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The business curse....paperwork!

11/29/2013

4 Comments

 
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What a crazy day and it ain’t over yet!  Father Christmas festival is this weekend, starts tomorrow and I don’t have a thing done for it.  No decorations up and the shop’s a mess.   I worked this evening until 12:30 to whip it into shape and came home to a kitchen full of dirty dishes and now it’s 1:30 a.m. and instead of being in bed I’m on the computer trying to scrounge together something to write about that doesn’t sound too much like complaining and might be mildly humorous.  Where do the hours in the day go?  Maybe writing blogs when you're stressed is like shopping for food when you're hungry, not a good plan.

All I wanted to do this evening was finish my gingerbread stocking and of course that didn’t happen and I don’t know if I’m pissed off or just tired or a combo of both, but it seems like I never have enough time.    The shop work I do during the daylight hours I consider play, but anything in the evening or home related stuff is considered work.  There is never an end to the work!  I should be able to come home and put my tired feet up like every other 9 to 5er but no, there's the accounting end of the business, a load of firewood to pile, a house that needs a scour from top to bottom, laundry spilling out into the hall, cooking meals and I'm so tired I have toothpicks holding up my lids. 

On the way home tonight I drove by all the darkened houses and wondered how others manage their lives so they can go to bed at a decent time.  Maybe I should take some sort of class or something, learn to manage time effectively, work smarter not harder or longer.  Any job I undertake I do to the best of my ability, I'm first class all the way, but it’s starting and finishing one project before I move on to the next that I fall short on.  I never seem to have the time to just tackle the paperwork and end the paperwork in one sitting.  Five minutes each day would be a breeze instead of hours each month, all on the late side of evening.  My son gets annoyed with me when he looks at my desk and sees piles of mess but every time I start one job I get distracted by two others so I’m running one step forward and two steps back until I find myself back at the starting gate and beginning all over again.  I feel like a rat on a wheel!  

There’s all the fun stuff at work, making product, playing with wool, hanging with customers but there are all the crap jobs that are always behind the scene, the cleaning, the paperwork, bill paying, filing, jobs just as important to keep running smoothly, but pin-in-the-eye boring and tedious. 

Someone said the other day that a piece of paper should only be handled once.  Fabulous I thought!  I can do that!   But that good intention lasted one day.  Not too long ago I swore my desk would never be piled high with paper eeeeevvvveeerrrrrr again.  I would pay bills as they come in and file them away PDQ. Deal with all the daily paper that seems to materialize out of nowhere.  All the mail that comes in....whew....trees coming down all over the place to make useless flyers, advertisements most don’t care about, catalogs that continuously arrive because they change a couple of items, messages, notes to self, orders to place, so much paper to deal with and all I want to do is go downstairs and play in the shop and dream up new ideas.        
Two weeks ago my desk was perfectly clear, I could see the fake wood and I swore this was a turning point, this would never happen again and now? There could be an avalanche any moment.  The stapler is buried, couldn’t find a pen tonight and finding the phone when it rings is a major excavation, race against time so the person on the other end doesn’t hang up.  So much for computers making a paperless society, what genius predicted that? And where's the joy in knowing that the avalanche of white will start building as early as the very next day.  Last evening I drowned in a sea of white, dreamed of being eaten by a polar bear and then awoke to a light dusting of snow.  I hate white....a reminder of what is waiting for me at the shop again tonight.  I have to be open until 8:00 for the festival this evening so I might just sit and hook and say to hell with it all.  It's not like it'll disappear so what's one more day.  

And the F word….filing.  I have so many things to file I’m thinking about bringing matches to work.  A quick flick and toss and it's a marshmallow roast.   I’ve never liked filing.  Even when I worked in an office it was the last thing I’d do at the end of the week, let it pile up until I got the stink eye from the boss.  I’ve never learned to do the painful stuff first, get it out of the way and move on.  Pictures for patterns, the patterns, everything that comes out of the filing cabinet has to ultimately go back, but of course that never happens until the piles fall over and then it’s a forced task with swear words attached.   Why can’t I do these things daily, in increments, so mole hills don't become mountains 

Why can’t I be perfect?  Maybe I set myself up with unrealistic expectations; I used to be so much better at being a perfectionist.  Maybe I need a PA to pass on all the crap jobs, follow me around and call me Ms. Little and dote on my every need, pick up after me and make my chaotic world their bliss. Anyone out there interested in a no paying, earth moving job of being my “Little” helper? There’s free coffee and all the wool you can fondle! It's not a dirty, thankless job, really....paper is clean and I'd be eternally grateful, showering you with "Bless you" and "Thanks-you" until you get tired of hearing my voice. 

Like Cyndi Lauper, this girl just wants to have fun but for some reason the stars aren't lining up just right!  If I ever buy a lottery ticket and win, I'd employ dozens of people to assist me. Top of the list would be an accountant and a cleaner and I'd expand the shop and send out wool gatherers to bring back every last piece of plaid on this planet and stock it from floor to ceiling.  I'd sit on my throne, I mean chair,  hooking my latest inspiration with a dozen or so poodles at my feet and greet you as you come through the door.  I'd survey all my "little" helpers make the product and stock the shelves, sort of like a rug hooking Santa Claus.  A girl can dream......


The picture above is not a true representation of what my life looks like.  I don't have cats or kids and my kitchen isn't that tidy.  This picture represents how I feel, when things pile up in my office and I get behind.  They say a picture speaks a thousand words and this one is a mouthful.  I’m not a captain of industry, I’m a captive, besieged and held hostage by an army of paperwork!   

This blog feels like a Seinfeld episode, a whole lot of something about nothing or is that a whole lot of nothing about something?  I'm tired and maybe a bit foolish.  Maybe I should just go to bed and wake up to a new day, a fresh start, at least the dishes are now done so I can wipe that off the list for a day.....like paperwork it's a vicious cycle that never ends.  I suppose the trick is not to beat myself up so much.  It’s really just a curse of caring too much.  If I didn’t give a hoot, I’d be in bed right now with the rest of ya…..


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This may not look like much paper but it's stacked almost two inches thick.....each piece is thinner than air so that's a lot of friggin paper for a such a small mom and pop, or rather, mom and son business!
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Our first daytime hookin...and other stuff..

11/28/2013

2 Comments

 
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We've just had our first daytime hookin.  A small crowd but hopefully it will grow.  Deanna is all smiles after she won the goodie bag door prize.

The next daytime hook-in is December 18th from 1:00 - 4:00. Come and join us!

We all snacked on chocolates and the most delicious Coffee Cake with a heavenly crumble on top that should be rated lethal!  I had one tinny whinny piece but it screamed more!  

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Sue Cunningham has completed Crocks & Jugs.  She used all plaids and herringbone for a nicely textured piece.  I think it's stunning and bought the rug for my kitchen.  It will hang in the shop for a bit to show it off and then come to live in its forever home with me!  It's no secret I love blue crockery and dishes.  It will fit right in. 
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I'm having fun with my Gingerbread Man Christmas Stocking.  The hat trim and pom pom will be curly mohair but that has to be hooked last, after the steaming.  I'll finish it tonight. Working in #4 cut slows me down a bit but the look is worth it for the detail.  I loved hooking the candy cane skis...it got me feeling all Christmasy so I'm playing festive tunes in the shop today.  This weekend is Father Christmas Festival so it's time to crack out the decorations and the tunes.  I've order apple cider for the Keurig and hope it arrives in time so drop on by for a cuppa! 

Chelsea suggested yesterday that I design a stocking to reflect the song, "I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas".   I can see it in my head already....a big ole Hippo with a bow around his neck, sitting under the tree surrounded by presents, waiting for a little boy or girl to find him and give him a cuddle.   And then there's snowflakes, bells, tree ornaments, sugar plum fairies, cardinals, maybe some William Morris pieces, like the Hare and the Fox......there is no end to the design elements.  I want to be known as "Christine, the Christmas Stocking Queen" so there will be many more designs coming down the pike.  I hope to hook a new one each week so there are coloured pictures for the website.
  Pity help me when it comes time to sew them all up into actual stockings!  The thought depresses me so I'll just forge ahead with the hooking for the pictures and worry about the needle stuff later.   Like I keep saying, I'm a hooker, not a sewer! 

