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A s'mothering style of parenting

10/29/2016

2 Comments

 
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.Written this past summer.

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

At one point I looked out of the living room window to see three girls being hauled behind a motor boat in an inflatable plastic dingy.  It was bouncing up and down, surfing the wakes of the traffic on the water.  It looked like fun but I’d probably never try it because I swim about as well as a rock chained to a cement block.  
 
Sound travels easily over the water and I could hear their infectious squeals and laughter through the screen door and I couldn't help but smile.  They were having the time of their life, as only kids can do, totally in the moment.  Then my smile turned into a frown and a shudder washed over me like a wave breaking the shore. It shocked me really and I spent the next few minutes trying to analyze why the only emotion evoked by watching kids at play was dark and foreboding. 

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

I grabbed the binoculars; the maternal part of me tingling with concern that they might not be wearing life-jackets.  I see it often, boats going out and not one person on-board wearing them.  Luckily, they were all fitted with rather blingy looking jackets, colours of the rainbow to match their brightly patterned bathing suits.  They were all okay, and didn’t seem to mind the spill into the harbour and the power boat was heading toward them to pick them up. 
   
As I watched, it donned on me that I’m as fun as a sack of rotting potatoes.  I never learned how to enjoy play.   In my youth, fun came with the steep price tag of warnings and the fear invariably took a shine off the moment.   I’ve said before that my father was a Hallmark card for worry, everything was destined to kill us. Fork stabbings to the throat for eating too quickly, neck breaking falls from tumbling up or down the stairs, rising too high on a swing meant broken backs and body casts,  the innocent teeter totter could snap spines and tailbones, choking on anything from milk to steak and worst of all, drowning in ankle deep water.  My dad might have been the greater source of worry but mom went along with it, so they are both culpable in the angst department. I joke that their nurturing was an act of s’mothering safety.

My dad saw danger in every action so it’s amazing we survived adolescence.   Knowing now that shit happens, I wonder how many times he actually saved us from peril. After all, his predictions came from actual events on the news that we ingested along with our dinner every night.  People died or injured themselves all the time and he’d say, “See, didn’t I tell you not to do that?” and we’d have to agree.   I thought my dad was brilliant!  I’ve never had a broken bone and managed to get through my childhood relatively unscathed, but then again, living in a cocoon might have played a big part so who knows for sure what determined our survival.  
 
Prevention was his style.  If you don’t do anything, nothing can happen.  That said, I would never have experienced a plastic, rubber, wood, aluminum or any form of dingy unless it was on dry land acting as a planter.   Anything on the water frightened the living daylights out of him.  His toes cramped in cold water, so he feared not being able to save us and it wasn’t “if”, something might happened, he was “certain” it would.  It was only a matter of time before one of us died in a terrible, water related accident, our small bodies lifeless, floating and bloating.   He spread his fear all over us like butter on toast, until we could barely breathe, smothered under the weight of the confining fear.  And even worse, his warnings adhered to my own thoughts, so now doom and gloom rattles around in my grownup brain. 
         
As a kid, I was sent for swimming lessons but badges weren't awarded for perfect attendance.  By then I had such an instilled fear of the water how could I float with a rigid body, stiffened like rigor mortis and poised for disaster.  Being screamed at by dad, “Don’t go out any farther or you’ll drown!” when barely past my ankles created a bit of panic when taken out to my waist by the instructor in an attempt to get me to float.  She must have thought I was crazy from the blood curdling screams, flailing arms, red face and tears; the panic was drilled in deeper than the water I splashed around in and I should mention, besides the fear, the water was icy cold in the early morning and a disgusting brown sludge squished up between my toes making the water cloudy and brown all around me. Not exactly inspiring to open my eyes under water, yet another skill I failed at. When I asked what the brown stuff was, the instructor said, “That’s poop”.  This was pre-sewage treatment-plant time, when all the bay toilets flushed into the harbour.  All aspects of learning to swim were a shitty experience for me. 

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

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

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

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

10/27/2016

12 Comments

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

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

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

I spent yesterday unpacking the items hubby shipped home after they packed up and sold his mother’s townhouse.  Like Christmas, there was a temporary thrill as I opened all the carefully wrapped items; I do love china and anything of class and character; appreciating all the finery, craftsmanship and grace of beautiful things.   But then I started thinking about the items I’ve accumulated and how someday, someone will be packing up my home and it soured the moment.  
   
