 How quickly eight years has sped by. It seems like only yesterday Deborah Sweet applied for a job at the studio and this past Friday, her last day of work at Encompassing Designs, retirement spirited her away.
Deborah is one of a kind. She is talented, intelligent, hardworking, conscientious, honest to a fault and a quality maker of all things. It was a privilege to be in her company and work alongside her. She was a strong asset to the studio and has left big shoes to fill. She turned 71 this month, hung up her apron and is well deserving of the next chapter of her life. I could fill pages with her many attributes but I’ll try to keep it terse. A thousand words would never be enough to encompass the many aspects of Deborah anyway, for she is a shining star. She was the consummate employee of the week for the entire eight years she graced us with her presence. Customers loved her and I received many accolades as they raved about how helpful and talented she is, how lucky I am to have her, they called her a gem, and said how lovely she is to deal with. With her artistic background, she knew colour like a second language and created a wonderful line of patterns for the delight of our customers. I never worried about leaving the studio in her capable hands. I depended on her even more in 2022 as Covid, and then Long Covid, stole my enthusiasm and physical health. If not for Deborah, the shop would have been closed for good and I appreciate her staying the course in my absence. Deborah, Shane and I were like a well-oiled machine, a team working together to offer the top-quality products our customers rely on. I walked into the shop Monday morning and it felt cold and foreign. No, it was not the temperature as I shuddered and clutched my fake fur around me. The air was tinged with a palpable sadness that chilled me to the bone. Deborah really was gone and I gently mourned her loss to the studio. I teared up as she drove away Friday afternoon, her last day with us but there was always a hidden hope it wasn’t true but Monday morning’s reality hit hard. One half of me is happy for the new adventure she is embarking on, the other half of me, the selfish part, wonders how I can go on without her. This is not the end of course, like she joked every time I moaned over her leaving telling me “It’s not like I’m dead!” We are friends and most likely she will stop in occasionally when she is out’n about, we are both avid readers and will continue to swap books, perhaps she’ll hook with us on Wednesdays, perhaps one day go for coffee and a tea when I finally take off my mask in the outside world. Like all stages of life, things will change and take on a different form. She is, after all, only down the road a bit…… Oh well, time to get out those big girl panties and pull them up to my armpits. No more being spoiled with time off, come hell or high water it’s back to working six days a week until the new gals can be left on their own. In the meantime I will concentrate on getting my mojo back now that I am almost fully recovered from the ravishes of this awful virus. All the best Deborah in anything and everything you do. I’m sure there is a bit of an adjustment to be had on your end as well. I hope you do all the things that bring you bliss and best of all you can now sleep-in when needed, how glorious is that? And remember, the door is always open if you’d like to come back in any capacity. Of course, that’s wishful thinking on my part. If I wasn’t such an old dog, I could accept change. I’ll be fine, I really just want you to know the impact you made on Shane and on me and how much you’ll be missed! My therapy during this transition period is to madly hook my revamped Funky Fish designs. I’ve added to the two older ones from 2001 for some new patterns and kits for the shop. Who doesn’t love a fun, funky fish? They are the last patterns Deb drew before she left last week so I want to do them justice. There is nothing better than hooking to soothe a sad soul and inspire hope of new things to come. Colour can do that. It’s like a hug from a rainbow. The fish are bright and happy and the borders are an exercise in shapes. Each one sports a different colour plan but the Poseidon hand dyed wool is throughout the rugs to bring continuity to the project. The rectangle was first, giving birth to the idea of an aquatic collection, then came the circle followed by the oval. There will be a fourth, a square with a fish looking front on and perhaps a fifth, a hexagon border rounding out the geometric shapes. I’ll arrange the collection artistically on the shop wall to create a fitting “splash” of colour and a “swimmingly” fun display. Stay tuned for updates and photos as I progress with this project. Deborah, thank you for all your remarkable years of service and all the very best from Shane, Rasa, Judi, Gregg, Henri, Fiz, Jake and me.  I am a sentimental old fool. I hold on to the past with both hands, cradling the link to save it from the ravishes of time. Letting go of items from the past is outside my comfort zone and add that to my attachment feelings for inanimate objects, well it prevents me from embracing change. This is my defense…… Years ago, when I opened my studio, I needed a zig zag sewing machine to sew the edges of the patterns to keep them from fraying. Mom had her mother-in-law’s Singer in storage since Nana became a resident of a nursing home. Remarkably the Singer and I shared the same age so of course we bonded. It was a workhorse that would sew through pretty much anything you could throw at it, was as heavy as a large sack of potatoes and amazingly, still in immaculate shape. But what made it even more special than condition and family history was the carved initials of M. Bird on the metal base representing Marguerite Bird, my father’s mother. In my heart, I was forging a connection with my grandmother through a tangible piece of her past by using it in my present. It was a feel-good association filled with love and pride……until it wasn’t. Like any appliance or gadget from the past, things were built to last, perhaps spanning the purchaser’s lifetime with its metal parts and gears. Now under my care, I fully hoped the machine would last my tenancy in the studio, sending it out to the Singer repair guy for a yearly overhaul to ensure it. Throughout 23 years in business, we used it every day and from time to time it had to have minor repairs. In 2022 it came to a decisive halt and needed a new heart, I mean motor, but after one was installed, it seemed to suffer rejection and was the catalyst for all manner of things going wrong. Sadly, that was the end of its former glory. It certainly tested one’s patience and dear Deborah suffered through breaking thread that fell victim to the wearing out tensions and adjustments, pressing the thread so it would not move along the route and break. At our age, threading a needle requires a magnifying glass, nimble fingers, and murmuring under the breath. But we endured and no matter what the machine threw at us, I had it resuscitated when probably it should have been given last rights back in 2017. We now have two new employees who have not worked on a machine of this vintage and trying to get around the four sides of a pattern probably seemed like an on-the-job training test of one’s patience. They both handled it far better than me and my four-letter expletives but Friday was the last straw. After the thread snapped on five separate occasions on one pattern, I pulled the plug and the old machine seemed to sigh, or perhaps I did, as we both let go. The online buy and sell sites offered up plenty of second-hand choices and affordable pricing. I did not need lots of bells and whistles or dozens of fancy stitches, just a straight and a zig zag function. How to decide from the dozens of machines listed and of course, Covid sat in the back of my mind. I really did not want to drive all over the county, go into strangers’ homes to test their machines and risk another infection. That, and I worried about inheriting problems prompting the sale in the first place. So, I opted for a new one and turned my attention elsewhere. Canadian Tire offered a couple of heavy-duty Singer machines that looked promising. After work on Saturday, hubby and I made the trek to Bridgewater to pick up the one that best suited our needs. By 5:30 PM it was unpacked, set up, I had wound several bobbins, something the old machine balked on, and I was zipping around a pattern as clean and smooth as a knife through butter. Guilt set in while I enjoyed the delightful fruits of my purchase. Poor Deborah had been wrestling with the old beast for years. If not for the cherished carved initials and lineage of the machine, it would have been put out to pasture. Sorry Deb, tradition sucks, eh? To make it up to her I bought the one that has a quick needle threader, so no more squinting and holding that darn magnifying glass. Also, it runs with lightening speed, not limping on its last leg like an old mare, clipping around the edge of the pattern like a thoroughbred in the Kentucky Derby. Hopefully this new machine lasts until I retire without giving us any grief. I am not a fan of all the plastic parts, knobs and accessories in appliances purchased today; they lack character and form and are not built to last in a disposable world. All I ask is “Dear, lovely machine, please give us a good ten years or until I retire, whatever comes first.” In the meantime, it is a new machine and a new year, fresh starts for all
I thought maybe it was time to update everyone about the studio and how we feel and continue to deal with Covid.