Chelsea is back a couple of days a week helping to stock the racks with patterns.  At the rate she flies through them we'll be back up to snuff in a matter of weeks after being depleted over the summer months.  I've also hired  Nancy who works mornings.  I'm very pleased with her work, very neat and accurate they way we like it!   She's fun and quite lovely.   It will be so nice to pass on the pattern work so I can concentrate on designing and hooking. 
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Nancy working on "Say Cheese" to go out in the mail today.
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Pam's Pillows

11/27/2013

3 Comments

 
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Pam likes to make handmade presents for her family for Christmas.  Her sewing skills come in handy and finishes off her hooked projects nicely.  The above are sand dollars hooked on brown coloured burlap that we stock in the shop. 

The snowflakes are really elegant with a white on white sophistication. 
The picture doesn't do them justice at all.  These wintery white pillows will be perfect for the season and sport a cottage feel for the rest of the year. 


The coloured burlap is quite lovely to work with and any time you can avoid background that has to be a plus.  The backing makes for a lovely pillow or you can stretch it over artist canvases as in the picture below after hooking a motif in the center.  Sweet little pieces of fiber art to hang on the wall or display on a shelf or mantle.   So much you can do, so little time! 

The burlap would also make a great tree skirt with a hooked motif along the outer edge as that is the only part that really shows.  Quick and easy to sew up too. 

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Breathing new life into older rugs......

11/26/2013

2 Comments

 
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Charlene Scott has been repairing rugs longer than she's been hooking them.  She started with the cart before the horse on the mending side of things.  Instead of creating new, she began repairing the old, breathing new life in tired, well worn, well loved rugs to perserve their history for future generations.   

I met Charlene in my old shop when she popped in with friends but got to know her later when we were renovating the building the shop is in now. She'd pop in periodically to see our progress.  We are both part of the same retail neighbourhood in that she owns the Dog Shop building two houses up the street.   

This is one of her latest salvages.  A rug still in excellent condition except for a two small holes and a tattered edge.  She bound the outside with binding tape and patched the two holes with linen.   This rug is unique in that the back side is more faded than the front an indication that it was displayed wrong side up for most of its life.  Maybe it was a case of keeping the top side good for the company, like the plastic on the sofa significance.

Most rugs are worthwhile rejuvenating, usually because they are a link to our past, a connection to a past family member.  More and more they are found at auctions where they fetch decent prices.  The hooked rug is in favour these days, people appreciate the hand made value so they're coveted and kept in good repair so they last throughout our lifetime and possible beyond.   

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Oh...the things you say.....

11/25/2013

5 Comments

 
"Words are like eggs dropped from great heights; you can no more call them back than ignore the mess they leave when they fall.”  -   Jodi Picoult, 
  
Maybe today's pet peeve might not be appreciated but it's something that's bothered me since I opened my store.  It's possible some people don't even realize what they are saying to me so we'll call this food for thought. Before speaking, consider what your words imply.  You never know the history behind the person listening  because interpretation is in the 'ears' of the beholder.  Today, I'm talking about things said at the cashier counter.  I'm not sure why people say what they do but if you break it down, what do their words really mean? 

It seems to happen when ringing up the sale.....as money changes hands or the plastic makes that swift swipe.   I try to be quiet to make sure I don't mess up the transaction so maybe there's a need to fill the void with words.   I'm told things like "You're awfully hard on my money" or  "I guess I'll have to remortgage my house now" or "Guess I'll be eating Kraft Dinner tonight!" or "I'd better cancel our reservations as I can't afford to go out now",  or "I guess the kids won't be going to university now" or "No Christmas this year", or "Now I'm broke!" or "You cleaned me out!"...to mention but a few...... 

Buying shouldn't come with surprises.   Most stores have their stock marked so a mental tally is easily done. 
I wonder if the customer ever stops to think what the clerk or store owner thinks after hearing one of these declarations?  What does one say to comments like that....what is expected in return?  Personally, I try to come back with a witty retort so we can all laugh your way out the door, but after it closes, my smile melts and I wonder if it was said to make me feel bad or if it's was just a habit of words.  
I've been around enough to know that it isn't just my shop, these comments seem to be a generic response to spending money, but I would prefer chat about the weather, latest projects or maybe even hot flashes, something light and fun.  I force no one to spend money....shopping is free will...no one dangles strings or forces you at gun point to take out your wallet.  I'm not pushy either...I help you cut corners, give alternate suggestions and don't sell you more than the quantity you need.   

Anyway, that wasn't the pet peeve just a prelude.  I'm not happy hearing the above comments but I try not to take them personally or let them ruin the day.  But, and there is always that but.....it's the customers who drop the following comment that bothers me, makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck as if the a cold draft brushed by. 

The offending remark?  "When my husband finds out what I've spent he's going to kill me!"  These words drop like a lead balloon, burst and then permeate the air like rotten eggs.  Think of it....the word husband and the word kill should never be used in the same sentence unless it's deer season or the police have just made the grisly discovery of human remains in your basement. Inferring that your spouse, the man you love, is going to be angry or insane enough to kill you over a wool purchase, well, what does that say about him?   What is the listener to assume. especially when it's common to think where there's smoke there's fire. 

The statement isn't said in jest, there's usually a frown attached to it, if there was a  smile I'd think it was just another comment like the ones above. They might just be words, but they pack a punch, pardon the pun and I'm left speechless, mostly because I'm biting my tongue.   It gets me wondering if there is any truth behind them?  Thinking you may have to miss a meal I can deal with, but worrying there's darkness waiting for you at home.....that's disturbing! And.....if you really don't mean it, consider how those words represent your husband if he's really just a nice guy.   And if he isn't a plum and this is your chance to get a dig in, let the world know your home life is not all happy families, then my heart goes out to you, I've been there and know how it feels but I'm not really the person to vent too or lay that kind of burden on. 


So each time I heat this I hope to god it's just a mouthful of  benign words but who really knows? I've seen things in the shop that curl my toes.  I know the dark side of man, I was married to it.  I know they can be mean about shopping, sometimes borderline cruel and if they act this way in public it makes you wonder what goes on behind closed doors.    I've heard husbands  literally scream at their wives who wish to make a purchase so I know there are men who control the bank account with a Brink's fist, making their wives feel second class or unworthy.  A woman cut the tips off her fingers because her husband adamantly refused to buy her a cutting machine although she negotiated pretty much everything she could think off to get one, even promising a repayment plan with interest like she was borrowing from a bank, not their marriage.   He apparently owned every top-of-the-line tool, but the same luxury didn't apply to her.  I stood quietly in the background while my heart bled for her, and later because of his need for control, she bled with a slip of a rotary cutter.     The way he acted in the store, in front of me, I couldn't help but wonder what he does to her at home.....and I don't have to stretch the imagination, all I have to do is remember back and quite frankly, I don't want to go there......

Maybe the comment wouldn't bother me so much if not for my past.  I know the score; I've made
trips to Emergency over disputes that arise from absurdly simple things.  So if the statement has no truth behind it, why do you want to make me think your husband will be upset because you spent a little money?  If it is true, what can I say?  No matter what the reason, whether it's just something to say for the sake of speaking or if it comes from someplace dark....the impression you've left behind is not favourable.  And lastly, if it's meant as a slight for me, a hint you don't like my prices so you throw your poor husband on the pyre to excuse your own rudeness, well, no one is forcing you to shop so please curb the need to lash out at me with passive aggression............  


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The day that set the course for my life.......

11/22/2013

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I've been interested in dead bodies my entire life. If not for getting married at an unimpressively early age, I would have pursued a career in one of the forensic sciences.   Solving puzzles and speaking for the dead would have been an interesting, worthy profession.  I've felt this way as far back as I can remember but it became carved in stone through an innocent event after the death of President Kennedy. 

