Celsius temperatures, with 100% humidity could be a cause not a symptom?

18. Disinterest in other aspects of life such as going to work, participating in outside activities, entertaining family or non-rug hooking friends.

19. Addictive behaviors of hoarding and hiding wool in cubby holes, basement crevices, nooks and crannies, car trunks, closets and attic.

20. Dishonesty. Lying to hubby, “Oh, I’ve had that bundle of wool for a long time, I told you about it, you’ve just forgotten.”

21. Lapse in judgement. You want to buy wool and consider a bolt....to the car that is, with it tucked under your arm while screaming at hubby, "Start the car!  Start the car!"

22. Panic Disorder from the fear that we may not have enough of particular wool to finish our project and there’s no more available!

23. Incontinence. When you are too busy hooking to get up and go to the bathroom after all that wine.

24. Racing pulse. Excitement at scoring a perfect piece of wool or finding a $5.00 cutter at a flea market.

24. Impatience. Brought on from hours of whipping and moaning, "Will it ever be done?"

25. Bleeding. From sewing on rug binding with a sharp needle too small for big, clumsy fingers.

26. A strong desire for herding. To meet in groups of like-minded people so we can feel justified and appear normal in our addiction.

27. Depression. Can occur if you sit heavy furniture on your rug for long periods, but don’t worry, the loops should spring back once the object is removed.

A support group is held at 7:00 pm, the 1st and 3rd Wednesday evening of every month, and the 2nd Wednesday afternoon from 1:00 – 4:00 at Encompassing Designs Rug Hooking Studio. All hookers are welcome. Help for all stages are available. You are not alone! No sponsor necessary.

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Gravensteins....the apple of my eye!

9/16/2015

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For the next few months I’ll be on cloud nine. My bliss, the Gravenstein apple is back and I’ve scored three bags so let the gorging begin! They were $7.00 each this year and normally I’d complain about the price but beggars can’t be choosers and I’d remortgage the house to keep a steady flow through my door. The season is short so I have to act fast and store them away like a squirrel's nuts. In the fridge they last for months, and mine will hold about 10 bags so out goes the beer, wine, club soda and the unnecessary bottles of BBQ sauce, pickles and jam. I’ll also have a few bags hoarded in the cellar-way that I will keep for eating as they ripen. I have to make a plan to maximize the bounty and insure they last until the New Year. Although I want to binge, I’ll force myself to have one a day, after all that keeps the doctor away....and if there's any truth to this saying, considering all the apples I ate as a child, thousands over the years, that should mean I won't need a medical appointment until the year 2025.

When they talk of the Garden of Eden I’m sure it was the mighty Gravenstein that felled Adam. No one could resist its delectable charm. Once you tasted this amazing fruit, all other brands of apples will pale in comparison. For those who never get to see one, let alone eat it, because I’m not sure if they are shipped outside of Nova Scotia, I feel a genuine sadness for you. It’s like saying you’ve never traveled to see Tropical Ocean, or never felt the white sands of resort beaches between your toes. But on the flip side, one must think that perhaps exporting them would greatly decrease my intake, so therefore, too bad for the masses.

Several days ago, I emptied one bag in a bowl in the kitchen and then the wait began. This was the first pickings, or at least that’s what the guy told me at the Blockhouse four way stop where I almost caused an accident braking after seeing the sign “GRAVENSTEINS FOR SALE”.   They are always picked too early and are literally too hard to enjoy so the wait is on. They’ve been sitting for days and finally this morning I tried one and it was almost at the perfect stage where the sweetness of age balances the tart essence that makes this apple so divine. Once the fruit flies start buzzing about, they’ve gone past the ready state so the trick is to catch them at the right time. Once the flesh begins to soften, they need to go into the fridge to retard the ripening.

I wait all year for this perfect apple. I don’t like, nor love any other. I am loyal to the object of my affection. In a pinch I’ll choose a Granny Smith or a Cortland for a pie or an eating apple if necessary, but they fall flat on my tongue and do nothing to rouse the OMG within.

I got hooked on Gravensteins when my parents purchased a new house when I was ten. We lived on Cherry Lane which was ironic because I don’t remember ever seeing a cherry tree other than the sour, uncouth cousins, the Choke Cherries. I'm told they make a half decent wine, but eating them in berry form causes your tongue to curl down your throat to escape touching your lips and were mainly used as a dare to see which kid could eat them and keep a straight face.

The property had an apple tree in the back yard. That first spring, the canopy of light pink blossoms was a sight to see. Bees buzzed in and out of every flower, how lucky they were to be that close to perfection. I never realized the flowers would become apples until I witnessed the miracle of little green balls covering the entire tree. I was amazed at the wonderment of it all. As a kid, everything in nature is a fascinating learning experience. So I watched the apples grow to the size of a baby’s fist and one day I found one on the ground and bit into it. It was small, brutally hard and green, but there was something magical about the tartness. I’d never tasted an apple like it before. So I waited and watched and sampled any that fell and as they matured, they got better tasting.

It was clear I had competition for the apples. Worms took a large percentage and my mom gathered aprons full for cooking applesauce, tasty for sure although I preferred the apples raw and in their natural form.

Not all the apples that fell were in mint condition. There was a great deal of bruising from the dropl and imperfections. Then there were the holes, little roadways as the worms traveled around apple town. Dad didn’t spray the tree and his opinion of the apples wasn’t all that favourable considering he had to pick them up when he mowed the grass. Without spraying and constant attention, the poor little apples were left on their own to become all they could be, some were picked off by burrowing creatures, others ended up in a sauce pan but overall the harvest ended up in me.