We are still wearing masks to protect ourselves and ask that our customers do the same. I am not here to preach about our beliefs versus yours, whether you agree or disagree with our policy. We need to do what is best for us, live within our comfort zone, and do risk management from the information that is provided by the experts. We continue to listen to the scientists and medical professionals and it seems that the course we are on is right for us at this time. We hope in future we can begin to relax, but right now with a more virulent, highly contagious, BA5 on our doorsteps, now isn’t the time. I do have to say with some disenchantment that I am disappointed in the reactions of others with our policy. Most of the customers that cross our threshold tell us thank-you for protecting them and ourselves, that we have to do whatever keeps us safe. Being in retail people talk to us so we hear who has had Covid, along with their families and friends, some who have passed, it is all around us and touched pretty much everyone in one way or another. But and there is always that infuriating but, some feel it necessary to bully, to shame, to holler at us for our stupidity in thinking that a plague even exists. I’m going to call it a plague instead of a pandemic because the latter is too friendly a word to describe what the world is experiencing. It sounds more like the Olympic Games, something fun. A plague conjures up thoughts of the black death hunting us down, and according to WHO, the true global death toll from this Covid plague is almost 15 million. A woman yesterday hollered into the shop, “You come highly recommended but I’m not wearing a mask and I won’t be spending my money here!” I was hooking one beautiful summer Saturday with the door open. I could hear the comments of the passersby as they read my notice. They mumbled and shook their heads, sometimes saying I was nuts. Looking in at me in my mask as if I was someone to pity. At one point a woman walked by with a young child no more than 6 and she stopped to read my sign and then hollered in “That’s ridiculous!” and continued walking. Then sent her child back to climb up on our step and scream in the door, “That’s ridiculous!” He laughed at me and ran back to his mom. I was flabbergasted, thinking how a mother could do that to a child, what kind of message will ferment in his young, impressionable mind? No child is born to hate, their parents teach them all they need to know. How many times have I heard comments about the studio being Fort Knox? One guy said that because we’ve vaccinated and have had boosters, we are the ones spreading Covid around. He said he hasn’t had any vaccinations so he will be safe. One gal said, “I don’t have a mask so I won’t be coming in. I’ll come back when you take that sign down!” She huffed away before I could tell her we sell masks for $2.00. I somehow don’t think that would have been appreciated and until the plague starts petering out, the sign is here to stay. What do I say to all of this? Well, what can I say? First of all, I am shocked speechless every single time because it knocks my brain offline. In my wildest imagination I can’t figure it all out. By the time I’m collecting my wits, the person is gone. Maybe I need to prefabricate replies, have them ready but I’d probably still have trouble with the spontaneity of it all. I’m not a scrapper but I do admit that after the fact, comments come easy and are clever, then my hubby chimes in with even better retorts but that’s like locking the barn after the cow ran away. For now, the masks will stay on. I live for the day when I can feel safe removing it, pluck my chin, whiten my teeth and get out that coveted lipstick, but while we’re still in the middle of this plague, I’ll continue to get my boosters and hope when it finally finds me, with my compromised immune system, I’ll be strong enough to withstand its blow and continue to keep Encompassing Designs going. So, bear with us please. If you don’t support our decision that is your right and we respect it, but maybe you could keep your comments in check and respect ours.  Most of you know that I was incapacitated over the holidays, and all of January, with a severe case of sciatica. I am now back to work thanks to the new osteopath in Mahone Bay that I am affectionately calling Thomas, The Welsh Healing God. He not only set my sciatica straight, but we are working on an old injury from 2007 that causes pain and the occasionally limp. He suggested various stretches and 20 minutes every second day on an exercise bike to repair a meniscus problem in my knee and low and behold, I am now able to go up and down the stairs using both legs instead of leading with my left and hauling up the gimpy one after me. My future has become a whole lot brighter.
During my stay at home, when I was able to sit in a chair comfortably, I logged into the computer and opened my work emails to check what I was missing. One day I found an email with a photo of our pattern ANGEL, magnificently hooked by Leisa Hillman. I am sure most people who choose one of my patterns don’t realize how seeing them so beautifully hooked lifts my spirits to higher levels and creates a warm and fuzzy feeling in my heart. Her writing was even more heartwarming, here is our correspondence. Dear Christine, I am a rug hooker from the Omaha, Nebraska area and purchased your "Angel" pattern a few years ago. I searched for the perfect pattern and this was the most beautiful angel design I found. My mom loves angels so I hooked it as a surprise for her. I gave the angel red hair like Mom and made her robe the color of my mom's best dress when I was growing up. I started it in a Diane Stoffel class and finished on my own. Diane was great at helping to color plan my rug - as she always is! Once I completed it, I had it framed. Mom lives about 500 miles away in Oklahoma so I only get to see her a few times per year. My son and I drove down unannounced and surprised her with her rug this past spring. She loved it! (After she got over the shock of us just showing up at her door. :)) She hung it on a wall protecting it from sunlight but where people can see it. She said it made her move many other pieces of furniture and wall hangings so she was one powerful angel! I had entered this rug in the Celebration contest and got word this morning that it received Honorable Mention. I'm very excited and proud! I've been hooking for about 4 years and this is my second time to enter Celebration and my second time being selected. Your pattern is just lovely and one of my favorite commercial patterns I have seen. So, thank you for creating a beautiful pattern! It was a pleasure to hook. When you create a design, I'm sure you have no idea what it can mean to someone and so I thought I would tell you how this one touched my life. I am enclosing a picture of my completed project. All my best, Leisa. Dear Leisa, Congratulations on being selected for Celebration Magazine with ANGEL! So exciting for you, the talented rug hooker that brought the design to life and me, for inspiring you with the design. The rug is a masterpiece and the sentiment attached makes it even more fantastic. This pattern was always special to me. Many, many, gosh 30+ years ago, I drew two of these angels, each one was 4' x 8' on pieces of Masonite that were for a Christmas concert in one of the local churches. They hung facing each other, high up on the arch over the pulpit, facing one another and appeared to be in flight. I wish I had a picture of them and I believe the actual angels are long gone. Many years later when I opened the studio, I thought the angel would make a beautiful pattern and I added a majestic border to frame her. You've captured her perfectly with a beautiful colour plan and your hooking is divine. I couldn't be more pleased. Dear Christine, Thank you so much for your kind words. I'm glad you think I did your beautiful pattern justice. Thank you for telling me the back story of your design. I love it. That gives her even more meaning. My mom will enjoy hearing about her origin too. How lucky your church was to have your talents! Angel 48" x 30 1/2" My apologies for the delay posting these assembly instructions. The day after we mailed out the first load of patterns, I had the most excruciating sciatica flareup and I wasn’t able to sit at the computer to write the post. After a very long month of discomfort, I am finally back to work.  I hope you enjoyed hooking this little gingerbread house as much as I did. this is the first one of a trilogy I plan to design and hook to make a sweet little gingerbread house village. I am already half way through hooking the next house. Stay tuned! I used our beautiful Walnut wool dyed by Shane. It was the perfect Gingerbread colour and contrasted perfectly with the White for the icing and all of the splashes of colour for the candies. First hook all of your sides and roof. Steam press to flatten. Zig-zag around each piece or you can forego this step because of gluing the edge to the core board backing so fraying won't occur. I left an excess of linen about 1 ¼” around each piece. The supplies you will need to construct the house are a ruler, fast drying tacky glue, coffee stir sticks or a piece of plastic cut from an ice cream container to spread the glue, stapler, carpet knife, foam core board or other thin backing and some sort of continuous roving to hide to seams.  Next cut out a rigid backing for each panel. I used a foam core board that was about 1/8” thick. You could use a thinner backing but I wouldn’t go any thicker than the 1/8” or your side seams will be wider apart and need more twisted roving to fill them. Use the hooked pieces as a template and cut out each backing shape with carpet knife or other type of blade. Once you have the backing piece cut to fit, put glue all over one side and attached the backside of the rug to it. Make sure that it is firmly adhered to the board so it won’t begin to sag over time. I used a fast-drying tacky glue that I bought from a fabric store. It dried fast and clear. Once the core board is glued to the rug front, apply glue to the backside of the cord board where the excess linen will be stuck on. I did one side at a time and put a staple in the middle of each side to hold it from moving until the glue was dry. (Don’t use the full stapler (you don’t want the staple to go through the rug), just hold the top part of the stapler over the area you wish to affix and then press down.) Then miter or fold over the corners, add glue keeping them as flat as possible. I also popped a staple into each corner to hold it down. After all sides are glued, pressed down with your hands to make sure it was well stuck to the foam core board and as flat as possible.
 After all the pieces were glued to a solid backing, I placed the sides of the building together in order (short side, then high side, short side, then high side) all together with the finished rug side down. With all backsides together I used a needle and thread to sew them all together. My first intention was to hot glue gun them together and without an assistant or means to hold them together it was awkward. So, I sewed them together, all but the last join that had to be sewn from the outside edge. I liked how rigid it felt so I then hand sewed the outside corners, placed the roof pieces and then sewed them as well from the outside. This held it very rigid so I didn’t need the hot glue gun or the burnt fingers that would have ensued. I squeezed glue along the outside edges of each seam and used the thin coffee sticks to smear it into the linen and cover the crack well. Work on the peak of the roof and the two sides of the roof that come down over the shorter two sides of the house first. I used two strands of the merino roving and twisted it gently as I went, running it along those glued seams and patting it down into the groove for a good hold.  Then I did the front and back, adding the glue first, smearing it in and then starting at the bottom, tucking the end of the roving inside, (I put a bit of glue in there to hold it), then ran it up the one side, over the roof peak, twisting the roving as I went until I reached the other side bottom, putting some glue inside that corner as well to hold the end of the roving. Sorry I was so intent and excited doing this part I forgot to take a photo.
 With the rising, highly infectious Omicron numbers, I’ve made the hard call to temporarily close the shop for the next two weeks. Omicron is aggressive and an easily transmittable strain. Unlike Delta, Omicron particles that become airborne from our breath are smaller and don’t fall to the floor as quickly, lasting for up to two hours in the room. If not wearing the proper fitting N95 mask and distancing, our breath can escape and infect those around us quickly. I see far too many masks below the nose, ill fitting and being adjusted constantly while steaming up glasses to know that breath is escaping into the air.
I don’t feel I can properly protect my staff and myself, or you the customer, so we will go back to mail order and pickups from pre-ordered items. At this time, we will not be opening the door so if you arrive unannounced at the shop hoping to browse and chat face to face that won’t be possible. You can phone us from the safety and comfort of your car, give us your order and means of payment and we will process the order and leave it on the doorstep. If there is a need to pick out a particular piece of wool or product, that can be discussed over the phone while Deborah or I show you samples through the window for you can choose from. Considering that Omicron infections are high even with fully vaccinated and boostered people, checking vaccine cards at the door is too risky putting us very close to you and you to us. Experts say that 2 meters distancing is acceptable but at times we were less than a foot away trying to read the tiny print on your cards. I will continue to go to the post office on Fridays but I will monitor the local case counts and revisit how things are going in two weeks. We will continue to work in the shop as long as we can, distancing from one another and wearing proper masks so we will be there for your fibre needs and be ready to open when we can. Omicron infections are spread quickly and because we are deemed nonessential this is the right thing to do. We don’t want to be the catalyst that brings Covid into our workplace or our customer's homes. I hope you will understand and please be safe. We are back from holidays January 4th and will be there to answer your calls. 902-624-0370 for local calls and our toll free line of 1-855-624-0370 for long distance.  Encompassing Designs will be closed November 11th. A day of quiet reflection, love and respect for those who gave their lives for us. My grandfather never came home. He was buried in Sicily in 1943, one of many fallen comrades.