At the tender age of five, I’d already absorbed a lifetime of fire and brimstone, guilt and hell fires crammed down my throat by a staunchly religious, fanatical Aunt, so I spent a fair amount of time pondering the omnipresent death.  Her proselytizing Satan's revenge made me afraid to go to sleep and prompted a tentative look under the bed each night. Once I’d scurried under the covers I’d pull them over my head and wait for the inevitable doom to descend.  Although the words, “scared shitless” best described my state of mind in the cavernous darkness of my room, through the fear budded a curiosity about death and what it meant to die. 

By the luck of good health and maybe divine providence; longevity of grandparents and absenteeism of fatal accidents, the limbs of our immediate family tree were still intact. I heard the odd little story about death from classmates, television and radio, but that left big gaping holes in five year old rational thinking.  I wouldn't say I was a morbid little kid, I just had an appetite for answers to questions, a characteristic that must have driven my poor parents to wonder what was going on in my little blond head. 

So not having any direct experience with death and dying, I was left to flounder on my own devices, constantly seeking answers to the questions that riddled my brain.  But, of course, that sort of conversation wasn’t for the dinner table and I found very quickly that death was taboo and was told to practice more of the seen and not so much of the heard. Of course that only raised the bar on my curiosity and I was even more determined to seek the truth.   Surprisingly, in 1963, the assassination of President Kennedy was the catalyst that cemented a lifelong interest in death and dead bodies.      

I clearly remember the day when the news broke that the John F. Kennedy had been shot and killed in Dallas, Texas.  Being Canadian and very young I had little concept of presidents or the United States,  but I soon became aware that his death was a sensation that brought the world to its knees, causing tears to fall in all languages around the globe. 
   
Radio and television covered the assassination as if all other news ceased to exist.  Inundated with media coverage, we ate the news at supper straight through to dessert and picked right back up where we had left off during breakfast the following morning. Sadness, disbelief and death hung in the air and we breathed it in like bad oxygen.
   
When the day of the funeral arrived our television tubes burned brightly.  Like most North Americans, my mother was glued to the procession, watching history roll by on the horse driven caisson that carried the casket of the most powerful leader in the free world. It was during this telecast that the mold was poured and my idle curiosity was formed into an obsession with death.  I remember succinctly the very second the fixation began.  Just as John F. Kennedy’s, flag draped casket made its first appearance on the screen; my mother quickly hustled me from the living room and very sternly told me to stay in the kitchen.   Sitting alone at the table, I listened to a dirge being played on the bagpipes, the ongoing commentary of the announcer, the silent tribute, the never ending clip clop of horse hooves, the Air Force fly-by, the twenty-one gun salute and a bugle’s tribute of The Last Post.  I envisioned all manner of horrible things that my mother might try to protect me from and my imagination breached its limitations many times.  Suffering the worse for not knowing, my first real taste of death had been made secret and forbidden, and like Eve and that apple, I just couldn’t let it be.      
   
After a night of disturbing dreams, my mother blamed it on hearing the funeral procession, feeling justified for banishing me from the room.  Little did she know that it was her protective actions that prompted that restless night. I found out years later the scenes on television were nothing more than a sad procession of mourning faces and a sealed wooden casket covered discreetly with the United States union jack.  But, back then, sitting isolated in the kitchen, my ears turned into eyes that created visions of gaping wounds and blood-soaked skin. Worms crawling from holes where eyes had been. Boogie men, vampires and black cats. Things that go bump in the night and ghouls that sneak into the rooms of sleeping babies to steal their breath.  And I mustn’t forget to throw my aunties contribution on the pile; of hell fires and flesh being ripped from bodies, the gnashing of teeth and the blood of the lamb soaking the ground.  A frightening compilation of every ounce of darkness I’d ever heard was the culprit that terrorized my dreams, not the reality of the day.  Like a switch going on, after that moment of isolation in the kitchen, death became a preoccupation, one I greatly feared, but at the same time, longed to know. 
   
My next encounter with death came a year later and was a little closer to home. I befriended a girl that recently moved into our neighbourhood and though we shared the same birth year, Bridgett was old beyond her years. Toughened around the edges by street wisdom, she was the big city kid plopped into a rural environment with little else to do but hang out with wet behind the ears country bumpkins. Tolerance best described her attitude towards me, but at times, we managed to find a mutual level of enjoyment when there wasn’t an audience to promote her bullying, know-it-all behavior.

Bridgett’s sickly grandfather had moved with them. It was the first time I heard the word cancer, obviously something hideous that was “eating away at his insides”, words of my fathers that provoked a lot of mulling over in the darkness of my room with covers pulled over my head.  Bedridden and in need of constant care, the family turned the downstairs parlor into his room and once when I visited, his door was ajar and I peeked in as I followed Bridgett up to her bedroom.  I remember the moment as if it was yesterday; the cloud-like, makeshift hospital room with its white paint and willowy sheers fluttering in the light afternoon breeze. The room was spacious, void of colour and sparse of furniture with only a bed, night table and dresser. Eerily pale and austere it was as if the room itself was void of life. 

My eyes were drawn to the shell of a man lying on crisp white bed linens whose hallowed face was turned toward the doorway. The ghostly pallor of his skin melded with the blankets, giving him a sinister appearance. When his dull gray eyes met mine, I turned and quickly fled up the stairs to escape the grip of his prickling stare. At the time I believed that I had witnessed fear in those eyes, but thinking back, it was probably my own terror reflecting in his dull orbs and solely responsible for the creepers dashing up and down my spine. One thing for sure, there had been nothing peaceful about his face for he wore the mask of a man intimate with great suffering. 
 
Strangely, I didn’t fear the possibility of the reaper standing next to his bedside waiting for the old man’s number to come up on the roster. Through the trepidation emerged a curiosity and a part of me wanted to return to his room, to steal another glimpse at this part of life I knew nothing about, but, after that day, the door was always closed and I felt relieved and upset at the same time. 

Shortly after that summer’s day when I saw firsthand the ravages of what disease can do to the body,  my father announced that  the old man had “slipped away in his sleep”, and that “it was for the best, considering”.  After the funeral, that I wasn't allowed to attend, the room was dismantled and transformed into a children’s play area, but I continued to feel a chill there, a trace of uneasiness that manufactured goose flesh up and down my arms.  The old man’s eyes, permanently etched on my brain, seemed to follow me everywhere and I couldn’t shake the feeling that a part of him was still lingering.  

A year later Bridgett’s family moved back to the city and another family bought the house.  The odd feeling of dread must have moved with the packed cartons, or maybe, it was permanently trapped under the new, brightly flowered wallpaper that completely transformed the sterile coldness of the room into a modern delight.  For whatever reason, the gateway into darkness was temporarily closed and I was able to put those eerie sensations behind me.

As I grew older I kept my ear to the ground for every tidbit, every mention of death that fell from lips.  I read murder mysteries and anything I could get my hands on pertaining to the subject.   At age thirteen I decided to become a mortician, a job that would ensure a steady supply of death to study.  I believed it took a lot of compassion to prepare the body for its eternal rest and I knew I would be able to paint life on their faces where none existed, to help ease the family’s suffering as they bid their last farewell.   I believed a funeral director's job was the last step in the cycle of life, a worthy, compassionate occupation that helped mourners say goodbye to their loved ones in a serene, comfortable setting. 

I haunted the local funeral home and asked questions until poor Bill Freeman dreaded the sight of me and I visited with every body that went through the home, just to have a little peek and grow more comfortable around the dead.  Maybe all the terror I experienced as a child, fearing Satan plucking me from my bed and throwing me into the hell fires where my flesh would melt from my body (my auntie’s words) desensitized me to death, making the cold corpse almost a pleasant experience.    Thinking back, it's amazing I turned out as well as I did considering the bill of goods I was sold  at such an early age…why did my parents ever let her babysit me?