My mom sternly warned me not to eat them, which fell on deaf ears. I started sneaking them into my bedroom; my book bag bulged with a lot more than homework.   She warned of stomach aches and diarrhea cramps but that didn’t bother me, the apples were worth the risk.   Once they ripened and developed a bit of red they were heavenly but I was eating them long before that. I noticed that when the green ones fell, hit the ground and bounced, the bruised areas were super sweet so I snuck a large soup spoon out of the pantry and whacked the apples so the flesh was soft and mushy and edible.   I pounded the crap out of them and ate upwards of several dozen a day. The worms didn’t deter me either, I would bite around the holes, and even if I ate a few I wasn’t worried. The power of the apple far outweighed the fear of worms in my belly.

I never got the trots nor did my belly ache. But I was walking around stuffed to the gills with apple. I think when you’ve eaten something until you almost vomit, that would qualify as an addiction. I could barely sit at the table for meals let alone eat dinner I was so engorged but I managed to hide the fact that I was binge eating the backyard fruit. There were so many apples falling I could barely keep up. Eating them behind the shed and chucking the cores in the neighbour’s field, quickly, stealthily, as not to be caught. Very rarely did I get out the pole, my mother used to support the wash line, to knock them down but if there weren’t enough on the ground to sustain me, I helped them along. The apples were high up and the tree was too gnarly to climb and I’d been warned by dad not to dare get caught up the tree so I’d whack a few fresh ones off of the lower branches. Not all apples fall off the branch. Some hold on for dear life and even the fall winds didn’t shake them down. They ripened and then began to dry and shrink. It was torture not to have them, what a waste.

Once they ripen holy cow were they wonderful. The flesh was soft and tart but sweet. They became more red and yellow than green and were the size of a large egg to a tennis ball. My bedroom must have smelled like an apple patch because the fruit flies found them, I was swatting them in my sleep! Mom hardly went in my room as the mess was too much to bear. She was so neat and tidy and I was so very opposite.   On wash days she ventured in to rake up my clothes from the floor. She smoked so maybe her sense of smell was off because the place reeked of aging fruit and she never complained.

I would throw the apple cores out my window and later pick them up and chuck them in the bushes or throw them into the neighbour’s yard   I was clever and never got caught, but really what was the big crime. I was eating fruit for goodness sake; not exactly one of the seven sins, well, I guess gluttony would apply..... The birds got blamed for apple snatching. Dad mentioned at dinner one night that the apples seem to be disappearing. Taking into consideration the yield in the tree, there should have been a load falling to the ground.   Crows got the blame and in a way it wasn’t far from the truth considering that was my mom’s pet name for me.

It was I, crow girl, whisking them zealously away. While other kids were having outdoors playing games I was hanging around preoccupied with ramming apples into my greedy mouth. I can’t tell you how many I ate each summer, but it was probably in the high hundreds. I had stashes everywhere, piled in the shed, behind the shed in the bushes and in my room. I was taking them to school, eating them on the way, leaving a trail of cores to find my way back home. The Gravenstein season was a short run and after the last ones grew overripe and dropped to the ground, smashing like water balloons on impact, I knew the reign was over.

I was an Apple Addict and there was no cure. It was painful to have to wait until the next September. I waited impatiently for the year to pass, the spring leaves to open and the blossoms to fill the air with their sweet perfume, the sign of glorious things to come. Over the years the tree produced less and less fruit and before I left home, one of the larger branches had been hollowed out by ants and broke off.   The tree is still standing but I’m not sure if it yields any fruit.

Even now at 56, I still wait for September. I think about it constantly when I see all the other sad little apples in the store, ignored because they don’t measure up. I really dislike apples that taste like pears, have flesh that’s too soft, or too little flavour. Everyone went crazy over the Honeycrisp but it fell flat on me.   Maybe it’s good the Gravenstein is seasonal so I don’t weigh 300 lbs and they are more special due to their limited growing season.

So now I have to wait on valley apples to fill my addiction. Maybe I should plant a few apple trees on the property so I can pick my own. Last year I managed to keep them until the end of December because there is only so much room in our fridge to allocate to them. Hubby is warned they are mine. He isn’t apple discerning and doesn’t care what brand he eats so I covet them for myself because it matters to me.

I tried to eat one the day I bought them but it was as hard as a rock, tart beyond painful and did nothing to bring back the memory of my childhood. Sure I could have gotten out a spoon and knocked them into edible but I’m older and more mature and can wait for the natural ripening, after all it's superior to my forced approach. I have to tell yah though; it’s grueling to have to wait. I just had a thought. I think I’ll take a drive past our old house on the way home from work, maybe knock on the door and ask if I can take a picture of the tree, see if there are any lying around for the taking....I’ll be right back.

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Glory be thy name of Gravenstein! I knocked on the door of the people who now own our former family home and asked to take a picture of the apple tree. They obliged and as I approached my past, the sweet smell of rotting apples wafted through the air, found my nostrils and brought on a flood of memories. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of apples lay dying, decomposing into the earth, the smell of fermentation filling the air. What a glorious reunion but a sad sight for the senses......