Larry Willoughby Veinotte, I never met you but you are forever in my heart and thoughts………  In the past we have offered the service of dyeing wool to match whatever you could throw at us. Sometimes it was fun playing the matching game, a thrill to see if Shane could do it and to his credit, he’s been spot on most of the time, pardon the pun. It’s been a feather in Shane’s dyeing cap; he’s The Dye Guy, the wizard of wool, the magician of colour. But as more and more people request this service, and it is taking up a larger percentage of his time in the dye kitchen, we’ve had to rethink it. Sometimes when matching a random sample, he hits it out of the park on the first try, but others have presented challenges. Most folks are happy with a close match knowing it will blend in well, but others expect miracles. One guy was rather fussy and turned down eleven attempts of matching his wool sample because he said it wasn’t a perfect match. I thought any one of them circled perfection and it would have blended in without a ripple. Shane liked the guy and kept trying to please him, which is a sweet quality as my son, but as an employee that was one heck-of-an expensive piece of grey wool. I pay Shane a living wage and on top of that, we now had this load of unwanted grey in stock that we could never sell in a month of Sundays so each piece had to be overdyed into something saleable, piling on the labour. All this just to produce a $19.00 ¼ yard of wool for the customer. That experiment cost me over $300.00 in materials and labour. We love that the client finally walked away happy, but it isn’t cost effective when trying to run a business. If someone has purchased a piece of our dyed wool and lost or threw away the label, generally Shane can figure it out as long as it is a commonly produced wool in the shop, at least get it in the right ball park and take it from there but, and there is always a but, we have several thousand dye formulas, two recipe card holders jammed full, some not used as much as others so its like looking for a needle in a haystack. If it isn’t one of the frequently dyed colours, we have to treat it like a brand-new dyeing quest. You’d think having bought the wool from our studio we could easily come up with a match but anyone who dyes knows that you can dye a colour one day and then try to match it the next, and all kinds of factors can interfere with the outcome. Water conditions, dye power measurements, thickness or thinness of wool as it doesn’t always come the same. Also, if time has passed since the wool was purchased, the dye powders have changed in intensity over the years. They are now quite a bit darker so the soft colours of the past don’t apply unless you alter the measurements by decreasing the dye powder, and of course its never a perfect reduction with spoon measurements. If there are four different colours making up the formula, a titch less of this or that is not straight math, it’s a time-consuming experiment of trial and error. Right now, he is trying to dye a 6 Value swatch that someone purchased from us seven years ago and the dyes are darker than they used to be. She wants one swatch, whereas we usually dye 8 at a time. So, he has to experiment with the formula to try to match it. The dilemma, if we dye one swatch for her it will cost a lot more with labour than the selling price of the swatch. The alternative is to dye eight of them and put them out on the rack under a new name even though they will be close to whatever it was in the first place. The discussions alone that have gone back and forth have cost more than the swatch is worth. Then there is the wool that didn’t come from our studio. At the moment he has a dozen different samples waiting for his attention, sometimes only wool strips which makes it even harder to duplicate as he doesn’t have enough of the total picture of what the original wool looked like. Maybe it was as solid, perhaps an abrash, one strip doesn’t tell the entire story. Some of the pieces of wool he’s been given, even though larger samples are clearly dyed with an inexperienced hand. It’s not always the tried-and-true Dorr wool either. I call it mummy gauze, thin as all get out, frays like a shedding pup and the quality of dyeing is not up to snuff, with white core and streaks of dye as if spilled across in splotches without any care or thought. Goodness knows what dye powders were even used with several to choose from and we are only dealing in MC and Jacquard. How can he match uneven dyeing over thin wool that’s full of white core? Does he even want too? He sometimes says he’s embarrassed to put that kind of product out. And when trying to dye a match, SIZE MATTERS! We need more than a single #4 cut strip that’s been hooked and then pulled out, all wrinkled, fraying and devoid of its original form as if it’s been chewed and spit out. Shane, Deb and I all had a close look at this one piece and we all shook our heads. I don’t think I’d touch that one with a ten-foot stir stick, but Shane said he’ll give it a go. There are a lot of these strips on his desk right now from several customers hoping for their perfect match. It’s like the television show The Bachelor, all the ladies are hoping to get their rose. Shane works on our website wool orders first, the custom items are completed when time allows. I came into work the other evening at 11:30 pm and he was stirring a pot trying to match some of the requests on his board. He is on reduced hours with COVID and bless him, is trying to fit it all in to keep everyone happy. Imagine this. If he hits it bang on the first try that’s fabulous. But if it takes several tries, that produces basically wasted wool that we then have to overdye to make something to sell in the shop. If it takes hours to figure out just to sell a ¼ yard or a ½ yard piece of wool, it is not cost effective to do so. I am proud to say that Shane is good at what he does but there are time limits and too many variables to overcome to match a colour. Understandably, as his boss, if it costs me several hours of wages and materials to produce 1/4 or a 1/2 yard of wool it isn't worth the effort for the business. And, he gets pretty frustrated at times because he hates letting anyone down and once the stress builds, the fun and job satisfaction go out the window, that’s not particularly fair to him. So, we will only offer this service with conditions. If you catch him when his order board is low, (not that it ever happens), and he’d like the challenge to come up with a reasonable match, I can live with that, but perfection will not be promised. It’s been my experience that when hooking, a close match blends beautifully, you would have to be off dramatically before it would stand out or clash. If you wish to submit a sample for review feel free:
If purchasing wool from our studio, to ensure more will be available in the future, keep labels so we can easily produce it. To avoid disappointment, buy enough wool to cover your project in the first place. If you like working with a particular colour, buy more to cover your need and the rest can be in your stash for future projects. If you penny pinch it might cost you more in the long run when you have to pull out what is already hooked because you can’t buy any more of it. And last but not least. If you own a cutter it is always best not to strip all of your wool for a project at once. I have a rule that I only cut what I can use in a ½ hour session, which then forces me out of my chair to cut more strips. I tend to get seized up by sitting for long periods of time so this allows me to get up and stretch, perhaps get a drink of water, cruise by the fridge for a snack, etc. It also means that you won’t end up with a large amount of cut strips at the end of a project. Strips don’t store well, they fray and shed and require plastic bags which aren’t good as the wool should be allowed to breath. Having odds and ends of uncut wool allow for colour planning, using the four-fold rule. Take a piece of wool and fold it once and then a second time. This gives you four layers. The top of the wool surface is about the area you will be able to hook. If you hook high loops then you would need more and if you hook lower, less. One of the first rules of thumb I was told when I first began rug hooking is to hook your loops as high as they are wide. I don’t follow this philosophy and joke that whoever made up this rule sold wool for a living. I hook all of my loops the same height whether they are a #3 cut or a #8 cut. It only makes sense when we use leftover strips of all sizes in a project and want an even surface on the rug. If we hook them all different heights, determined by the size of the strip, then the rug will be uneven looking. Also, people tend to look at my work and think I use finer cuts but because I keep the loops low, they fill in better and appear a size down from what I am using. For instance, my #6 looks like a #5. Lower loops don’t show the edges from row to row so the shadows of each loop show less. Hooking higher loops show the shadows between them. I have a rug in my studio that was hooked in a #8 cut and the loops are so high that there is not only enough wool in it to do two rugs, but every loop shows its shadow as your eyes dance over the surface. I have a rug that is hung next to it that I hooked in a #8 cut and people think it is a much finer cut. There is no benefit to higher hooking. When getting walked on over time, all of those loops will smash down. The detriment to hooking high is the extra wool needed to complete the project. Hooking lower is a great way to keep the cost down, something we all like. The loops only need be high enough to cover the hole in the backing and to be able to remove the hook from the loop easily. But don’t go too low, or you will struggle to get the tip of the hook out. This of course is my way, not the highway. We all have our own technique, style and preferences. Yay individually! Sorry to disappoint all of you online and social media fans, but I’m an old-fashioned gal that doesn’t jive with this new dance. The internet serves to mildly entertain me when time allows, but I’m not big on being connected to devices as if they are an extension of my life. I rarely go online, nor do I carry my phone everywhere I go. I have an iPhone with huge bells and whistles that I’ve not even tried to ring or blow. I have never purchased an APP, I don’t email on my phone, check my website, purchase goods online or do banking on it. Its purpose is for emergency calls or communication with hubby or the shop when I am on the road, etc. It’s a phone, right? I do have a FB page that I sometimes look at on my phone but quite frankly, I hardly check it during the day because I’m busy, working. I don’t utilize the features on these devices because I’m technically challenged, I ignore them because I’m not interested, preferring real life to an electronic facsimile. I don’t run my business through the phone or through FB. I use the page to post photos or announce a new blog, an advertising forum to showcase new designs and dyed wools with links posted to the website for pricing and details. I rarely check emails after hours or weekends. I’m busy enjoying my free time. Over the years I’ve been surprised to realize that some assume that I live at the studio. Well, I don’t. So, if you send me a text or message with questions about stock, I wouldn’t even know what might be in the back room for patterns or what dyed wools are available on the rack. Those are questions only answerable while we are physically at work in the studio. We’re living in a faster paced world of consumer ‘need it now’ which is a big thumbs up, yippie-yi-yay during work hours. But afterhours, it doesn’t allow for a separation of work and personal life, and that can wear a body out. When work inquiries and questions come in while I’m having dinner or watching a movie or whatever my evenings entail, I usually don’t respond. I can’t be there for you every minute of every day or night. There are thousands of you, and only one me. I’m sure most of you will understand. Social media has changed the face of a retail business. No longer are there business hours confined to a set portion of the day. The brick-and-mortar store can be closed at 5:00 PM but communications can go on long after Elvis has left the building. Today, work can stretch beyond the normal eight hours, some retailers even advertise they are there for you 24/7. I can’t imagine checking for orders and questions in the dead of night when some forget there are four-hour time zone differences, they’re working a night shift or suffering from a bout of insomnia. Social media creates an atmosphere where a shop owner can never get away from their work. As much as I love my studio, it is still my job, and there is a time and a place for working and a time and place for personal space. We have a toll-free line 1-855-624-0370 and we would love to speak to you during work hours to answer questions, offer advice or take your orders. Leave a message on the shop answering machine if you phone after hours and we will get back to you the next working day. We also have an Order page on the website and a Contact Page for inquiries and questions. Deborah and I reply to emails during work hours, 10-5 Monday to Friday. I’ve put the shop first for a very long time but, things have changed with perhaps entering the last leg of my life. I’m shifting into the comfort part of my journey and need to take care of me. I plan to keep the shop open until I’m 90, even if I have to hobble on my walker to the studio, so I need a balance to keep rested and motivated. Since we opened in August, we’ve been closed Saturdays but I am happy to open the shop for prearranged appointments. Right now, we are short staffed and I’ve had to work nights to make up for the deficit. I can’t physically do 6 days a week with evenings and nights as well. I hope to find another employee to free up some of my time and then Saturdays will be put back on the menu. And as for holidays, we are constantly asked if we will be open for them. We all need a break and enjoy the few special days off when they are offered. A holiday is meant for everyone, including the small shop owners and their staff. Sunday, the shop is always closed. I’m not comparing myself to the big guy upstairs, but everyone needs that guaranteed day of rest to recharge the batteries. We may not be available 24/7 but we work our butts off when we are here.