After my mother-in-law moved into an apartment in an assisted living residence, taking as much stuff that she could pack into her new digs, hubby and his two brothers were asked to go around her townhouse and put tape with their names on any items they wanted so when the house sold everything would be easily dispersed.  Everything I unpacked had green tape and the initials G.L. on it and there was a sadness stuck to each item as sticky as the tape.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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A family heirloom.  Covered cheese plate.  
12 Comments

Dory Stories Rug Show

10/24/2016

4 Comments

 
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The closing event for the Dory Stories show at the Fisheries Museum in Lunenburg was a great success with about 60 hookers in attendance and a good (and noisy) time was had by all.  Many thousands of people enjoyed the display.  This season, the museum had over 80,000 visitors.  Of those, 837 people took the time to case a vote for the Viewers Choice Award.  I am proud to say that it was a clean sweep for South Shore hookers.
 
First prize went to Lorraine Burch of Chester Basin for her mat of the Lunenburg waterfront, complete with the Bluenose and a little dory in the harbour.  Runner-up was The End of The Day, a small pictorial designed by Heather Gordon of Mahone Bay with two dories on a beach in the fog.  Third place went to Lesley Marshall for her beautiful interpretation of Christine’s pattern of Blue Rocks.
 
We are all looking forward to next year.  As a sequel to Dory Stories, the new exhibit will be called Tall Ship Tales.  Each entry must be accompanied by the story of what inspired it , as we did with Dory Stories.  Viewers were fascinated by the variety of interpretations and really loved to read the stories.  Registrations are now being accepted for Tall Ship Tales.  A copy of the form and guidelines is included here so that you can get started for the big show and make a plan to visit the Tall Ships Festival next summer in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia.

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

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

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

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Workshop on Colour Planning by Heather Gordon

10/19/2016

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

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

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

Then we will look at:
  • how to choose colours that really work well together
  • how to choose colours that are right for the design
  • how colour and texture work together to create detail and perspective
  • how colour draws attention to the focal point of your design
  • how colour creates an emotional response in the viewer and the “doer”
  • how to use contrast effectively
 
Bring the pattern of your choice and all the fibres that you think you might possibly use for this workshop.  If you like the rooster theme, I have 3 patterns available (on request) and Christine has several rooster designs at the shop as well.

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


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A pressing item.....

10/3/2016

5 Comments

 
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As I perused the store shelves for a new electric clothes iron, it struck me that I seem to be doing this much too frequently.  How many irons have I owned since I realized the merit of being neatly pressed?  Over the past dozen years or so, it seems I can't keep one for any longer than two years.  They either burn out or fall to their death conveniently after their warrantee expires.  Of all the appliances I use, the iron is the constant fatality followed closely by the blow dryer, but that’s another story.   
 
When the previous iron went caput, I sent hubby out to do the shopping and he came back with a bigass machine that was a workout.   It was heavy as the dickens with a surface that was too big for going between buttons or around pockets of a shirt without a struggle, but perfect for pressing flat items like sheets and draperies, which I might add, I don’t iron.  It was an appliance for a man’s hand, big and awkward and top heavy when sitting on the ironing board while I repositioned the clothing item I worked on and is the reason it fell off after a light jiggle to the board.   My ironing board has a metal resting surface at the end of the board but this big iron was too large for it to sit in the hole so it had to stand on the ironing surface while I fussed with the piece of clothing.   I’m sure you’ll attest to the fact that ironing boards are not the most stable of contraptions and mine rocked and rolled as if on the high seas.  When it went over the side, I screamed “crap” and watched it fall, resisting the urge to grab it on the way down, knowing full well where that would lead.  After hubby brought it home and following a sufficient amount of time as not to hurt his feelings, I gently explained to him these words of wisdom, “When you go out shopping for say diamonds, bring home the biggest you can afford, but as for appliances, try matching them to my delicate physique”.    
 
So I’m at the store and looking at the ten models on the shelf, they all seemed to offer a little something different but the only function necessary for me, besides steam, is the automatic shutoff.  There is nothing more anxiety inducing than coming home after work to find an iron has been left on, hot as Hades all day.   The last one had a neat warning buzzer to tell me it was left unattended after a five minute lapse and then would go into sleep mode and stay cool until moved.  Being a bit absent minded I forget to turn things off so I’ve trained myself, before heading out the door to check the stove burners and any appliance I’ve used.  I get my worry wartedness from my dad and although at times it can be the death of fun, I wouldn’t want it any other way, leaving nothing to chance in a vigil to keep us all safe. 
 