The tree trunk still had a massive hole in it from rotting on the inside out but it had a full canapy of leaves and never looked healthier. There were a lot of apples still hanging, not quite ripe enough to fall. I looked around the ground and saw a few that weren’t brown and bruised beyond salvaging and I couldn’t help myself. I scooped up one that looked edible and stuffed it into my work apron pocket. Then I spied another and another until my pockets were full. I snapped several pictures from different angles and then walked to the car. I casually glanced to see if I was being watched but I couldn’t be sure. I got into the car and even before I put the key in the ignition, I was rubbing one of the contraband apples on my thigh to polish it. I started the car and put it in drive and as I pulled away from the driveway, I took the first bite.

The experience was intoxicating! The taste and smell was just as I remembered all those years ago. The texture and flavour is a bit different than the commercially grown ones today, I think they might have been hybridized to grow larger and redder but that won’t deter me from eating them.

Forty six years melted away and I was a child again, eating forbidden fruit. Wow! Words can’t describe how it felt. By the time I reached home the first apple was gone, the core thrown into the harbour, organic waste that it is. The second one was at my lips before I got out of the car. That one wasn’t quite at the same stage of ripeness as the first and needed a bit more time but it was enjoyable all the same. I think I’ll leave the other three on the counter for a day or so to get the best eating experience. Besides, I don’t want to overdo it. I’m a lot older now and maybe my digestive system isn’t as flexible as in my youth, I’m hoping I don’t get the trots, but even if I do, it was worth every bite.

It’s very sad that the apples of this fine tree are wasted and turning to mush, especially when they are unsprayed and natural. Apples purchased at the store today might be perfect and without blemishes, but they’re probably toxic right to their very core from pesticides. To be able to wipe an apple on your jeans to remove any dirt and polish it to a mirror shine, then pop it in your mouth confident that it’s chemical free is a thing of the past and not something today’s generation will ever know.

Maybe next year I could offer to take a few of the fallen ones off their hands. Apparently the guy just raked them into one area so they still present a problem with mowing. Thoughts of a midnight dash for a few dozen popped into my head but I would never steal them, after dark I wouldn’t be able to see the ones with worm holes....

I wonder if being told not to eat the apples began the gluttonous obsessions I entertain today. If I see it, I eat it, all of it. I have no off switch. It’s the same with my preoccupation with dead bodies that began the day mom hustled me out of the living room as President Kennedy’s casket came rolling into view on television. Inadvertently creating a taboo about death, she created the opposite effect she hoped to avoid. She didn’t want me to have a nightmare but I lay in my bed that night envisioning all manner of horrors that might have been on the screen. Every bit of ghoulish fear I’d ever heard of, blood, skulls with worms in the eye holes, swamp monsters, vampires and things that go bump in the night invaded my thoughts peaking my curiosity into a lifelong obsession about the dead.

If mom had said, “Chrissy, get outdoors and eat all those apples, they’re good for you”, I probably wouldn’t be writing this story. Instead the forbidden fruit became objects of desire. I crave these apples like others dream of chocolate. It seems a bit silly. Really, what grown person covets apples? Dreams of them three seasons out of the four? Hides them as not to share? Apples?! Really?

Three of the five contraband apples carried off the property in my apron pocket. They aren't perfect, are bruised, have blemishes and worms, but taste phenomenal!

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Nicholsville RugRats Fall Fling

9/14/2015

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Saturday began with an early morning and a drive to Kingston to set up shop for the Nicholsville RugRats Fall Fling. Sue said she'd join me and help for the day which was great. We met at Tim Horton's parking lot in Mahone Bay at 6:30 and drove the 1 1/2 hour to the Lion's Club building in Kingston to set up my pattern display. The drive is always faster with company in the car and Sue's presence and conversation was the toothpicks that helped keep my lids open so I didn't fall asleep behind the wheel, although I do have to give Tim Horton's coffee a bit of the credit. As always, keyed up to go somewhere I didn't sleep. I went to bed at 10:00 pm hoping to nod off quickly but the last time I remember checking the clock was 3:30 and then the alarm assaulted me awake at 5:00. A rough start to the day!

We were treated very well with a table full of homemade sweets and a fabulous turkey with all the trimmings made and served by the Lion's club men. There's nothing better than men in the kitchen! Here are a few photos I took from the day. The rug display was amazing! Thanks for the invite and hope to see you next year!

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Three years of blogging!

9/11/2015

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My goodness, how the years melt away! This coming October marks three years since I started blogging. It seems like only yesterday I wrote my first story, something to the tune of losing my blogging virginity. I was nervous and a little scared but your kind words and encouragement brought me all the way.

The first year I was a busy beaver blogging Monday to Saturday but I shortened it to Monday to Friday in 2014 because I worked the shop Saturdays on my own and there wasn’t enough time in the day to do it all. I got very addicted to the process and when I couldn’t manage the six days I became frazzled, so I cut it back to week days which provided a little extra time to gather more fodder for my tales.

It seems there is never any lack of topics. I’ve filled three large binders with my stories, and there would be more but the first six months I didn’t know how to print them. That’s approximately 832 stories and enough paper to choke a horse.   I’ve touched on a gamut of topics; from rug hooking to gardening, shop talk, my fur babies, tales of my youth, boyfriends from Mars, sailing and the occasional rant.

Writing is addictive; almost as much as blue and white china but not quite as much as gathering wool. The times when I’m unable to blog, when life gets in the way, I feel it. I need that fix in front of the computer, either home or at the office. Sometimes I’m ducking a curve ball and it just doesn’t happen, but I’m never short of a story and once sitting in front of the keyboard plenty of words shoot out of my fingertips. To date I’ve not once struggled for a topic and even when I’m practically brain dead from exhaustion, I still manage to throw a few coherent thoughts together.