We pay strict attention to detail, don’t cut corners and work to the best of our ability. Because we make most of our products, we may not be as fast as Amazon, but we guarantee that top quality items will arrive at your door. We care about you and take great pride in knowing that you will be working your magic with our perfectly drawn patterns and gorgeous wools. We are here for you. Thank-you for your continuing support and making the last 21 years a wonderful experience.  Some of the best moments of my childhood were spent visiting my Uncle Howard and exploring his century old cape. Howard was a half brother to my grandfather Larry who died in 1943 in Sicily during the war. They had been living with him since their marriage and his brothers’ widow, my grandmother, and her four children remained living there until she married and moved to Springhill. My dad was seven when his father was killed so he grew up without a father, living in the old cape until a little over a year after he married my mom when they moved out to make their own way in the world.
From the state of the upstairs of my uncle's house, it looked like it had been closed up for decades so it was like stepping into a sealed time capsule. Uncle Howard who never married or had any children of his own, had no use for the upstairs, living in the downstairs portion of the home, sleeping in the birthing room just off the kitchen. How I loved to explore and look for treasures in the upstairs of his house, digging around in trunks and closets getting a peek at the past. The smell, the cob webs, the creaks in the floor boards, possibly not walked on for decades was the perfect stage for a child who could daydream her way into a world of make believe. Actually, the entire house was a fascination to me because it was the polar opposite of what I was used to. It had little modern convenience, knob and tube electricity lit the darkness but that was about it. No indoor plumbing, not even a refrigerator, but that didn't mean he was lacking. There was an amazing cold cellar that kept milk and dad’s beer cold enough that the bottles dripped with condensation after hitting the warm summer air. The heat source was a woodstove that blackened the ceiling and woodwork in the kitchen that he scrubbed to a dull grey every spring, a far cry from the pristine white interior of our home. The overall smell of his house was a mixture of creosote, burning wood and Old Spice aftershave. A delightfully heady pong that met you when first entering the house and lingered on your clothes and nostrils long after you left. The woodstove was always at the ready to cook our hotdogs and beans on a visit. Howard heated all his food on the stove year-round so he lit the fire every day at meal time, even in the humidity of summer, but amazingly the house remained cool from the top of the hill breezes blowing though the house via the front and back screen doors. His wooden rocking chair that I prize reminds me so much of him, I can almost see him sitting in it. The chair has a special warp conformed to the way he sat, a twist to the left, one chair arm resting slightly lower than the other. The second oldest home in Mahone Bay, the one and a half story cape had not changed since the day it was built. The place was an antique dealer’s paradise, especially the treasure trove upstairs of children’s toys and books from Howard’s childhood and whatever my father and his siblings contributed over the years. One of the best finds was a story book called The Gateway To Storyland published in the early twenties, that was filled with wonderful children’s stories. I carried that book around until the covers fell off and the pages were dog eared and worn and at some point, my mother must have thrown it out. A couple of years ago I looked online to find a replacement copy and after many evenings of searching, I found one on EBay and my heart raced and my hands shook as I purchased it. After it arrived, I climbed into bed with my four poodles and read aloud every story to my captive audience. The pictures and words were so familiar, so deeply ingrained in me, that I barely had to read the words from the pages as my brain skimmed along from memory. At least one sunny Sunday a month we visited my uncle up on the hill. I couldn’t wait to get out of the car and run for a hug. Sometimes I’d hop up on Howard’s lap while the adults chatted at the kitchen table, or we would go outside to play with the large rubber beach ball he kept for me. Then he’d push me on the swing that he made and how that apple tree limb creaked when I swung higher and higher, rope on wood, gently rubbing and softly protesting. Then of course, typical me, I ate the apples that had ripened and fallen to the ground, worm holes and all. I never did get that tummy ache or be sick like mom always predicted, even as a child my stomach was cast iron; whatever went in never came out the same way. Gravenstein apples are still my favourites, not too tart, not too sweet and every August since, I munch on them and think of that long gone tree. When my uncle passed away at 71, I designed the back of his tombstone and had an apple tree sand blasted along with the words, Precious Memories Never Die. With both sets of grandparents and all of my cousins living in Springhill, who I only got to see on summer holidays; Uncle Howard was one of two relatives that lived close by. He was also the very first person to die who I loved and I struggled coming to terms with his loss. I didn’t know how to process the sadness I felt, it hung in my heart like a lead weight. My grief became part of every day, never lessening with time, who’s false promise supposedly healed all. Many months later I ran into a friend of my uncles at the Post Office who told me that Howard really thought the world of me and spoke of me often. Somehow, hearing this broke the tether of the heavy sorrow that I had been dragging around. After that, instead of feeling nothing but loss, I was able to see past the pain and smile through the memories. Lilacs are in bloom right now and the tree in our yard is heavy laden. Last year there was nary enough flowers to make a small bouquet, but this year it is dripping with the most spectacular purple blooms, their perfume spreading to the far corners of our property. I particularly love lilacs because the smell takes me right back to when I was knee high to a grasshopper, making a fort between two dark purple lilac bushes that grew in front of my uncle’s house. The tall branches had canopies that arched together making a hollow between the two plants and then Japanese Bamboo encircled them on the one side, creating a cave like area where I would crawl in, sit and pretend. I think I remember falling asleep once. No one could find me until I woke up and heard them hollering my name. The perfume of the lilac is as intoxicating today as all those years ago, and a little whiff is all it takes to become that smaller version of me, when life was simpler and everything was a wonder. And then there’s my uncles screen door. How I loved to play with it. Pulling the door open wide, stretching the long-coiled spring to full capacity and then letting it bang shut. What a sound it made, reverberating though my entire body and I purposely ran in and out of the house to hear the door bang behind me. I was a real scamp but Howard only smiled, perhaps I drowned out the silence of his lonely life with all my clamour and giggles. Today I love a screen door banging and I make sure I do it, often and with gusto. There was also a flower garden next to the apple tree filled with colourful blooms. Aunt Audrey, my father’s sister, told me that her mom, my grandmother, planted it all those many years ago and Howard continued to weed and maintain it long after they were gone. There were many flowers but I distinctly remember the most delightful sweet smelling wild roses, a delicate mauve Bell Flower and an antique yellow loosestrife that took over the space after he was gone. I made sure I dug up a few bunches to plant in my own garden. I have it in five areas now and it comes back year after year, bigger and better, blooming for months with a spectacular yellow show. But above all the memories and experiences, the novelty of drinking his well water was the highlight of my visit and the reason for this story. Howard didn’t have indoor plumbing, only a hand pump at the kitchen sink that drew the best cold water I have ever tasted. I’d drink so much I’d slosh when I walked and much to my mother’s chagrin, we had to make many trips to the outhouse so I could pee like a human garden hose. She had to hold me up so I wouldn’t fall through the hole meant for adult bottoms, while her nose wrinkled to fend off the smell. Quite frankly, his outhouse was a pretty interesting piece of architecture, it leaned like the Tower of Pisa, had two holes for communal crapping that even my young mind questioned, and a myriad of flies all vying for the latest contribution. I was never allowed to linger longer than it took to pull up my panties, but a quick glance into the dark hole revealed a pyramid of brown, which of course, led to another zillion questions. Perhaps it’s a gross topic for some but it was pretty interesting to an inquisitive child and quite frankly the entire concept of outhouses is still a curiosity to me. Not that I would want to own one, let alone use it, but my mind ponders the hardships of people from the outhouse era. Squatting in bitter cold weather, although the chill probably helped keep the smell at bay, then there’s the opposite ordeal of sweltering heat and the assault to the senses that ensued. Shoveling a path after snowstorms of yesteryear with white walls on each side shoulder high. Catalogues and newspapers were more than just reading material, but if they weren’t available more painful items were used like wood shavings, hay, rocks and corn cobs. There was no convenient flushing away of the evidence and some poor sap would have to periodically clean it out. Come rain or shine, day or night, you had to go outside to do your business and having another person join you in a two-or three-seater isn’t even comprehensible today. My present day, conveniently equipped home has three flushers in it, I can’t see surviving with anything less. But I digress..... The dug well was fed by an underground stream. The water had iron in it but it was clear, cold and delicious and the fun of using the hand pump never dulled. Dad used to scold me to stop playing with the pump, that it wasn’t a toy, but Howard never minded and he’d give me a chair to stand on and I’d pump away as much as my little arms could muster. The water would spurt with each small pump until I could