But whatever the reason, I didn’t have any fear and found it weird that kids my age thought I was creepy.  They would dare one another to visit the cemetery and I thought they were idiots so our opinions of one another were balanced.  My parents never knew I was visiting the mortuary or there would have been a plug pulled on my curiosity but then I probably would have found a way to continue behind their backs. To me the entire process of death and the aftermath was very normal, just a departure of sorts, like moving from a house, taking all the stuff inside that we love and leave the shell behind.      

As I got older I realized there were far more facets of death than just body preparation for funerals, so I started reading about Entomology and Pathology, opening door after door on the sciences of the dead.   It was fascinating.  I fully believe that once the person dies, the body is just a shell and a new chapter begins.  Death is the basis of all life.  Without bacteria we would cease to exist.  I know most feel squeamish and don't care to speak of such things and I respect that, but I have a curious mind that I will take to my own grave. 

My dreams of becoming a pathologist have now been laid to rest, pardon the pun.  For years, my hubby encouraged me to go to university, but I'm a bit too old to be rediscovering myself.  I'm happy with rug hooking and will see that to the end but all those years of information gathering isn’t going to waste.  I am working on a novel, a juicy murder so I’ll put all those interesting tidbits to good use. 


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Two fun new Christmas stocking designs....

11/21/2013

3 Comments

 
Treble Clef Stocking
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For the pianist or musician in your life, hook a stocking that reflects their talent.  Stylized piano keys along the bottom follow the contour of the stocking.  The Treble Clef is curvacious and scrolled.  A bit of holly lends to the seasonal theme. 
Gingerbread Man Stocking
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What fun.  A gingerbread man on candy cane skis.  Lots of places for shots of Christmas colour.   The gingerbread has a white stripe of icing all around his body and elements such as the scarf, hat and candy canes are a place to jazz the pattern with brights.  Candy canes aren't just red and white so add a bit of green in there to balance out the trees on the top.  The stars can be gold or yellow to blend with the scarf details.  I think I'll hook this one next as I can almost taste the little guy!
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Partridge in a Pear Tree

11/19/2013

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Another Christmas Stocking notched on the belt and hung on the mantel! For me, these are three night projects so I hope to do a few more before Christmas. They're fun and  I like being able to start and finish something quickly.

Last night was one of those sleepless experiences so I did a lot of tossing and turning.  Maybe it was the excitement of the finished stocking but whatever caused the anxiousness, my mind was racing so I put it to good use and came up with five new designs for stockings and now I need the time to lay them out on paper.   I think I'll do a gingerbread man next!

Every stocking I hook I try to use a different colour palette.  Christmas is traditionally all red and green so I like to mix it up a bit and this one glows a purple hue. 

The background was done in a delicious new, off the bolt, purple herringbone that came in with the last wool order.  The leaves were done in Green With Envy three value, the pears and partridge with Straw three value.  I also had a Straw dyed over Hound's Tooth that I used for the spiral in the pear, just to add a bit of texture. 

The colour plan is definitely not for a realistic partridge but this rug needed some pop and introducing Flamboyant, a delicious orangey red with the purples really gave the little guy a festive feel.    I used three values for the tail and hooked the lightest close to the body to the darkest at the edge of the tail.  It doesn't show that well in the picture but in real life it adds a lot of interest. 

I love the funky tree done in Walnut one of our new colours so much so that I actually hooked it first. I used the lightest value on the outside to stand out from the background. The darker line is Dorr Antique Red.  I also hooked the lightest value outside on the bird knowing I planned to use a darker background so it creates more contrast to make the bird stand out just a bit more.   

The leaves were a bit of a quandary.  Done in three values I didn't know if I should make the solid side the lightest or the medium value.  In the end I opted do make the solid side the lightest value and I am happy with the result although it probably wouldn't have looked much different the other way. 

I have a bunch of metallic threads that I plan to sew on for a bit of shimmer and shine, after all it is a Christmas piece, but that can come later.  In the meantime I have the coloured photo for patterns and kits.


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3 Comments

Announcing a daytime hook-in!

11/19/2013

2 Comments

 
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2 Comments

What is this?

11/18/2013

3 Comments

 
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Can anyone identify what this pattern would be used for?  The best we can come up with is a book cover although the design shows better this way.  If any of you know what this is for please click on comment and drop a line. 

Charlene found this.  It's an old Pearl McGown design called Rose & Forgett-me-nots.   Too big to cover a brick.  6" x 10 1/2".

Sorry there wasn't a blog today.  I was training a new employee all morning and never got upstairs! 

3 Comments

An update on the bulgy eyed woman and the ring....

11/16/2013

4 Comments

 
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Well, she came back in....for a coffee this time. Apparently I make the best coffee in town.  I beg to differ. Although the Keurig is nice, the Biscuit Eater has that title hands down for their Americano.

Anyway, I told her I wasn't in the business of selling coffee, that it was for my customers. She said she hates Tim Horton's and held out four quarters.  Now I'm not a heartless bastard but I don't want her hanging around the shop so I made the coffee, handed it to her and said firmly that it was the last cup.  She reeked of cigarettes, a smell that repulses me although reminds me of my parents in one swift waft. I joke how I smoked heavily as a small child, two puffing parents with unfiltered cigarettes, yup, I've inhaled in a bit of second hand smoke in my day.   Was never interested in the stuff myself.  It's hard to be glamorous while green around the gills and almost coughing up the lining of your stomach.   Not the movie star look the cigarette manufactures tried to promote. 

I wonder what kind of company this ring woman keeps. I get the feeling she isn't someone to have hanging around maybe casing the joint, looking at all my wool.  I couldn't resist a dig saying "because she's allergic to wool she shouldn't be in here and she once again said, I'm not allergic to wool, I wear lots of wool things.  So she isn't sticking to her lie and that dead critter is beaten as far as I can go.

Then she volunteered an update on the ring.  Apparently someone stole it off her.  She called an appraiser in Halifax and took the ring in and he took off with it.  Boy, maybe I was wrong about that bit of bling....it was obviously very valuable, worth enough to leave a legitimate business for, run off and leave the wife and kiddies to wallow in the lap of luxury on some far away island.  Yup, sure missed out on the a deal of a lifetime there.......

Remember Don Knotts?  I was searching for a bulgy eyed woman picture and he popped up.  What blast from my past.  I'll never forget The Ghost and Mr. Chicken when he spent the night in a haunted house...my favourite of the series of movies he made in the 60's. And remember Frances the Talking Mule with Donald O'Conner?  Loved that stuff!  They don't make them like that any more....good clean fun.  Inspiring laughter so hard that tears  run down your leg! 

4 Comments

FYI.....

11/15/2013

1 Comment

 

A Daytime Hook-in at Encompassing Designs Studio!!!

There will be a daytime hook-in (no charge)
Wednesday November 20th from 1:00-4:00 pm
Coffee, tea and snack will be served 
 A door prize will be drawn!
Come one and all......join us for an afternoon of meeting new friends
or catching up with old! 
I look forward to sitting and hooking with you!
Park anywhere on the street
We hope to make this a regular event so come and join us!
******************************************************************************************************
New items at the shop!
Great Christmas gift ideas!

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Felted sheep notion bags
Top zipper. Comes in Ivory,
Grey or Black
Mama Sheep  6" x 8 1/2" - $12.95 each
Baby sheep 3" x 5" -  $6.95 each

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Flower stem felted wool bags. 
Great for hooks and scissors or make-up. These generous sized bags will be a hit! Comes in Teal, Brown or Black.

Size: 13" x 7" -  $15.95 each

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Hooked Rugs of the Midwest
$19.95

There are two blogs today so scroll down!!!
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The Tree of Life, a healing rug........

11/14/2013

4 Comments

 
By Guest Blogger Beverley Sheppard
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I just finished my mat today, your pattern Tree Of Life,  and decided to share photos of my finished project with you.  I enjoyed Doris Norman’s course last fall and enjoyed hooking the Jacobean pattern, dyeing all the wool myself. 