When I began this journey, I drew a line that I promised myself I wouldn’t cross. Sometimes I came close, sat at the keyboard and wrote furiously, purging a woe from my heart and soul. It was cathartic, I wrote to cleanse, and although at times I was tempted to hit post I rose above the need to hurt those that had hurt me and deleted it. There are some topics better left alone that would rattle the skeletons in the family closet so I’ve kept that door closed, locked and threw away the key.

I know my friends sometimes think I’ve gone overboard, they know me and all my little quirks, love me in spite of it, but they still worry I sometimes get a little too personal at my own expense. Times when I talked about a body function, having hair in the wrong place or not enough in others, or parts going south that used to be northerly, but I’m not concerned. No one can every force you to read, there’s always the delete key and I’m gone.

I love feedback, the potent incentive to continue.   Not many people leave comments unless I post a racy tale, but I know you’re out there because my stats page keeps a tally. There were 25,000 clicks on my blog last month and it grows steadily. That doesn’t mean each click is one person, it means there are many coming back time and again to follow it daily or weekly or whenever. If every person is clicking daily, that would mean 800 individuals are following my every word, literally. But of course there are all manner of combinations of followers. Maybe someone only clicks once a month and read all or only a few blogs at once, maybe some click once a week. That would mean there are a whole lot more people following me and I think I’ll stick with that scenario! There are all kinds math equations to determine how many people are clicking and when, but truthfully, I’d be impressed if only one person followed me.

Customers come in the shop and tell me they read my blog with their morning coffee and comment on a particular story. I always turn blood red and mumble thank-you, shy little thing that I am. As long as you remain faceless I can bare my soul but when you stand in front of me I become shy and feel a bit exposed. Not to worry, that feeling quickly passes as happy takes over. I absolutely love that people read my shtick, it’s one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done.

I’m told my candor is appreciated and they like that I’m real. I’ve always been an open book. If you ask me a question, I’ll tell you the truth. I have no problem discussing body functions, maybe that stems from working in a nursing home and handling the bodies of others, maybe it becomes less of a taboo and familiarity breeds acceptance more than contempt.   Physically we are all the same; we perspire, go to the bathroom, break wind and wrestle with medical problems; mentally, we are all the same as well; we love, feel happiness and anger, cope with sadness and go through a gamut of emotions in between. So I feel, why deny being like everyone else, being human is the greatest gift of all.

A comment the other day had me smiling from ear to ear and I floated for a week. She wrote, “I came for the hooking and stay for the blogs.” Yowsa! Wow! Another woman said I helped her through her grief over the loss of her husband. My stories made her laugh and cry, and helped her heal.   Double wow! I’ve been told that a few of you have wet your pants laughing over something I’ve said and although I shouldn’t say thank-you to wet underwear, it’s a HUGE compliment.

I've always been a bit of a clown. I make fun of myself and in doing so maybe make others feel better, give them a chuckle when they need it the most, perhaps help them get through a particularly tough day, or start it off with a smile.   People laugh at comments because they relate. That’s why some comedians fall flat when you hear their routine while others make you laugh so hard tears run down your leg!   It’s because they’ve tapped into your own experience so you hear the words and feel them at the same time.

I’m amazed at how quickly I can complete a story now. I write more and edit less. They say practice makes although perfection won’t be achieved any time soon. I’m miffed, no matter how many times I read the post before hitting the publish button, I find boo boos later on. I’ve read that blogs aren’t supposed to be perfect, not like a novel or published work, but it’s what I’m striving for and it drives me round the bend to see a mistake the size of Texas. I’m not great with commas, but I can live with that, it’s the misspelled words missed on auto check that bite me. Smart computers, my eye! Sometimes I can read it dozens of times but my mind knows what it should say so it sees stuff that isn’t there. Only when it’s posted live do the errors jump out and of course I’m humiliated that my warts are showing.

I’m enjoying writing. I view it as practice for my book. Unfortunately, I’ve not worked on that much as there aren’t enough hours in the day to do it all, but this winter I would like to take it out and dust it off.   The blogging is rehearsal for the novel and it will be interesting to read it after being away for so long. I might see it differently now, juvenile in its approach and need to rewrite the entire thing. But no matter, it can only get better from this experience.

Unlike one on one conversation, I am never at a loss for words in front of the laptop. Words pile up like laundry, especially in my house.    Sometimes my stories start off with one subject and end on a different note altogether. Writing is certainly a journey. Like walking, one foot in front of another, you never know how far it will take you but it’s always exciting to round the next corner.

Today is a very special day at the "Little" house. Our first born poodle fur baby turns 10 years old today! September 11th might be remembered for a terrible tragedy but good things happen on that day too! Happy Birthday to our special little girl!

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Handspun Yarn from Pet Cat and Dog Fur

9/10/2015

10 Comments

Cocoa and a scarf made from her fur.

As a pet owner I thought this was an interesting site to share. My poodles are hair dogs so this information doesn't apply, but I would have loved to know this service existed when my German Shepherd was alive. I could brush him all day and still get a handful of fur. Even thirteen years after his passing I can still find pieces of him in the far corners of a closet or on clothing I having worn for awhile. It would have been wonderful to have a hat or a scarf made from my Max's beautiful coat.
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Wear your best friend wherever you go with yarn made from brushings from your pet cat or dog. Pet fur makes a lovely fluffy yarn with a halo like angora and is very warm for its weight. I can spin your pet’s fur into yarn for you to knit, crochet or weave, or I can spin and knit it for you into mittens, a hat or a lacy scarf.