get a momentum going and then it would gush and splash into my cup like a mini–Niagara Falls. I can still visualize the glass cup he always gave me. It was thick and heavy with a dull golden hue, frosted from years of use and stained from the iron in the water. It had a large bowl with a handle and was so big I had to hold it in both of my hands to gulp the water down. All things being relative I was only five or six at the time so my hands were small. I loved my uncle Howard very much. His brush cut, and every character line of his face I can see if I close my eyes. My entire childhood was peppered with visits either to our house or his and the memories are all cherished. When I was shy of ten years, he started popping in Saturday evenings so he and I would watch Grand Pre Wrestling on TV. For a quiet man of few words, he was pretty animated during the matches. His fists would fly with make believe upper cuts and head locks, and he’d sit on the edge of his seat and jump to his feet when they’d slam one another to the ring floor, hollering, “Get up, Get up!” He’d be loud and wound-up until the show ended, then he’d go back to being quiet again. Dad used to say that wrestling was all fake, but we didn’t care, it was fun and quite frankly watching Howard’s reactions was almost more entertaining than the show. I’ve carried around the old water pump since we tore down the house that had been abandoned for years and following down. I always planned to put the pump in my garden someday as an ornament. No longer new and green, it was rusted brown and in bad need of paint which I decided would be a delicious gloss red. It was obviously well made and meant to last because it’s still in perfect working order with the handle moving freely up and down. Funny how good intentions seem to fade away when life is busy, but finally, almost a quarter century later, the vision I’d had in my head has merged with reality and I have a beautiful memory of my dear uncle in my garden for the remainder of my days.  As I was cutting a kit the other day, I looked around the studio with wonder. I certainly am proud of this accomplishment and appreciate the perfect team that makes it all possible, but at the same time I feel a little sad that I’ve somehow let the passion for pulling loops fall by the wayside. Last year with COVID it was insane with orders coming in faster than a conveyor belt of chocolates in an episode of I LOVE LUCY. By days end, there was nothing left in me to even think about rug hooking after being immersed in the work end of the craft all the day long. It’s like a worker in a potato chip factory losing their taste for chips. A year had gone by and I hadn’t pulled a loop and I need to remind myself why I started this business and find a way to mix a bit of play in with the labour. I think most craft entrepreneurs suffer this problem in varying degrees. The love we have for a particular fiber art leads us down the retail path thinking it would be euphoric to be immersed in our passion, eat, sleep and dream it, but truthfully, it can be too much. The work part of it can take over your life, with no separation for personal time as it all blends into one big overwhelming fibrous ball. I’m sure some think it would be awesome to be in a 24/7 rug hooking experience as it gives them a sense of artistic purpose. Heck I used to be that way but now after two decades have slipped by faster than a ball of wool unraveling, and my house has only two rugs on the floors hooked by me, how sad is that? That’s all I have to show for hooking for twenty-two years? Sure, I’ve hooked many items for the shop, which was fun, but again that’s all part of the work. Somehow what attracts us to a fiber art in the first place, the excitement of it all takes a back seat to the business hum drum and in my particular case, the manufacturing of product. It’s a labour intensive and time-consuming process producing the items we sell in the shop. It’s work anyway you view it. People tell me I do it because I love it. But what is it that I love? It’s not the work that takes me into the wee hours of the morning, driving home while the town is in darkness and folks are all nestled in their beds? I do love sending out the finished products, knowing rug hookers will have the very best experience with our top-quality merchandise but I wish elves would work throughout the night creating our wares so I can put my feet up and enjoy the benefits of the trade while sitting in my studio wingback hooking my latest design. I have this crazy dream, I would love to hit send on an order form and have finished goods arrive on our doorstep, but the reality is, we make the bulk of our products, take raw materials and create our patterns, dyed wool and kits. Several times Shane has commented on the laughter coming from the shop that is adjacent to us. They are always having a merry old time over there, their laughter permeating the walls, their retail shop is like an open-door party. He said he wished our studio was that much fun to work in. I said sweetie, they don’t make their inventory, it comes delivered by UPS. We could all laugh our bloody arses off if we didn’t have to work over hot steamy pots, eight simmering pots are so loud conversation isn't even possible let alone be laughing at someone's funny. Drawing patterns until our hands are tattooed black from the marker and our backs are protesting, inhaling wool dust and wearing out our shoulder sockets as we crank on cutter handles, cutting kits for HOURS on end. We have more than one kit that takes a day or two to dye the wool and five hours to cut it, imagine the fun in that? It’s not heavy labour like digging a ditch but it’s still exhausting work. And cutting wool for that duration means the entire shop is covered in a light coating of wool fiber, we are slipping and sliding around the cutting area, our shoes like skates on ice, a work hazard for sure. Then having to vacuum every surface in the vicinity. Glamourous? I think not. The work we do isn’t pretty, only the end result is. Sure, we could laugh it up too if we only had to chat up customers and put the latest merch on our shelves, unpacking boxes as they arrive like Christmas presents full of glorious product. The laughter would ricochet off our walls like ping pong balls. Our work isn’t difficult but it is still work and we are hustling as well, always on the move rushing to get orders in the mail as soon as possible. Some days you can cut the stress with scissors as we work to a deadline to make it to the post office Friday by 3:00 pm. No laughter there. We’re basically assembly line workers, minus the assembly line and we’d all rather be sailing…..I mean hooking. In retrospect I should have picked up knitting needles and fallen head over heals for yarn. Completing wholesale order forms and filling the shop shelves with luxurious wools from around the world, rainbows of rich colours and textures that are available because someone else did the work. One my way to work each day I look through the windows of Have A Yarn and think what a beautiful shop. All that gorgeous inventory they didn’t have to dye and spin, just label and display. Oh, how I would love to stock product I didn’t have to make and then sit in my comfy chair to knit away while I look out over my little empire of yarns for as far as my eyes could see. Ooh la-la. But I met and fell in love with rug hooking. It’s been a good marriage and after 21 years with Encompassing Designs I’m still in love, but I am courting the comfort stage of the relationship. All the thrills and excitement are dulled from two decades of the daily grind. I still get a thrill designing patterns but I don’t have a lot of time to do that at the studio so it spills over into my evening at home chewing into my personal time. Now I might sound like I’m complaining, and maybe I am but fortunately I still look forward to going to work and that feeling I get when I first walk in the door and see that beautiful rainbow awaiting me, well it’s pretty incredible and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It’s like the movie Groundhog Day. I get a little tired each night and wonder why I still do it and then when I wake the next morning, I’m ready to go again. Entering my shop door takes my breath away every single day. I am not ready to retire, I’m still on this journey and I’m excited to see where it all ends up and I thank you all for making it possible. Yes, I do complain about making kits but it’s bitter sweet, I don’t like the assembly and cutting but when I staple the bag topper label on the finished product, I feel rewarded for a job well done and I know the customer will admire and appreciate the above average quality of their purchase. What I need to do is get back to the grassroots of why I started Encompassing Designs. The love of hooking! I am capable of so much and I want to fill my home with labours of love. Isn't that the big reward, the frosting on the cake, the raison d’etre, the creative joie de vie, the fuel in my tank? So, lets hope 2021 means my hook gets a bit of wear, my scissors grow dull while my creative juices sharpen, after all that’s what its all about. I did hook a Hit & Miss pillow topper in January and that old passion bubbled up like hot molten lava. At that point, I hadn’t hooked in a year so I took on an easy project to break back into it, one that didn’t require a lot of thinking to make sure I hadn’t lost my technique. It was thrilling and I was almost giddy with excitement. As the rug evolved beneath my hook, I fell in love all over again, so much so I couldn’t sleep that night thinking about what my hands had created. Thank goodness I’m not in a loveless craft relationship, drained from years of toil. Thankfully it can still make me smile and give me a few thrills like it did when we first met. Last week I finished my Sea Monster, another riser for the shop stairs. That was pretty exciting too. I hooked it in my favourite #3 cut, so it took a bit longer than usual but I enjoyed working with the colours as they brought the monster to life, why he almost swam away from me! I only have five more to do to complete 15 and I'm in a bit of a quandary because it's difficult to decide which designs to pick. So much choice and I want to do them all! It sure feels good to be back in the saddle and I hope to stay in it, hopefully not falling off the horse again, at least not for awhile.  We are selling the remaining Swatches for the book Past & Present Antique Colours & Spots because the book is no longer available. Regular $55, they are going for $30 a set. Few left. If you have the book and always wanted the swatches this is good value as these sets were expensive to make.