It’s been a difficult year for me because before my Dad passed away in April I spent a lot of time with him in hospital, Palliative Care and eventually the Hospice where I stayed with him 24/7 and had to put my hooking aside.  Hooking this mat has been a means of comfort as I heal from my loss and it turns out that the Tree of Life is my best effort in hooking and dyeing so far.
 
Thank-you
 
Beverley Sheppard
(a member of the Sussex Tea Room Hookers, Sussex, N.B.)

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Dyeing and hooking Aurora Borealis

11/13/2013

7 Comments

 
By Guest Blogger Charlene Scott
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Note the constellation Orion on the right hand side just above the water.
My rug is called in short "Aurora Borealis" but under my breath it is called " The view from the deck of the CSS BAFFIN in late September, north of the Arctic Circle".

I have wanted to hook a rug for a long time to bring back that scene one cold night when I stood on the helicopter deck of the BAFFIN and watched the lights play for at least half an hour.   They rippled and shimmered and never stopped moving.   All the while I swore I could hear piano music playing in time with the pulsing of the lights.  

I started with the aurora first.  I took a large chunk of raw Dorr wool and painted on the dye.   I needed something to merge the green and purple/pink and dip dyeing was not going to work for me so I painted on the dye and then took blue and gently put some faint streaks over top.  I went over the bottom edge of the green with extra dye to make it slightly darker that the rest. 

For the ocean I used one of the shop's spot dyed wool called "The Abyss" interlaced with a "Spruce" Sari Silk.  For the sky I used the formula for "The Abyss" and added extra bottle green to make it a little darker and a little more into the green zone.   I dyed it using the crush method which gave me lighter and darker splotches on the wool.  When I cut the wool I took the lighter pieces and used them below the aurora and used the darker pieces above.   To finish, I hand sewed many small opalescent seed beads throughout the sky for stars and through the aurora itself to give the impression of transparency.  

For the reflection, I took the cut off strips of green from hooking the aurora, placed them into an onion bag and just before all the dye was sucked up in the pot while dyeing the sky I plopped the strips in.   I wanted the green a little darker but not too much.   Then when hooking the reflection strip I twisted the strips.  I didn't want the reflection to be too flat when the rest of the water was not. 

I hooked the whole rug in #5 cut on linen backing (my first linen rug).  I consider this rug an art piece to be hung on the wall.  My husband will make a frame and it will be the first rug I won't be walking on.  I tried hooking a border around the rug and started five different styles before I realized that it didn't need one, in fact a border diminished it. 

I really enjoyed the challenge of translating my memories into a piece of art through the medium of wool.

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Charlene transferring the design to the linen using red dot.
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The beginning dye technique.
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Using her hands to create lines.
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Finger painting with dye.
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The dried piece of wool waiting to be cut into strips.
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The beginning hooking, all done in vertical lines. The boat deck was in the initial design but Charlene decided not to include it.
7 Comments

Cranberry Glass Pendent...checked off the list!

11/13/2013

3 Comments

 
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Where is the time going?  Already we’ve turned back the clocks, started burning wood in the stove and scraped a few windshields.  We’ve barely put Halloween to bed, Remembrance day is here and gone so now Christmas will bear down on us like a freight train without brakes.    

Sure Christmas is fun but it’s a heck of a lot of preparation for five minutes of ripping and tearing on Christmas morning.  Sort of like a wedding, months of planning for five minutes of "I do".   But hey,  twinkling lights and foil paper wrapped treasures, decorations and the once a year holiday feast is something to look forward to.....a highlight from our mundane daily routines.   Children are filled with awe and adults dust off their best manners.  People are kinder during the holidays as if they worry about that lump of coal. 

But, as each holiday or monumental landmark passes, so does time and I feel like it's running out on me!   Let’s face it, there’s more sand in the bottom of my hour glass than sifting down from the top.  With my mom dying at 58, that's only three years older than I'll be next month!  Time…slow down, allow me to prepare....I want to be ready for old age if I'm lucky enough to see it.  I swear the earth is speeding up on its axis, pushing the days through as if late for a very important date.   

 I have so many things I want to do and at this rate I won’t be scratching much off the list unless I make them a priority now!  In the big picture of life, my desires may be small,  but I’d like to take a crack at a few of them, after all what are we here for if not to experience things.  Most of my stuff is doable too.  I’m not hankering for world travel, or extravagant purchases.   The stuff that brings me joy I can accomplish at home.    Spending time with hubby, writing the great novel or maybe two, adopt more pups to love, cover my floors in hooked rugs, dabble in a bit of painting, gardening, sailing and spend long periods sitting in the white wicker chair on my back deck captivated by this amazing planet we're visiting on a temporary pass.   

I am filled with good intentions...my cup runneth over with them.  What I lack is time.  It’s eaten but not chewed, swallowed up in a gulp and gone.   The past 54 years were a blink of an eye and now I approach one year older,  I begin to wonder what might be next.    So far my life has been a droplet of rain in a torrential downpour, a split second out of eternity, I’m feeling small and insignificant knowing there's now less time ahead than has already past.   I need to make best of what I have.  Do things now...stop waiting for tomorrow because time waits for no man or woman.  I need a 'rest of life' itinerary so I can allot time to get things done so it doesn't overtake me in this one way race to Too Late. No time like the present either because who knows how much is left....we aren’t all following the same plan and have different stops along the route.  I'm not trying to be a doom sayer, but jeesh, if the next half goes as fast as the first I might not get through this blog!

So  I pledged to make a pendant with a piece of that broken Cranberry glass that I’ve been holding on to for 22 years.  The  deadline was last evening and I made it by the hair of my chin, but made it I did!  Writing about my mother’s death brought the desire to the surface so I said no more excuses, no more putting it off for later.  Tempting fate is a fool's game because life doesn't come with any promises, except of course that there will be death and taxes.  This pendent will scratch one item of my  'To Do' and that's a feel good accomplishment.  

I've been a jewellery maker for a few years now.  Well, I suppose I'm a creative assembler.  I don't actually make the beads or the findings, I just gather and string them all together.  I enjoyed working with beads but I got a little carried away with buying them.  The parcels were arriving so quickly the inventory got ahead of me and I became overwhelmed.  Now there are thousands of dollars hidden away in cupboards that I'm not sure what to do with. I'm toying with the idea of a pop up shop to sell them off to other bead enthusiasts who will love them and put them to good use. No bead should be hidden away, they need to be out and worn, bead all they can be! 

The beads I hoard are exquisite. Somet
imes one of a kind, and all made by self representing artists from around the globe....no spit out of a machine, Made in China stuff for me! 


The Blue Willow wire wrapped pendent was the first project I ever made to learn the technique.  Then I wrapped a Pink Peruvian Opal and added fresh water pearls for accents. For the Cranberry Glass I added pearls and made petals from silver springs made by wrapping the wire around a stick pin.  I used Pink Swarovski crystals in the centers of the pearls to look like flower centers. The piece of glass I selected was the bottom of the broken vase.   The next pink or white shirt I wear will be a backdrop to my new pendent, the memory of my dear mother caressing my heart.  

Below is some of the wedding jewellery I've made in the past and pictures of a wedding show I attended.  The necklaces are made with real pearls or Swarovski glass pearls.   I had a great deal of fun during my brief fling with bling, but rug hooking's my main squeeze! 
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3 Comments

Remembrance Day 2013

11/12/2013

3 Comments

 
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Larry Willoughby Veinotte
Born 1908 Mahone Bay
Died and buried in Sicily 1943. 
One of 116,000 Canadian soldiers that never came back home. 
 
I wasn't fortunate enough to know my grandfather, but genetically I am parts of him, and because of him I am alive.

Sadly, there have never been any hugs or bedtime stories, sitting cuddled on his lap in the old family rocking chair, no memories of my own to savor, just relayed accounts of his brief stay on this earth from the few who still remember him.  War robbed me of those experiences and although it was necessary to free the world of a fascist regime, that doesn't mean it hurts any less. 