What kind of cats and dogs have good fur for spinning?
The main requirement is that the fur is soft and long enough to spin. A minimum length of about 1 inch is required, otherwise the yarn sheds a lot and may be prickly.

Many kinds of dogs have good fur to spin. Some suitable breeds are Siberian Husky, Samoyed, Malamute, Golden Retriever, Newfoundland, American Eskimo and Great Pyrenees but any dog with a long, soft undercoat is suitable.

Long or medium-haired cats provide the best fur among cats. Breeds such as Persian, Ragdoll, and Himalayan have long enough fur to make excellent yarn. But even short-haired cats can provide fur, although it will take a long time to collect enough to spin.

How much fur do I need?
Not as much as you might think. Even 1-2 ounces of fur can be blended with wool to make a pair of mittens or a hat.

A sandwich bag stuffed full of fur weighs about half an ounce. A grocery bag of fur weighs about 8 ounces.

Why do you sometimes blend the fur with wool?
I cat blend dog and cat fur with about 50% fine wool to give added strength and elasticity and to create more yarn if you have a small quantity or fur. I can spin dog fur without blending it with wool but if it is knitted it may sag not bounce back into shape after it’s stretched. This may be fine for a scarf or throw, but may not be suitable for a hat or mittens. 100% cat fur will felt itself and become stiff and hard so it is not recommended.

Judy Kavanagh is a hand spinner from Ottawa, Canada. I've not met her and I hope she doesn't mind my spreading awareness of her interesting site. Her pricing and information is all listed there. Click this link: http://www.jumaka.com/spinning/petfur.html

I've never met a dog that doesn't enjoy being combed and brushed.

Golden Retriever and Merino Wool mitt

Dog Fur Yarn

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Garden Poppies Runner

9/9/2015

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Garden Poppies Runner 18" x 70"

Lately I’ve been more active and it feels good to do something nice for my body. I’ve never been the physical type, other than required gym class; I didn’t participate in sports at school and spent a lot of time closed off in my bedroom in daydream land. I’ve always been more of the thinking type than the doing, but as I get older I know I need to shake it up a bit and start moving, get in a little resistance training before my frame turns to chalk and my muscles abdicate the bone.

Let’s face it, rug hooking and blogging will never make it as an Olympic sport, they’re as much a coach potato pastime as you can get. Too much sitting doesn’t do much for the butt. Mine has drifted so far south if I break a little wind it comes out with a drawl...

I like being active although it takes a bit to get me going and there has to be the right motivation, but when all the ducks line up, I pull the rip cord and off I go. Catalyst II, our sailboat, has been great for me and couldn’t have a more perfect name. Before, I was languishing in lard land and she’s been the catalyst for me to get moving.   I’ve lost eight pounds rowing out to swab her deck and polish her stainless and now that I’ve been in the grove to move, I no longer sit and wile away precious time on my backside. My evenings are spent stripping teak in the garage and I’m really inspired with the results.

I like any pastime that comes with instant gratification. That’s what first attracted me to rug hooking. For me, cross stitch and needle point yielded more angst than reward.   Not that I’m saying they’re bad, it just seemed to take forever and if I missed counted I had to tear back to the good and start over.

I’m a little on the attention deficit side. No, I’ve not been diagnosed by a professional, but like many I’m impatient so I qualify on some level. I could never wait out the length of time needed to finish anything if the time to do it exceeded the amount of enthusiasm for the job. Most of my starts are rolled up in a trunk or closet to not see the light of day until my executor cleans out my possessions and sticks all the stuff in the bin or on the auction block.

When I was introduced to rug hooking, it went so quickly it was love at first loop and blossomed into a very gratifying, long term relationship. I’ve written before how toiling on my first rug I saw the sun come up three mornings in a row, totally mesmerized at the momentum of it all, losing all sense of time as I hooked feverishly throughout each night. Little did I know how far down the road I would travel with this craft and still there are miles ahead to go. The shop was 15 years strong in August and we are now proudly heading into the 16th year. Wow! Time sure flies when you’re living your passion! Stay tuned for more exciting things to come! The old cliché, ”We aren’t getting older, we’re getting better”, should be our company slogan!

So I'd like September to be a design month and hope to complete a bunch of new patterns for your hooking pleasure. Introduce a bit of new blood and what better start than with red poppies! This rug is a modification of a previous design made longer per the request of a customer. We had Poppy Garden designed for, and hooked by, the lovely Armenia Corkum and a client asked if we could extend it to 70” long. Easy conversions are welcome; this one kept the same width and only extended along the length. It was easy to fill in more poppies that I harvested from another design called Armenia’s Poppies, once again hooked by Ms. Corkum. Armenia sure loves poppies!

I think this new design would make a fantastic table runner. I can see it laid out along the table length in bold reds and various greens. Of course poppies come in many colours and would be equally lovely in pinks or oranges and although there isn’t a blue poppy developed yet, at least not to my knowledge, a little artistic license could make it so.

Armenia's Poppies 28" x 38 1/2"

Garden Poppies 18" x 35"

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Stupid is forever....

9/8/2015

3 Comments

Jay Leno of Tonight Show fame, used to have a segment where he read newspaper articles of stupid criminal pursuits.   It was a great laugh and it left you shaking your head wondering how this could really happen. It’s difficult to believe that anyone can be that witless, especially in a vocation where the lack of stealth and acumen might land them behind bars. Prisons are full of people that made stupid mistakes, getting caught in the progress or screwed up in some way to lead the police to their door. On the bright side, it certainly saves the tax payers money when the lack of grey cells makes them culpable for their own capture.