Deborah, Shane and I have been doing a bit of COVID designing. Below are some of the new designs we offer on the website. Some were requested while others just popped into our heads.
Homeward Bound  COUNTING ON YOU LINE OF 16" X 16" RUGS FEATURING NUMBERS (4 MORE TO COME)
Flying Formation  Inception  9 new additions to our Nautical Riser Line All are 5" x 29" Octapus's Garden  $and Dollar$  Deep six  Dory Dozing  Ebb Tide  Waves  Sunken Treasure  Whale Tale  Regatta  Adirondack Chairs  Vintage Suits Riser  I'll Be Gnome For Christmas  Dragonfly Coasters
Put Your Right Foot In.... 
Roundabout  Fandango  Bordertown  Roundabout 
 Over the summer of 2020, I befriended a sweet little Eastern Chipmunk. It only took a few days to win her trust so that she ate out of my hand, allowed me to pet her and followed me about the yard. I know she only tolerated me for food, but I’ll take that and call us square because she gave me much more than I gave her. She cracked me up with her antics and when she headed home and hopped high over a fallen branch, it tickled my heart and I laughed out loud every time. Da dump, da dump, da dump played in my head when she ran and jumped, her little legs soaring through the air and tail pointed high. I researched chipmunks to understand their dietary requirements and it encompassed a bit of everything. Unfortunately, I had been giving her mostly sunflower seeds that are high in calories that could have caused her to over indulge and become ill. So, I thought I’d go to the Farmer’s CO-OP in Bridgewater to buy food that would suit her. I donned my mask and entered the store and I’m immediately overwhelmed by the seed selection so I queried the cashier, “What is the preferred food for chipmunks?” She kind of smirked, then shared a hint of an eye roll with her co-worker then tells me that she’s never had that request before, that most people come in to find out how to kill them. “Oh”, I said. That thought hadn’t occurred to me although I can understand why. Chipmunks are considered pests by many, members of the squirrel family (Sciuridae) within the order of Rodentia, yes rodents and close cousins to rats. To me they are just one of the little four legged creatures that go about their business, hoping to live out their natural life span without being killed and eaten, they reproduce and take care of their babies while hoping to live in relative comfort, not unlike the rest of us….. I read the labels and helped myself to a seed mixture that would be suitable for my Chippy and the birds I’ve been attracting to the feeders and placed it on the counter. The cashier smiled and proceeded to tell me the story of a tamed chipmunk in her youth, so she did understand after all. Chipmunks have a varied diet, and love most seeds but they will also eat bird eggs and small snakes if their dietary preference is not readably available. I suppose feeding her a regular infusion of a plant-based food will help spare other little creatures in the yard. Hubby says I’m only encouraging her to have more litters, that Chipmunks are rodents. He doesn’t think I should be feeding wild creatures of any kind, that I’m upsetting the balance of nature but hey, I’m okay with that. Of all the crazy things people do in this world, to animals, themselves and one another, feeding one cute little chipmunk can be my bad and I’ll live with the consequences! I’m calling myself Mrs. Dolittle, I love animals and I do talk to them, my surname is Little, just sayin. There’s also a couple of red squirrels I am getting to know. They don’t hibernate like the Chipmunks so I’ve been feeding them daily. I know where each of them lives and as long as they are not taking up residence in our attic we will get along. My yard is teaming with wild life and its an interesting and exciting place to be for this aging empath and introvert. But there is a limit to my communing with nature, as long as I’m not attracting bears, I’ll be fine. Chippy always came when I called her if she wasn’t already waiting on the back step when I arose in the morning. I have a metal measuring cup that I use to scoop the various seeds and nuts to dump on the rock wall beside the house. Then I’d tap the cup on the rocks. Ding, ding, ding and she darted out of her burrow and ran across the driveway to get to me; a Pavlov’s response I suppose. I’m noticing the yard fills up with birds as I ring the breakfast bell for Chez Little’s take away. The number of feeders I put out has exponentially grown along with my interest in birding but that is story for another day. I prefer it when she is waiting for me because I’ve been noticing how watchful birds can be and if my tapping means a quick meal will be scurrying across the yard, something bigger and more ominous could be watching from a tall branch. Chippy practices caution. Her instincts are well honed for survival. She takes different routes to her burrow and she mixes the times for each trek. For instance, one route she’ll go directly under the car and stop there for a moment to check her surroundings and then scoot across the driveway and down her burrow hole. Every third time, she’ll travel all around the back of the garage along the boulder wall and my favourite, crawl along the slate rock wall behind my side garden and then scoot across the driveway and home. She knows that patterns can be followed and put her in peril so she’s mixing it up to make sure she can ride the gravy train as long as possible. When she is in my hand or on the rock feeding, certain bird calls, like ospreys and hawks, make her freeze in mid nibble. She’ll listen until she doesn’t see any threat and then continues. Chipmunks only live about three years, and I’m not sure how old this one is but I’m hoping we are in the budding stages of our time together. When she is near and I watch her, I feel a calm envelope me, my heart slows, stress melts away and the world is a glorious place. There is something serene in watching her eat or when I feel her warm little body in my hand, her tiny feet lightly scratch as she crawls up my leg to sit on my lap. An interesting tidbit, a chipmunk has four fingers on her front paws and five fingers on her rear feet. Such a tiny, vulnerable creature sharing an unlikely bond with a human. How amazing. It’s humbling and sweet, the need to be needed fulfilled in spades. One day she didn’t come to the porch when I called and called and called. I grew worried, she was so prompt every day for weeks. I went over to her burrow area and was horrified to see that the entrance had been tampered with, the hole was larger and there was a pile of fresh dirt thrown back as if something was wildly digging to get in. My mind travelled to dark places and I was certain my Chippy had fallen prey to a weasel or a fox or some other predator. I made myself sick with grief, ask Deborah how much I moaned at the shop that day. I went through the motions at work but my mind never drifted too far away from her. I rushed home at 5:00 and called her again but she didn’t show. My life seemed to stand still as all hope drained away. I was so desperate to see her I fiercely pounded the rock with the metal cup, enough to wake the dead in the next county. I read Chipmunks sleep 15 hours a day but I felt in my heart of hearts that she wouldn’t be coming back. Two torturous days followed and then I saw a chipmunk on the rock under the lilac tree and I rushed out but it was the other little fellow that is usually chased away. She got in a good feed that day without being run off, stuffing her cheeks time after time and carrying the cache back to her burrow. Three mornings later, I went outside and there she was, my Chippy, sitting on the cement step waiting for me. I almost cried. And then I thought, you silly woman, nature is what it is, I can’t change it and I have to stop mourning and letting it alter my mood and ruin my day. I have to enjoy her while I can and then move on when she is gone. But of course, that’s hard to do. I’ve grown attached. I have feelings for the little twirp to hold me emotionally hostage. I tried to make light of it to hubby, saying she couldn’t come to eat because I fed her so much food, she needed more storage room and had to ream out her burrow. Apparently one Chipmunk needs to gather up to a half bushel of food to survive a winter and their burrows have several chambers for food storage called pantries. They also have a sleeping room, a dump and a latrine, a birthing area and several entrances and exits. Perhaps she had to turn her little underground bungalow into a condo for all the cache she was getting from me. Yup, she’s movin’ on up! She’ll have more than enough to survive the winter on. Anyway, I’m not sure what happened for those couple of days, all I can do is assume. Maybe the country girl was off visiting the city cousin, and she’s not come consistently everyday since, so I’m trying not to worry and enjoy her while I can. There is another chipmunk that visits to eat but they are territorial animals and a chase always ensues, with my girl usually winning the race. She’s not sharing and makes that perfectly clear. I don’t like that one gets food while another is left out, so I place fare in different areas so they can both fill their cheeks and bellies. Some would say that makes my girl a bully, but that’s only anthropomorphizing her, it’s instinctual, survival of the fittest in our Darwinian world. Chipmunks hibernate so I haven’t seen either of them for a couple of months. One day as the temperatures began to cool in early December, as if on que, they both stopped coming to the porch and now their burrow entrances are piled high with snow. They are in for a long winters rest with nary a worry, they are safely tucked away and their pantries are full. I look forward to the spring so we can hang out again. It will be interesting and entertaining with two chipmunks and the three squirrels all vying for my handouts. I hope to have them all eating out of my hand by summer. Who needs TV?   I took down our Christmas tree on Monday. Maybe later than usual, but then there was nothing usual about the 2020 holidays. I’m not going to rate it as worse or better or anywhere in-between, I think different sums it up. Hubby and I stayed the blazes home alone, no holiday feast or visitors, putting off the traditional family dinner for later this year or if need be, next Christmas. Surely by then we will be edging more to the end side of COVID, fingers, toes and legs crossed.