My grandfather  died when my father was only seven, leaving a boy without a significant male role model and I firmly believe it was the largest contributing factor of him growing up unhappy.  My father was a very sensitive man and somehow the loss left a cloud over his life; a  hole that nothing could fill although he made a gallant effort to drown it in alcohol.    He cried over his father every time he drank and since I was a young girl, I knew how deeply effected he was by the loss, which continued to impact his life until he passed away.

War is indiscriminate, it doesn't just take soldiers.  It can destroy families and rob what might have been.   I feel my father's life, and even my own, would have been a totally different story if my grandfather had been one of the lucky ones to come home.  I believe I grieve for a man I never met because his loss  took my father from this earth...from me prematurely.   I believe in my heart that my father would have been a happier man, one who could have been contented to live in his own skin.    
 
For reasons I cannot explain, I am deeply touched by a virtual stranger, a figurehead in name only. Of course I’ve heard stories about him but they are only words, tales spun of a man who died well before his time.  I’ll never know the real person, the man who laughed and loved, made mistakes and cried.  What I do know, his progeny aside, is the tangible proof of his existence that hangs on my upstairs wall in the form of a framed photograph; a small, frozen moment in time.  Posed in the army uniform, he's dapper and handsome and I suppose I should be grateful for the portrait because there wouldn’t have been such a detailed likeness  to treasure if not for the war....but it's not exactly a fair trade; taking away the real flesh and blood man to leave behind a mere facsimile. 
 
For me, the most striking aspect of the photograph is his eyes.   They are my father's eyes and the same eyes that stare back at me in the mirror.  I can’t find the words to describe exactly how I feel as I look at him, but there's a familiarity, a connection like a plug to an outlet. We simply belong, he and I, and if one can have a relationship with a piece of photographic paper, than we do. His portrait hangs in my upstairs hallway and those eyes greet me as I begin my day, seeming to speak to me as I emerge from my bedroom doorway. 

Larry Willoughby Veinotte, born  1908, died in Sicily 1943, fighting in a war that took him from home and family, where he lies in a grave on foreign soil.  Out of work and without prospects, he signed up to fight as a means to support his family.  A loving, selfless thing to do in depressed times with a wife and four children to clothe and feed.   He was older, in his mid-thirties, really too old to go to war but there are stories that he somehow put forth a good argument to enlist.  Statistically they say the older you are in combat the higher the risk of mortality.  Age brings out compassion for your fellow man, reluctance to pull the trigger when the enemy has a face. War is not a place for emotions, it's every man for himself amidst the violence, chaos, and confusion.  A split second of hesitation can be the difference between life and death.
 
As the story goes, my grandfather died trying to save a buddy.   He crawled out of the trenches to drag a friend to safety, a friend from his hometown of  Mahone Bay. Unfortunately the soldier  was already dead and my grandfather took a bullet in the process.  He bled to death in a medic tent, but not before he wrote a letter to his wife, my grandmother.  I’ve never seen the letter, only heard of its existence, and I don’t know if I would read it even if it hadn’t been lost many years ago. That would have been their private moment to own, not mine to intrude upon, but I do reflect on what words and thoughts one might relay if death is staring you in the face with only a few moments to say good bye to the ones you love.  
 
So every year around this time I become melancholy and park myself on the sofa and watch war documentaries, searching the faces for  a glimpse of familiarity.  As more and more footage is released showing us what war was really like, you see what weaponry can do to flesh and bone, and with coloured footage, distinguish  the mud from the blood.   I sit with tears in my eyes and horror in my heart unable to imagine what those soldiers felt at the front of any battle.  

Every November the sadness overcomes me as I wonder what might have been.    So much time has passed it might seem irrelevant to some, but not every part of him is gone.  I’m here and I want to preach from my soap box that Larry Willoughby Veinotte mattered. He was loved.  A brother; a husband; a father; a living, breathing person....and then was taken away.  Our entire family is collateral damage of that war, we can't even begin to know what we missed from not having him in our lives.   I watched my father destroy himself because he wasn't strong enough to deal with, or stamp out the palpable sadness of his loss.  It is so out of character for me to be a babbling fool, but this gets me, right in the heart. 

And I'm angry,
we haven't evolved or learned anything from past mistakes.  War and conflict still exist and more fathers, husbands, sons and daughters are dying.  The fact that the human race can't get along upsets me and I resent war and the collateral damage that results from it.   Yesterday morning I looked out the window at the blue sky and shining sun and pondered going to the Cenotaph, to stand with the families of the fallen but I was too sad.  I'll stay home and shed private tears and watch Remembrance Day from the sofa.   Lest We Forget?  Personally I can't.  If only I could......    

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3 Comments

Lighthouses of Newfoundland and Labrador

11/8/2013

2 Comments

 
By Guest Blogger Heather Gordon
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RHGNL Lighthouse Show

Last Saturday, while teaching a Tessellations workshop at Encompassing Designs, I spotted the November issue of Rug Hooking magazine.  I have been anxiously awaiting this edition because the Canadian Connection section featured the wonderful lighthouse show created by members of the Rug Hooking Guild of Newfoundland and Labrador. 

As a member and teacher of the RHGNL, I head for “The Rock” every August for rug camp.  Our show was first assembled at the August 2012 rug camp at Twin Ponds near Gander and has traveled across the region from St. John’s to Labrador City for a full year.  Joan Foster, who spearheaded the project for the RHGNL, kept us informed about receptions and media coverage at each new venue.  Finally, in August 2013, after the last showing on Fogo Island, the projects were brought back to Twin Ponds, displayed for one last time and returned to the 44 participating artists.  Somewhere along the line, the show caught the attention of Rug Hooking magazine and we could hardly wait to see what the article would look like. My subscription still hasn’t arrived so I stole a peek at Christine’s and discovered that a photo of my Lobster Cove Lighthouse was included in the article.  It brought back many pleasant memories.

After the 2010 rug camp in Gros Morne, a friend and I visited the Grenfell Mission at St. Anthony on the Northern Peninsula.  Our trip was also motivated by one of the items on my “bucket” list.  For many years, I had wanted to see the thousand year old Viking settlement at L’Anse aux Meadows.

For most of the trip, the skies were overcast with dark, ominous clouds and gusty winds.  The mood, suitable for such a bleak landscape, only enhanced the experience.  However, on the last day, as we made our way south to the Port Aux Basques ferry, the sun broke through and the skies cleared.  We took advantage of this and examined every point of interest all along the west coast of Newfoundland.

It was not my first visit to Lobster Cove Head, but it was the first time I walked the trail around the lighthouse.  Seeing the structure from the cliff below, silhouetted against the brilliant blue sky, I knew that the scene had to be hooked one day.  It was a glorious sight on a perfectly glorious day.  When I look at my photos, I can almost feel the sun on my back and the wind in my hair. When the show was being planned, there was no doubt in my mind about which lighthouse I would choose.  I hope that all who have seen this hooked version have shared the joy of that moment.

After traveling “overseas” for a year, The Lobster Cove Lighthouse went on display for the month of September in the Square Zebras show, Out Of The Box, in Petite Riviere, Nova Scotia, and is finally hanging in my home overlooking Lunenburg Bay.

Materials Used:   New Dorr wool, recycled wool fabric, velour and a variety of specialty yarns on linen. The lighthouse is sculpted and the piece is backed and quilted to enhance the three-dimensional style of hooking.   All of the fibers used in the piece are included in the fringe. 

Measurements:  9” x 45”   I used several of my own photos for some initial sketches and decided to crop the view to emphasize the height of the lighthouse structure and the steepness of the cliff face.  Below the point where I stood, separated by a light rail fence, there was a sheer weathered cliff and another 50’ drop to the ocean.

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Lobster Cove Lighthouse hanging in the first display at Twin Ponds, August 2012
Designed and hooked by Heather Gordon, Lunenburg, Nova Scotia.

2 Comments

What a show and tell evening!