It seems our normally sleepy town is not without the occasional crime wave. A few years ago there were people breaking into the homes of winter travelers to strip the copper plumbing pipes. It must have been a nasty shock to come home in the spring to a swimming pool in the basement.

Maybe we’re perceived the perfect targets with our unlocked doors and trusting nature. Although, I’d like to make it clear that isn’t the case at our house. I deadbolt the door to take the garbage to the road and the car is locked down tighter than a brinks truck while I skip into the post office for the mail.

But I hear it all the time how others don’t lock their doors. I’m told they don’t want damage if someone breaks in, broken locks, splintered doors and smashed glass. I’m not sure how the insurance companies view this kind of lackadaisical thinking. My thinking, if I’m targeted for a robbery, I sure as heck don’t want to aid and abet the loss of my possessions by making the pickings easy.

It behooves me that there are those that spend more time thinking of ways to rip people off than pursue legitimate work. It takes a lot of time and effort to case a joint, perpetrate the crime and then fence the goods. That seems like a full time occupation to me so if you’re willing to work that hard, why not go legit and get a real job. Unless you’re the Pink Panther on a multi-million dollar jewel heist where one good score can set you for life I might understand, but the average petty crime doesn’t really pay much, that's why it's termed "petty", so you’re virtually living from theft to theft to make ends meet and it only makes sense, the more you dip your hand in the cookie jar, the more you up the chance of getting caught. In the working world, a lot of folks live from pay cheque to pay cheque, which sort of runs parallel with a questionable career, the big difference is our 9 to 5 doesn’t come with the threat of prison. That should be a powerful incentive to go straight. Thinking you are above or smarter than the law might be the first indication you’re not firing with all cylinders and maybe a career frying burgers would better suit.

A week ago our neighbours down the road had a very interesting home invasion. What makes this story remarkable is not the fact that a couple of goons stole items from their house, no, it was the conversation that ensued that’s rather fascinating while they were in the process of pulling it off.

A happenstance knock on their door begins the tale. Upon answering, there are two youths/teenagers/young adults/men (age was not relayed) standing on the step.

Thief #1: “Hi there, we’re out of gas, could we use your phone?”

Mr. Neighbour : “I have some gas I could give you.”

Thief #1: “Uh, no thank-you, I just need to call someone.”   So they are allowed to enter the house.

Mrs. Neighbour: “Where are you headed?”

Thief #1 (Clearly the brains of the operation): “Chester.”

Mrs. Neighbour: “Oh really. I know a lot of people in Chester, who are you going to see?”

Thief #1: “My mother.”

Mrs. Neighbour: “I might know her, what’s your mother’s name?”

Thief #1: “__name__”

Mrs. Neighbour: “I know your mother.”

Thief #1: “Oh ya?”

Thief #2: “May I use your washroom?”

Mr. Neighbour: “Sure.”

So while Thief #1 is supposedly talking on the phone, we don’t know if he actually was or faking it, his partner in crime has separated to create a diversion and is tucking an IPad under his shirt or down his pants.

So they leave. That’s when Mr. and Mrs. Neighbour notice the missing computer and after a quick check discover the Whipper Snipper has disappeared from outside, obviously an opportune grab item on their down the driveway.

So Mrs. Neighbour looks up the number for Thief #1’s mother, phones her, relays the story and threatens to inform the police if they don’t get their property back. Incensed and probably at the end of her tether, one would assume her boy has been in trouble before; the mother asks her to please wait on calling the authorities and hangs up. We have to fill in the blanks here but that must have been one wild conversation with her son.

Thief #1 and #2 arrive back at Mr. & Mrs. Neighbour’s and hand over the stolen loot. I’m not sure if words were exchanged.

Apparently there were drugs involved, the mother mentioned cocaine and therefore the need for some quick cash.   The moral of this immoral tale is, when in the middle of an illegal action, if someone asks your mother’s name, make one up. Assume the people you are stealing from are a titch smarter than you; after all, they were wise enough to have acquired some pretty nice stuff, stuff you'd like to steal. Maybe they’re also bright enough to connect the dots. And maybe you should consider this, if you plan to pillage the folks in a small community, assume we all know one another so take your crazy down the road a mile or two.

I mean really. If you’re going to do a job, even an illegal one, do it right! Sure your brain might be fried on goodness knows what, but there must be a few grey cells still firing, you can speak, drive a car and come up with bad ideas! Now I’m not saying that we don’t all do foolish things, goof up every now and then, lodge the old foot in the mouth as the tongue engages without consulting the brain. I call that accidental stupidity, like a minor fender bender; now and then we all have a temporary lapse of our faculties. It serves to knocks us off the high horse we’ve climbed up on, bringing us humbly back down to earth, but luckily this stupidity is temporary, not forever.

So don’t open the door to strangers or let them in your house to use a phone. Think about it.....in this day and age, what person over five years old doesn’t have one in their pocket?

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Locked and loaded.....

9/7/2015

4 Comments

They're goofing around but this is serious business!

One of the biggest struggles in the shop was getting the awkward, large and heavy bolt of natural wool lifted to attach to the bracket system on the bulkhead in the dye kitchen. When we used to buy the fifteen yard bolts they could be stacked here there and everywhere, in the closet, under a desk or along the wall but when we switched to the convenient 80 plus yard open roll it was bulky and heavy to handle so we had to improvise.