As far as COVID-19 is concerned, I won’t complain. Hubby and I take it one day at a time because that is all anyone can do. Being introverts, we see little difference in our lives and are happy to be in our home where we are safe and where the heart is plentiful. I’ve been working at lot at the shop. What we offer is arguably an essential service considering the orders going out the door. We aren’t open for instore business but mail order deliveries to the post office on Friday and doorstep pickups are constant. The lead up to Christmas was wild, and I never even took the time to decorate the shop for the season. Although no one was getting through the door, they could look through the window and see it lacked the usual Christmas charm. As I drove away from the store each evening, I looked guiltily at the bare windows and hoped people would confuse a bit of the Cosmic Hippie flash next door as part of mine. My home tree, set up in the living room almost two weeks before the 25th sat undecorated until Christmas Day because I was too exhausted to address it. I threw on a few sets of lights, arranging them hap-hazardly so that they were strung irregularly and didn’t reach the bottom branches, but hey, there was sparkle from the middle up and that was the perfect amount. The tree stood in front of our double living room windows, and from the road it was bare and dark on the backside with lights only on the front, but I figured people driving by at 50 klicks, shouldn’t have time to notice. “It is what it is” my son would say. It’s not like anyone was going to be in our house to see it and the dogs didn’t care. By the time I was out of my tired funk, decorating the tree seemed like a waste of time when it would probably get the heave-ho sometime after New Years. It looked a bit sad during the day when the lights are tiny sparks of colour overwhelmed by the mass of greenery, but in the nighttime, it put on a grand performance. The shop was closed from Christmas Eve to January 4th to recharge our batteries. The run up to Christmas led to working many nights till 2:00 am, and during the day we were rushed off our feet as people called last minute to have things picked up or shipped out. I really think most believe our shelves are filled to the brim like an Amazon warehouse, but in a small, handcraft business reality, we make items as the orders come in. Right now, stocking shelves takes second seat while we are closed to walk in traffic. We have no time for making inventory to sit on a shelf as the demand for kits, wool and patterns have us working like elves day and night to fill orders. We weren’t there to hear it, but the shop phone rung off the wall over the holidays, messages left on the machine went back to Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day, and everyday through to January 4th, some not only calling the shop but also messaging me on FB and reaching me through emails, wondering where we are. My phone never stopped pinging all through the holidays with questions and orders. Facebook and messenger make it impossible to escape work, and after the Christmas rush, I felt a bit beaten up and needed time to rest and heal. I guess Amazon and social media keeps everyone plugged in and available 24/7 but this gal is an old dinosaur that likes her days off and evenings home for personal time, although that seems pretty much extinct these days. Ha-ha, it’s 10:50 PM and a customer just pinged me on my phone, I’ll be right back……. We didn’t make a turkey for Christmas dinner. We scaled it down with two chickens to share with the pups. I made dressing and cranberry sauce, our favourites but the rest was regular fare. No fancy dressed table or Christmas crackers either. We happily ate off of our TV trays in front of the television like a bunch of retired old farts. I chilled over the holidays, pretty much living in my jammies, watched mindless TV, hubby and I completed four puzzles, some lasting into the wee hours of the morning, going to bed at 5:00 AM just because there wasn’t any work the next day. It seemed like a lovely retirement kind of thing and in doing that I discovered a cure for insomnia. Napping throughout the day and staying up ridiculously late. It was a real pleasure not struggling for sleep, tossing and turning and being frustrated. Living the nocturnal life seems natural for me and I never find it difficult to nap in the daytime to make up the eight hours, unlike my bed, I fall asleep in a chair as soon as my butt hits it. I stuffed my face with Christmas goodies, those treats I buy only at Christmas. Caramel popcorn and chips and dip are a childhood memory I drag into the present each year. I love oranges and grapes by the mouthful, chocolates and fudge, all things that will shave a few years off at the end but I’m not going to worry about it. Life has never held any guarantees and with COVID thrown into the mix, heck, eat the cake first. Hubby and I ate a lot of fruitcake. It was my mom’s recipe I accidentally discovered while looking through my recipe box for the English Batter card to deep fry some haddock. It’s the same scratch, English batter recipe the Red Buoy used when I worked there as a teenager, long before the add water mix replaced it. It is delicious and because its winter, it’s a good time to inject a bit of extra fat into our diet. So, I made fruit cakes (recipe is in the previous blog) for hubby and I learned to love it as well, although I prefer it without the rum. Somehow, we went through 6 cakes, a part of one was a gift for auntie and the rest ended up as crumbs in the tin, starting with a slice for breakfast and then kept it up throughout the day and finished the last one this week. I have enough ingredients to make four more and hopefully cache them away until next year. I’m not that optimistic they will survive but if not, I can make more in the fall. So, its 2021 and I am hopeful for everyone to have a better year, one with diminished COVID, family gatherings, good health and prosperity. The shop is thriving and I’m so lucky to have a great team in Deborah and Shane. We look forward to fulfilling your wants and needs with our beautiful products so y’all can hook on! Take care, be well. The above design is available on our Seasonal Designs page as a pattern, but it made a cute card as well.  I've never made fruitcake before but it's been a part of my family heritage for as far back and I can remember. My father's mother made a dark one as black as tar and looked a lot like papa's chewing tobacco. My mom always made a light one that was always a part of the menagerie of Christmas baking that delighted me. Mom has been gone a long time now and grandma even longer and over the years fruitcake drifted off my radar, breaking the chain of that family tradition. For some reason, I thought they were hard to make, so I shied away from even giving it a try. For years, I've been bringing home the supermarket ones to my hubby who loves fruitcake. He sprits them with rum so how bad could they be although I always felt guilty about him eating that much mass produced, factory made cake. I always cook and bake from scratch so I felt a bit ashamed about it even though I was the enabler bringing them home. So a couple of days ago I declared that I was going to look up a recipe on the internet and bite the bullet. The very next day I accidentally came across my mother's recipe for her light fruit cake. I don't know the origin of it, perhaps it was passed down by her mom, I like to think that anyway. Coincidence? I think not. Thank-you mom for guiding me to this lost recipe. So I gathered the ingredients and created the magic today. It was so easy and quick to pull together the ingredients, a bit of stirring, add the fruit and it was in the oven. The smell wafting in the air evoked fond memories of days gone by. They baked up perfectly and fell from the pans with ease to cool on the rack. We went for a walk on the beach and came home to coffee and the first trial slices of the cake. We both gave it the nod. I think perhaps I might go a bit lighter on the sugar next time, not enough to mess with the balance of the ingredients, but two cups seem a bit excessive and perhaps a bit more of the cherries and walnuts. The rum will help sweeten it anyway. The recipe called for a tube pan but I also had two loaf pans that I got from my mom's pantry after she passed away so I thought they were more appropriate for her recipe. The pans are approximately 11" l x 4" w x 2 1/2" h. ENJOY! Marjorie’s Light Fruit Cake
1 Cup butter – room temperature 2 Cups brown sugar 4 Eggs – room temperature 1 Cup crushed pineapple (do not drain) 3 Cups flour (reserve 1/2 cup to flour fruit) 1/4 tsp salt 2 Tsp baking powder 1 1/2 tsp vanilla 1 lb. white raisins 1/4 lb. Mixed Peel (orange, lemon, citron) 1/2 lb. Glace Fruit Mix - mixed colours 1 Cup walnut pieces Tube Pan greased and floured Bake 325* oven for 1 ½ Hours We now have STAY THE BLAZES GNOME! note cards for sale. $4.00 ea. Or 4 for $15.00. All profits will be donated to THE LOCAL FOOD BANK.  Hubby and I were raking leaves at the apartment building. We weren’t wearing masks because we were outside and not near any people. When working on the front side of the building we were conscious of the passersby on the sidewalk and made sure to keep a good distance as they sauntered along.
At one point a man walked down the street with a cigarette dangling between two fingers. We had to be more than 15 feet away from him so I figured that was enough. I’m actually allergic to cigarette smoke so I avoid it like the plague. I checked the wind direction to make sure the smoke wouldn’t be traveling our way in case he popped it in his mouth for a drag. Well he did and talk about a shifty wind, the fume he exhaled blew right at us and before we could move it was up our noses and, in our mouths!!! We tasted the bitterness of nicotine on our tongues. The smoke that was in our eyes and in our mouths came from breath that had been in his lungs only seconds before. Yuck, gross and OMG! I have no problem with people that smoke, that is their business, but with the insidious COVID baring down on us, it is cause for concern. Personally, I’ve always thought 6 feet distancing was a joke, especially when a little breeze can send airborne particles greater distances. How easy is it to walk into another person’s breath, either on a sidewalk or a gym, any place where people breathe without a mask? Something to be wary of as community spread of the virus rises. Here's another icky experience I had at the door of the shop when I answered it to find a woman not wearing a mask. Before I could ask her to back up and give me distance, she spoke and spittle came flying out of her mouth and landed on the bare arm of my hand that was holding the doorknob. Now I’ve never been a fan of spit, or any other kind of body fluids like sweat that can migrate from one person to the next but now with COVID, it turned my stomach. I rushed to the sink and scrubbed my skin raw and then disinfected with more alcohol than I’ve ever had in my mouth. Sure, it was my arm, not one of the portals that allow the virus to enter the body, but yucky all the same. That’s how quick being infected can happen, an imperceivable transference and then the shite hits the fan. Stay safe everyone, stay the blazes home and for everyone’s sake, wear your masks. After an upsetting incident a couple of Sunday’s ago, I felt compelled to write about the experience.