11/7/2013

5 Comments

 
Wow, what a fabulous hook-in last evening!  We're brilliant!  Like a think tank for hooking!  There was no end to the delights, one after another, I was clicking and clicking and here are a few of the pictures taken.  Eye candy all!  There were projects finished and ones newly started.  What a talented group of women.   Hey, when you're as good as you say you are...it isn't bragging!  So the hook-in was a blast.  There was homemade fudge from Pam and cinnamon rolls from Linda Ruth's oven.   Spoiled or what?

Our hook-ins are usually lively, like we've gotten out of solitary confinement and need to laugh and chat all at once.  The collective noise is ongoing and usually there isn't a lull but at one point we all went unusually quiet and it was so out of character someone commented how strange it was to be able to hear a pin drop. Usually the cackles can be heard down the street and I often wonder what the tenant, on the other side of the wall, thinks about our Wednesday evening gatherings.

I was the odd man out last evening. I've been working on making a piece of the broken Cranberry Glass into a wire wrapped pendent.  Talk is cheap and I've been saying I planned to do this for years and it's time to crap or get off the pot!   So I've given myself a deadline of tonight to finish and mark the accomplishment off my bucket list.  I've been paving quite a long stretch of highway with all my good intentions and it's time to shut down the road crew!

But...I don't know if I've lost my bling touch or because the piece, which will commemorate my mother, needs  a higher level of talent to execute, but I'm not happy they way it's turning out so back to the drawing board.  I'm trying to make it extra special and there's only so much one can do with a bunch of wire and some pearls.  Maybe it's been too long since I made the last pieces and I've lost the skill?  I went home and ripped out what I'd started and hope to begin again this evening.  I'm too fussy for my own good but if I plan to wear this piece when I haul out my pink shirts, well it can't look like chopped liver!   I want to wear it and look down and smile, think about mom and have a warm fuzzy feeling, not bury its ugliness deep in my jewelry box and forget about it......

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Ginny is our quilting queen.  Her work is perfection.  She calls this one Basket of Flowers.  Both her hooking and quilting is  top notch.
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Pam holding up a finished Shiver Me Timbers.  Now she's working on a project using brown coloured burlap and is hooking large sand dollars to be made into pillows.  All motif and no background to hook!  Sorry I didn't get a photo...next time!
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  This is Barb's first project.   One of Sue Cunningham's patterns called High Tide.  She's clearly very talented.
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Lorraine is nearing the end of her commission piece.  Her sky is fabulous! 
This is an old Garrett pattern. 
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Coincidentally, Ginny has finished her quilt and just started hooking the same rug design. 
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My Aunt Audrey working on her Morning Glories.  Her own custom design to match a beautiful quilt she bought for her bed.  
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Charlene showing her progress on the Tessellations Workshop project of last Saturday.  She is mixing up the colours in the windows which really sets off the houses nicely.   Charlene is always blinged up and accessorized beautifully so it is no shock she wanted to jazz up the houses with a  bit more interest. 
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Linda Ruth and her mirror image houses.  Beautifully done in greys and textures with monochromatic flair and a fabulous pop of red.  Another stunner.
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Glenna just completed Hot Water, Fresh Towels, a Sue Cunningham design.  I've always loved this design, a perfect bathroom piece, especially for a B&B.  Great job!
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Pam sews my flannel gripper frame covers for the shop.  She delivered a nice bunch of reds for the coming holiday season.  I especially like the one with the navy and white bows on a red background....and of course plaid is always a favourite! 
5 Comments

Broken vase, broken heart....

11/5/2013

16 Comments

 

"Death ends a life, not a relationship" ..........Mitch Albom

PictureMarjorie Eileen Veinotte
I went through a period in the 90’s when I collected a bit of Cranberry Glass.  Nothing substantial, just a few select accent pieces. In case you didn't know, Cranberry Glass gets  its colour from gold, and that makes it extra special and of course expensive.   

1991 was the year that hubby and I tied the knot, a quick affair before he headed off to the Marblehead Ocean Race.  We joke that he spent his honeymoon with a bunch of sweaty, flatulating men on board a 40 ft sailboat.  I was probably the only one unhappy!   The vows out of the way, we planned to have a reception on his return, but life sometimes steers us off course.....
 
My mother had been suffering for years with painful veins in her legs and then she developed a clot that although wasn’t life threatening, it did cause her sleepless nights as she felt the blood pulsing against the blockage.   She was of the generation that never complained so the doctor didn’t realize the severity of her discomfort and the operation was pushed back several times due to schedule conflicts.  Shortly after we married she finally went in for surgery.  She came home to convalesce and at that time sent my sister out to buy a piece of Cranberry glass for a wedding gift.  I couldn't have been more delighted. It was a very large piece with a curvaceous body, perfect for floral arrangements or just a centerpiece to admire.  

Sadly, mom contracted an infection and had to go back to the hospital for a second surgery, didn’t do so well and was taken back into the OR for a third time.  Three surgeries in a short time frame taxed her body and she began hemorrhaging into her abdomen.   Out of the blue we received a call that our was dying and would not make it through the night. 

When we arrived at her side she was barely coherent with a tube in her mouth so she couldn’t speak.  We talked to her and her eyes were frantic as she  tried to communicate with us.   If only someone had told us to give her a pen and paper. If only we had thought of it...but that time is lost forever and we will never know what she was trying to say. I could tell she was afraid, who wouldn't be? It was a terrible time for her and for us.  We watched our mother die when there had been no preparation, no chance to come to terms with losing her.

She lost consciousness shortly after we arrived and then we just waited by her side as her body shut down one organ at a time and finally her heart stopped beating.  The nurse told us she had a very strong heart, beating fiercely until the end.  We talked to her right until the end hoping she could hear and not feel alone.  There are no words in the English language to describe the emotions of that terrible night.   

I was numb from the shock.  The thought hadn’t entered my head that she would die, then or ever.  She was 58, that's only 3 years older than I am now.  My mother was strong both physically and mentally her entire life and I'd always viewed her as a rock; invincible; infallible.  She was the matriarch, the one you went to with problems, for support and advice and now she was gone.  We were just starting to get to know one another as women, not as mother and daughter.    There was so much I didn’t know about her and she me.  


I cried but it seemed forced, not the kind of grieving that wretches your stomach, steals appetite and the will to live.  For several weeks my eyes leaked tears like a facet in need of a new washer but my pain only skimmed the surface. I sat on the sofa and cross stitched a Blue Willow scene and thought of her, remembering, analyzing feelings,  and wondering  when the numbness would peel away to allow for  deeper feelings to emerge.  But although the tears may not have been flowing like rivers, the sadness was profound, I barely smiled and dug deep for reasons to carry on. 

The public viewing was difficult.  There was a gaiety about it that I didn’t understand.  I was sad, and I wanted everyone to feel the same way.  Loosing my mother was a loss of grand proportions and I couldn't take it lightly.  People in my family were saying things like, “It was for the best, she didn’t suffer,” and  “She looks good.”   Rage brewed under the surface from their stupid words and I wanted to scream, she doesn’t look good, she looks dead!   Her body was bloated from the trauma of medications and dying; that cold shell laying there didn't look anything like her. 


And her death wasn’t for the best, what kind of stupid thing was that to say.  It wasn’t like she suffered through a long debilitating illness with crippling pain.  Maybe death in that circumstance would be sweet relief and “all for the best” but she was alive and well less than a couple of days ago taken down by an infection.  A senseless death really, ripped from us by a string of bad luck, a dirty instrument, something not sterilized properly?  I could see and feel no blessed relief

Bitterness consumed me.  I felt there wasn’t enough grief and respect in the room. Taking the cue from the lighthearted manner of family members, people were laughing and talking around her body and kids were loud and running and chasing one another.  It felt more like a party than her funeral.  I wanted to scream but I stood like a statue and barely spoke to anyone except my husband who held me up that awful day.  All I could think was that she deserved better, there should have been tears, a show of respect.  Except for my hubby and I welling up, there wasn’t a moist eye in the place, nor a hanky in hand.   I felt sick and ashamed to be a part of this strange family. 