We had a system built with a rod and it worked but was still a struggle to get the roll up to slip it into the brackets. And woe are we, it fell down a few times but luckily not on anyone’s head. I never trusted it after that so I stopped taking my dogs into the kitchen as the roll coming down could have wiped out my entire pack!   Always aware that it was there and maybe not the safest, I would duck when walking under it.

So my hubby was put in charge of coming up with a system that would not only lift the roll but give us the confidence that it would stay put. He had to find a way to secure the brackets from bending outward which released the rod sent it crashing to the floor. He also had to secure all the fittings to the wall with much longer screws and bolts. Pretty scary thinking the entire roll could plummet down at any minute on Shane’s head.   So he studied the area, talked to Shane to find out all the requirements needed and went to the drawing board.

My hubby is brilliant…just wanted to get that out of the way. With a serious of ropes and pulleys he devised a system to lift the roll from the floor to the ceiling, hold it place while the brackets are attached. Shane is now able to do it all by himself, without momma in the kitchen standing precariously on a step stool, trying to hold one end up while he secures the other. That was an accident waiting to happen for me, if I fell, and for him if I couldn't hold on to the incredibly heavy roll. With the ease of pulling on a few ropes the roll locks into position so he can attach the brackets on each end that allows the wool to roll on a steel pole. Once it is all locked anad loaded, all Shane has to do is reach up and pull the wool down like using a paper towel dispenser and cut off whatever he needs for dyeing. So slick and smooth a child could do it.    Just one more improvement to the greased wheel that is our studio!

The roll is held securely to the ceiling when the rope is fastened to cleats.
Now the brackets can be attached.

Locking the bracket in place to hold the steel rod.

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Presenting Mr. & Mrs. McWhirter!

9/4/2015

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I’ve not been blogging all week, shame on me. I was exhausted and I’ve not had much sleep over the past while. Out every evening and staying up too late at night, this social butterfly has a broken wing. Between the wedding and company I’ve needed time to recover.

At the reception, I danced so much I had muscle spasms in my thighs so I’ve been a bit stiff and sore and pretty slow moving since Saturday. Generally, I’m a bit of a stick in the mud but get me fired up and I’m the last one to leave a party although I find as the years pass, the recovery time lengthens. I guess I have to stop thinking I’m a still a spring chicken that can keep up with the youngins and address the old broiler hen within.

I tipped my elbow a bit more than usual at the reception. Alcohol and I are not close friends, more like ships that pass in the night. Tolerance takes years of practice to get to the point where two drinks won’t do you in. As it stands, the sniff of a cork can send me into Slursville and if I wear out my visit there, I can head on down the road to Hangoverville with only four drinks under my belt. I’m still a cheap drunk at 56 and proud of it!   Despite what others might call it, I was delicately tipsy at the reception, loosened up for a good time but still in check as not to make a fool of myself. After all I am the mother of the groom, a pretty important, dignified role; second only to the position of mother of the bride…everyone knows the star of any wedding is the gal in the flowing, white dress.

The weather was perfect, warm with a periodic breeze and no humidity or bugs. There were moments when the sun blazed down and some fanned themselves and wiped their brow, mostly the groom and groomsmen under the weighty cloth of their three piece suits, but everyone agreed we were graced with an exceptional day.

The wedding went off without a hitch, except of course for the flawless hitching of the bride and groom. I think there were tears all around, my Kleenex was surely damp. Call me bias but they make one beautiful couple and I can’t stop looking at the pictures and misting up. I’ve been looking at my child for years knowing he’s a looker, but seeing him in the tuxedo, I was blown away that I gave birth to such an incredibly handsome man and he is as beautiful on the inside as he is on the outside. The day before the wedding, I asked if he was nervous and he said assuredly, “No, why would I be nervous marrying the woman I love?” I thought, darn good answer!

I’ve been very emotional since they married, sniffling at the drop of a hat. I’m so full of happiness it’s oozing out my eyes. I’m so full of pride and love I could burst. I find it hard to describe how I feel, how does anyone put into words this kind of emotion?   My son, my beautiful boy is a husband now, married to the woman of a mother-in-law’s dreams. Sue tells me I have a case of mother-in-love and that sounds about right. I want to embrace them both and never let go. It’s weird because I’m not the clingy type…I’m just so dog gone happy! Did I say I was happy? I’m so excited for them to begin their wonderful journey together I want to do a happy dance. It’s exciting to be young and in love with the whole world at their feet. Sure there will be bumps along the road of happy-ever-after, but these guys are dedicated to one another and deeply in love. They'll go the distance…I’ll bet my life on it.

No mother has ever been more proud of her son. Yes, I’m sure some will argue, but really, I’m over the moon! I watched him stand in the gazebo waiting for his bride to appear. My beautiful boy is a man, has been for some time but today it really hit home. He held himself so elegantly, tall and straight and full of confidence. You could see the softness and love in his eyes for his bride as she neared on the arm of her father. His heart was on his sleeve for all to see, good gravy, I’m crying again! .....As a mother, it was one of the most emotional and perfect moments of my life…..

Ashley’s dress was a show stopper. The front was elegantly sophisticated and garnished with a bejeweled accent while the back was equally stunning dipping into a deep V to perfectly accentuate her shapely figure. The train was several feet long, that trailed behind for the ceremony and pictures and then was buttoned on the back for ease of walking and dancing.