So I have another new iron, picked by the serious decision making technique of, eeny meeny miny moe, grab a poodle by a toe.  I left the sixty-nine dollar one out of the choices, considering their life span; middle price range was just fine.  I don't need anything fancy, it doesn’t need to make sandwiches or do the laundry; a simple shot of steam and an automatic shutoff is fine.  I used it this morning and had a so-so experience.  I couldn't see how much water I poured in the tank through the opaque plastic.  There was a line drawn that said Max Fill but I couldn't make out the water level to know if I was below or above it.  I’m not sure how this got past the design table but it’s a definite flaw. 
 
The stream function button was on the right side of the two buttons on top of the handle, one for spray and the other for a burst of stream.  My last one had the steam burst button on the left which worked well, my thumb lined up perfectly but now it's awkward.  I iron with my right hand and this one seems geared for a lefty, imagine that, after all these years something would work for me, but too lated now because I’ve adapted to use my right hand.   The smaller size is working well, but is half the weight of the last beast so I have to hold it down firmer to get that perfect press.   Funny, I now think I’d prefer the big one back....maybe I didn’t give it enough love so it jumped off the ironing board in a bereaved state of neglect from all the cursing as I struggled with it. 
 
I'll get used to this new inanimate object;  maybe I’ll talk to it real nice so it lasts longer.  The iron and I spend a lot of time together.  We get together daily; I’m not one of those domestics that press the laundry as it comes from the dryer so it’s ready to wear.  It’s barely folded or hung on a hanger without much regard until I need it.  I iron whatever I plan to wear each day, and I have a lot of linen shirts that need that extra attention or I’ll look like I slept in the car.   Actually by the time I get to work I look as wrinkled as before the iron hit it so I’m not sure why I fuss.  Linen is lovely fabric but it's needy and demanding.     
 
Iron designs are changing faster than seasons.  It’s hard to believe they need to be upgraded so often, made sleeker, streamlined and flashy when really, it’s all about the steam. Instead of making them high-tech and modern looking, why not invest money on appliances that use less wattage or heat faster?  Perhaps, making them last would be nice, get rid of the vulnerable molded plastic and bring back metal for longevity.  I like an iron with a bit of weight or else I‘m muscling it down to aid in the press, plastic is almost lighter than air.    Maybe I need to find one that really works for me, then stock pile that model, buy several to cover the next decade or so......   Thank goodness I have more luck with cars. 
 
I don't ever recall my mother getting a new iron.  The one she used from my childhood was sold in a yard sale after she passed; perhaps I should have grabbed it up to press another 30 years of service out of it.  Now-a-days everything is made so cheaply, doesn't last and is basically throw away.      
 
Have you ever watched the movie “Manufactured Landscapes”?  It’ll blow your mind to see the size of factories in countries like China.   In one that produced clothes irons, the 23,000 employees worked in a building one kilometer long.  The camera pans over the area, row after row after row after row of workers at stations, each adding parts to irons.  It was jaw dropping.  One factory produced thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of irons daily so there must be a need.  If only they could make them to last the factories could be downsized to church basements. 
 
Hubby did a calculation.  There are 7 billion people in the world.  On the assumption that 2 billion people (5 to a family = 400 million families), can afford a replacement iron every two years, that means 200 million irons are bought annually. 
 
That means that globally factories have to produce.  547,945 irons a day.  
22, 831 irons per hour
381 irons per minute
 
Geez, maybe humans need to rethink worrying about wrinkles. 



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    Christine Little has been ranked #5​ out of the 60 top rug hooking bloggers by Rug Hooking Magazine!

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    Max Anderson, Australia, recipient of my Nova Scotia Treasures rug.  An award of excellence for promoting Canada through his writing.  
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Saturdays 12:00 PM - 4:00 PM
We are closed during ice and snow storms
​so please call ahead.  If school is cancelled we probably are as well.  

Toll Free: 1-855-624-0370
Local: 1-902-624-0370​
encompassingdesigns@gmail.com

498 Main Street
P.O. Box 437
Mahone Bay, N.S.
Canada B0J 2E0

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