I’ve been to enough viewings to know that people deal with grief in all kinds of ways but I have never been to one where no one shed a tear.   I stood apart from my family and watched in disbelief.   I shed tears even now as I write this, our mom deserved a public display of emotion, if not by tears, by sad faces, eyes that tell a tale of grief even when the mouth dares to form a smile.  This was no time for jokes and merriment.  This was our collective time to say goodbye to our mother.   I left hurting for her.  I kept my feelings to myself because of my status of black sheep, a title I've been unfairly given because no one cares to know the real me, just judge who they think I am.  I’ve been slammed my whole life because I’m a private person who minds her own business and doesn’t intrude on the lives of others.  It’s not that I don’t care; I just have enough to deal with in my own life and don't have time to meddle in someone elses.   If that makes me a black sheep, than I guess I’m baaaaaad to the core.   

So I internalized my feelings and fixated on the wedding vase, the last gift my mother had given me.  I clung to it like a life raft.   I put it in the dining room on the buffet, a place to showcase its beauty.  Next to my life, that vase was the most precious gift my mother had ever given me.  The first and last testament of her love.   

We were in the process of buying our first house when she passed away and now we were renovating one room at a time.  I cleared out everything from the dining room  except the table and buffet and although I should have packed up the vase or moved it into the living room, I wanted to see it while I worked. I can’t describe the attachment I felt to this pretty piece of glass but it comforted me, just knowing it was there.    So I left it on the buffet and started painting the room. 


When I needed to move the buffet to access the wall behind it, I slightly lifted the one side to take the weight of the old steel casters so not to scratch the newly sanded floors when moving it out from the wall.  I guess I lifted it a bit too high as the caster fell out of the bottom of the leg so when I sat it back down that leg dropped lower and the buffet tipped forward.  I watched in a slow motion horror as my beloved vase tipped over and crashed to the floor below, smashing into hundreds, possibly thousands of pieces. 

I stared in disbelief with mouth agape. 


And then a scream came, a loud mournful, guttural sound that escaped from the pit of my stomach and worked its way up into my throat. Then another scream followed, as agonizing as the first.  And tears....a tsunami of tears, blinding me, splashing down my cheeks, soaking my shirt and floor. I kept screaming and screaming, insane with agony.  It was as if my mother had just died but this time I was feeling every shard of pain, cutting at me as if I'd fallen on the broken glass on the floor.  

Then I felt panicked, claustrophobic and started to run from room to room, pulling at my hair as I tried to escape the pain.   I ran up and down the stairs, screaming and wailing, thrashing about in a madness I haven't felt before or since.  


At some point I collapsed to my knees and wept for what seemed like hours.  All I could think was that my mother was dead, gone forever.  Even though she had died months before, it was as if it just happened and the pain of it felt raw from the open wound.  

As the tears subsided I felt totally drained.  Too weak to stand, I literally crawled up the stairs on my hands and knees and managed to get into bed.  I fell instantly asleep.  

The broken Cranberry glass was later gathered and kept in a shoe box. I still have it after twenty two years. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.  I spent months searching for its twin unsuccessfully and will continue to look for the rest of my life.  If I find one, I’ll place it on the buffet and pretend it was the original,   but so far it seems that vase was a one of a kind, just like my mom.   I couldn't even find a picture of a similar piece on the internet,  nothing came close. 

I often wondered why it happened.  Even though it was stupid to leave such a fragile, precious object out during a renovation, how could fate be so cruel?  If the moment had a silver lining it might be that the experience was cathartic, finally allowing me to deal with and process my mother’s passing. 

My mom died on October 5th so I've been thinking about her a lot lately.  This story reminded me that I've wanted to wire wrap a few of the larger broken pieces of Cranberry glass.  I've ground down the edges to a smooth finish to wrap into a pendent so I can wear it close to my heart….the place where my dear mom now dwells......   

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Gorgeous new plaids just in!

11/4/2013

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From left to right colour description:
Dark Green/black hound's tooth
Light Teal
Light Teal plaid
Light Grey plaid
Light Multi coloured herringbone
Mossy Green plaid
Rusty Red plaid


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Tessellations Workshop 

11/4/2013

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Here are some pictures from the workshop held Saturday at the studio.  Heather Gordon taught Tessellations to a very well received audience.  I can't wait to see all the projects hooked.  

Tessellations are geometric patterns created by repeated designed without gaps or overlapping motifs.  The students worked on a fantasy "Rainbow Village" design.  The students learned to:

- Create  their own tessellation templates
- Modify the design for different types of projects (chair pad, wall hanging or floor mat configuration
- Transfer the pattern to your backing
- Colour plan for different effects


Heather Gordon is a certified teacher with the Rug Hooking Guild of Newfoundland and Labrador - RHGNL
Director, South Shore Region of the Rug Hooking Guild of Nova Scotia - RHGNS

A portion of the proceeds went go to the RHGNL
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First the introduction an chat about Tessellations.
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Instruction on how to achieve an accurate pattern using templates and straight lines.
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Deanna holding up her finished pattern. Ooops, she missed one window but that was quickly rectified. This was her first attempt at a geometric, hand drawn line pattern.
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Some notes on Tessellations.
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Notes on how to use the template.
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Sue getting a tip....buy low sell high?
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Wool is all cut and ready to hook.
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Charlene buzzing right along.
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Starr laying down her first roof line.
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Freaky faces, not just for Halloween........

11/1/2013

3 Comments

 
I was a bit mortified this evening. A gal came by the other day and said she saw that I was working late on Monday night.  She said she saw me at my desk drawing patterns and wanted to know if I ever go home. I didn’t think much about the comment until this evening when I was again working late at the desk and then it hit me, OMG…..

I do this stupid thing with my face when I work. So I’m standing there with a weird twist to my jaw, looking like I don’t have any teeth and part of my jawbone is missing. 

And worse, when I cut backing,  the sawing action of the scissors triggers my jaw to pump in rhythm.  What the heck is that all about?  I’ve noticed in the past when I’m using the sewing machine, I’m doing something weird with my mouth, cocking my lower jaw to the left and curling my upper lip.   I kinda feel like Elvis, "Thankyou, Thankyouverymuch"

I understand the face is an open book  for lifting and straining.  Constipation can screw it up royally and lifting  something heavier than a toaster might make you grit the teeth, but pushing a Sharpie marker, come on, that's like licking ice cream, why the face?   Do any of you do this kind of thing or am I some sort of mouth freak?   Maybe I'll get Shane to take a picture of me doing this to see how bad it actually is and if it isn't too offensive, I'll post it.     Update on the photo (Nope, not gonna happen....not a flattering image...something best hung in the basement to scare rats away!)

At the shop in the evenings, I stand in front of the big plate glass window never thinking twice about all the people walking or driving by.  I look out and see darkness so I feel cocooned and private, but they all look in at a brightly lit room and there's me doing weird things with my face. 

Now I know we all do things when we don’t realize people are watching.  I’ve seen a good many drivers engaged in nasal penetration.  For some reason we think we can’t be seen because we’re on the move?  The fact that the car is made up of about 30% windows makes it nothing more than a mobile fish bowl.  Don't  go for the boogie, we see you and want to keep our breakfast down!
  
When driving, I’m guilty of a few air guitar solos and belting out the tunes into a fist mike, but I keep my fingers out of the orifices of my face and never, ever touch my eyes. I saw a show once that left a lasting impression; where a guy bit off his finger because he had it in his mouth during a rear-ender at a four way stop.  One big gulp and the digit landed in his stomach. Whether it’s truth or an urban legend, it does get you thinking. Touching around the eyes could result in a nasty incident  so I stay well clear of handling any part of my face in a parked or moving vehicle.   

I know  a woman who drives with her mouth agape, her lower jaw hangs as if the muscle gave up the ghost, you just know there's drool.  She’s intelligent and normally very pretty, but seeing her behind the wheel, not so much. So why do we do these things? There must be a reason behind the phenomena and this inquiring mind needs to know.
   As for me working in front of the window, I'll be more aware that I'm on public display, keeping the facial tics in check along with making sure I'm buttoned up and wearing make-up.....
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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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