The bride is of course first and foremost the highlight of any wedding but Shane was a dapper second. His tuxedo fit him like a glove, the soft gray was perfect for the season and an excellent balance with the blush of the bridesmaid dresses. The maid of honour, Ashley's sister Erica was lovely in her sophisticated, soft blush coloured, floor length gown. The identical dresses of the bridesmaids flowed in the summer breeze, soft and feminine, the material and cut were perfection, dispelling the age old tale that bridesmaid dresses are usually satin nightmares. The best man and groom’s men had blush ties and vests beneath their grey jackets, Shane's attire, to stand out as the man of the hour, was all in grey.

The lady's hairdos were all crowning glories, perfectly quaffed in an up position and the bride’s style was big and bold per her request, this was not a day to be ordinary but rather to be steeped in extraordinary. The bride was absolutely stunning from head to toe.

Their ceremony was an exchange of dedication and heartfelt emotion. They both wrote their own vows and it was clear they compliment one another perfectly. One might say they are definitely on the same page, best friends first, last and always. They looked into each others eyes, locked on one another as if they were the only two people in the world. At one point he brushed a hair off her face and said, "You look so beautiful".

Ashley has a beauty that’s a blend of movie star radiance mixed with girl next door. As a couple, they complement one another well even though they are physical opposites in stature, but you know what they say about opposites and these kids attract like magnets. Shane might stand head and shoulders above her, but you can tell she loves to look up at her man.

As in the wedding, the reception didn’t follow the letter of tradition which was perfect. I like how they blazed their own trail, adding special touches to personalize their day. To name a few, they had a very popular candy bar with little bags printed with their names and the date. You could help yourself to scoops of M&Ms, gummy candies, Werther’s candies, chocolates and more. They had a signature drink called the “Marry McWhirter” of Vodka, grapefruit juice and club soda. Tasty and the red grapefruit created a blush shade to cleverly coordinate with the colour scheme.

The bouquets by Seaside Flowers in Lunenburg were beautifully done. I’m not up on all the different names but I don’t have to know them to appreciate their splendour and intoxicating perfume.

The meal was wonderful. Layers of gravy glazed, thinly sliced turkey breast encasing a surprise pouch of dark meat and dressing, delicious! Crisp vegetables, cranberry sauce and garlic mashed potatoes were perfect compliments. Of course dessert was the traditional cake. There was a showpiece, used for the ceremonial cutting by the bride and groom that had a base of blush roses with two top layers of delicious buttercream frosting. They had slab cakes cut and ready to serve to the guests. The top layer of the show cake is frozen, reserved for their first anniversary and the rest went to family. Luckily I qualified as a recipient!

The cake was a slice of heaven. One of the best I’ve had in years, twenty five to be exact, as my mother’s pound cakes were very similar in flavour. Every bite sent me hurtling back to my childhood, wonderful emotions washing over me and I relived those moments over and over in the next few days as I devoured most of the second tier. Speaking of my mother, my parents would have loved to see Shane wed and I thought of them often at the ceremony and reception. My dad had a very special place in his heart for Shane, he would be so very proud.

The Osprey Golf Club was a perfect venue for the reception in both size and atmosphere. The caterers provided matching blush ties on each chair to coordinate with the bridesmaid dresses. The ceiling chandelier dripped cascading prisms and was draped with long white fabric panels from the center of the room to the walls lending to an ethereal presence. Wispy floor length shears covered the windows and fluttered in the breeze, encasing the room in a dreamy, cloudlike ambiance.

Instead of tinkling spoons on glasses for kisses, they had a jar for donations to a worthy cause, Misfit Manor Dog Rescue Society.   This is typical Ashley, her love of dogs is one of my favorite things about her. She’s a fabulous mom to her two fur babies. Ashley and Shane have a rescued King Charles Spaniel. Her name is Sadie and she’s a lovely lady. They raised over a hundred and thirty dollars for the Manor and we witnessed some pretty fancy dipping and kissing.

I must bring up the cake again. It was amazing. I’m risking losing a toe eating leftovers. Delicious three layered white cake, I’d say a pound recipe with real strawberries in the frosting between the layers. Pound cake gets better with age and although this one isn’t getting much chance to pack on time, it calls me from the fridge and I'm powerless to ignore it. Thankfully I had company to help as Gregg’s brother-in-law Terry seemed to like it as much as I did! The butter cream outer shell is divine, delicious and the perfect sweetness. Each slice is pure bliss.

After all the pictures and speeches in the reception room, we stepped outside to socialize while the staff set up for the dance. We overlooked the greens of the golf course and took more pictures against the amazing backdrop until the sun began to dip behind the horizon.   When we went back inside we all watched the happy couple waltz to Neil Young’s, Harvest Moon.

Shane and Ashley are the epitome of good taste. All their choices were a perfect statement of who they are. From the beautiful invitation they designed and printed to all the special little touches, they truly owned their day.   Their fur babies were at the ceremony. Sadie and Taylor sported fancy bows to match, blush for the girl and grey for the boy. They were very well behaved and happy to be part of this special moment when mommy and daddy declared their love and devotion to one other.

We sent them on a little pre-honeymoon, to commemorate the nuptials. They plan to do the big one in the spring; destination is yet to be determined. Mr. & Mrs. McWhirter came home Wednesday well rested and happy on day four of their life together. I know Gregg and I, and Ashley’s parents Kim and David, will enjoy watching these newlyweds settle into their life together. As parents of the bride and groom, I think we both did extremely well with this union!

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