Many times, especially in the peak of summer we take the back roads to get downtown to my studio. The normally 50 km route is clogged with traffic slowed to a crawl because of parked cars along the sidewalk side and people walking on the harbourside, shoulder of the road, creating a bottle neck most of the way between the pub and The Moorings condos. Substantially reduced speeds, and at times coming to complete stops, is the only way to get through that congested mile. We aren’t rude but the times we’ve wanted to call out the window “This is not a sidewalk”, well we don’t have enough collective toes and fingers to count them. We say nothing because we want visitors in our town to have a pleasant experience, not leave with a negative stain that curtails future visits. Pedestrians seem to have no regard for passing vehicles when they walk shoulder to shoulder, sometimes three to five people deep, right up to and on the white line. While sitting in the passenger seat of our vehicle, I shouldn’t be able to put my hand out of the car window and touch people along the side of the road but I could if I wanted to. It is not uncommon to come to complete stops in the middle of Main Street as people are crowding our car, not even turning their heads when they hear an approaching vehicle behind them. And worse, when they are walking toward us, they clearly see the car but don’t bother to move further off the roadway, fully expecting the motorist to maneuver around them. We love our town and we appreciate that others do as well. Its wonderful that they come here to support our businesses and take in the spectacular views of our quaint seaside community. But and there is always that but, when you come here there isn’t a magical cone of safety that envelopes you. You need to be aware of your surroundings, conscious of the dangers and act accordingly so we can all go about mishap free and enjoy our day. So, this particular Sunday, numerous people were walking on the right side of the road as we headed into town. On the left, cars were parked along the sidewalk creating that ever present bottle neck with people walking along the pavement on the right too close to the white line. Vehicles were stopping one way or the other to allow one car through at a time. For this incident we were moving at a walking pace. A car coming toward us had pulled in behind a parked car and had stopped, waiting for us to pass so they could proceed. Our left wheels were on the center yellow line to avoid the people walking on our right that were much too close to our car. There were two female adults and one child, their backs to us as they headed in the same direction. The child was on the farthest side of them and not holding the adult’s hand beside her. Then, all of a sudden, the child perhaps 4 years of age, did a figure eight, darting behind her mother and then scooted between the two women, running around the front of the woman on the left, over the white line and into the side of our car. Because we had been at a greatly diminished speed the car braked quickly. The little girl was barely visible below the side of the car but there had been no bump so we hoped we hadn’t connected with her but there had to have been a hair’s width between us. The look on the women’s faces reflected the horror on ours as we waited with our hearts in our throats. The car hadn’t touched the girl and even if it had we were going so slow nothing serious would have happened but with someone more impatient behind the wheel, there could have been a more ominous outcome. The one woman, we thought perhaps the grandmother, came to the window and apologized, telling us the little girl was okay while the mother crouched to speak to the child, who was clearly shaken. Gregg mentioned that there was a perfectly safe sidewalk on the left side of the road, which was for just that, walking, and the woman said they planned to go into a shop up ahead. I must say it put a real damper on our afternoon as what could have happened reared its ugly head. The feeling of dread stayed with us long after our hearts went back to regular beating. The little girl sustaining injuries would have been devastating for all involved, something we’d all have to reconcile and live with. Perhaps we need more crosswalks along main street for crossovers to shops. We’re stopping anyway for those that wander over the white line, and even if their feet might be inside the line, their shoulders, their purses and the shopping bags in their hands are not. It needs to be safer to sightsee in our town if the onus is going to lay solely at the hands of the driver. And yes, I know the driver is supposed to be vigilant at all times but come on people, this needs to be a collective cautionary approach to your safety. When flesh and bone meet steel, the latter will always win. I’ll bet the farm that there are lots of drivers in our town that can relate to what happened, throw their tales on a heaping pile of incidents and near misses. Perhaps Mahone Bay needs to put up signs that say NO WALKING, or WALK AT YOUR OWN RISK on that side of the road with arrows pointing to the official sidewalk across the street, to protect our community in the event of an injury and potential lawsuit, just like the DO NOT WALK ON THE TRACK signs of railway lines, apparently if you don’t warn folks they are free to sue you for their own lack of forethought. It’s enviable, it’s going to happen, I’m surprised it hasn’t already. And while I’m having a rant, there seems to be a growing trend in our town of crosswalk infringements. Back when I was young it was drilled into me to look both ways before crossing a street and then walk with intent to cross, not dilly dallying when cars are approaching. I also see, rather frequently, cars that have stopped for people in the crosswalk, especially the one by the Cenotaph heading west, then not waiting for the pedestrians to reach the other side before they continue on their way. In case you are not aware, this happens to be illegal, you are supposed to be at a full STOP until the person or persons have completely crossed to the other side. When in the crosswalk, be cautious and considerate and get to the other side in a timely fashion. That does not mean you have to run across like a hare, but sauntering like a tortoise is really not safe. I have waited for people to walk across and they haven’t even glanced either way to check for cars. They cross without a thought for what might be going on around them. It’s really nice to have that kind of confidence but crosswalk deaths and accidents are slowly on the rise. A crosswalk is not a place for checking a phone, texting or carrying on animated conversations with hands flailing, laughing or worse, wearing earplugs and listening to music. Being distracted by everything other than what is going on around you, such as 3000 lb. plus vehicles on the move, is a recipe for disaster. Christine Little Resident This December I’ll be turning to page 62 of my life story. Mentally, I still feel the youthfulness of my twenties, but I am conscious of my ever-changing body. Almost overnight my skin is a little thinner, like a soft malleable paper with a shiny iridescence of a grayish mother of pearl. It’s interesting; I see beginning of things in the mirror that I witnessed while I worked in a nursing home. I’m not delighted that I’m soaring towards the end of my life, but I won’t be heading into it kicking and screaming.
I really have no problem with aging and the changes to come, mostly I find it all terribly interesting. Growing old isn’t catastrophic or upsetting, it is an unavoidable part of life that I would rather embrace than fret about; goodness knows I did enough of that when I was younger. I wasted my youth thinking I was a hideous freak of nature and now I am riddled with remorse, that I didn’t show my physical body more kindness when it was a magnificent, youthful masterpiece. I’ve been a sensitive soul my entire life. Perhaps rough beginnings mapped out the years to come after being denied a smooth entrance into the world. Following protocol of the time, my mother’s legs were tied together during a blizzard when a doctor couldn’t make it to the hospital to deliver me. It seemed the world didn’t want me and when a physician finally came to our rescue, walking several kilometers on snow shoes to reach us, I was blue and gasping a last breath. My poor mother, traumatized by the ordeal, couldn’t relax enough to breast feed me when the same nurses that tied her up hovered around her telling her “You can do it”, thence cheating me of the most intimate mother child bond there is. Then my homecoming was tainted by an older sibling who didn’t like my intrusion and wanted me returned to whence I came. So, the first week of my life was a trifecta of rejection, perhaps helping to form my weak personality. During my first decade I was bullied even before the terminology was popularized and suffered name calling, slaps, pinches and kicks, turning the pain of it all inward, until I felt ugly and worthless and totally unloved. Maybe I needed more attention than some, maybe with more affection and assurance I wouldn’t have felt like a mutant freak, because as early as three, I began to systematically tear my body apart, loathing the various attributes. What preschooler obsesses about their body, focusing on perceived flaws and magnifying them out of proportion? Why wasn’t I in the sandbox, playing with dolls or bumping up and down on a teeter-totter without a care in the world instead of hanging out in my head, conjuring a cruel and unfair reality for myself? Everything was clouded by a body image that had been planted with a negative seed and then watered and nurtured until it grew into a tangled mess. At the time I thought I was alone, in an exclusive club; but millions of people are insecure and unhappy with their appearance. Look what happened to Michael Jackson. When he was a young boy, a fan exclaimed how huge is nose was and look how that turned out. Plastic surgery is a multi-billion-dollar industry, that’s not a couple of Hollywood starlets spending their entire paycheques, its millions of people getting a heck of a load of alterations, nips and tucks to find happiness. For me it all started with my chin and legs, two taunts that left their mark like a branding iron. To this day I don’t own a pair of shorts after being labeled “Ole Chicken legs”, ha ha cluck, cluck. After being called this relentlessly, I truly believed that my legs were by far the ugliest in the world. Then came the “Witchchin” moniker which was even worse because I couldn’t hide my face as easily as my legs. Imagine always trying to position yourself so those around you couldn’t see your profile. For some reason I felt I had to protect everyone from seeing my ugliness so I wouldn’t be judged or thought less of from the horror that was my chin and in turn, protected myself from expected ridicule and further berating. I was taunted by my sister with how ‘no boy could ever kiss me because my chin was so huge, his lips would never meet mine’. Throughout my adolescence, if I was forced to wear shorts, I used to walk backwards and sideways so those behind me couldn’t see my barnyard gams, while holding my chin so those beside me couldn’t see my distorted profile. I was an irrefutable mess. After those two physical attributes were condemned, I began my own self-destruction. I rationalized that if my chin was hideous and my legs were an abomination, how was all else in-between acceptable? I remember each physical assassination so vividly, each target a nightmare as I tried to overcome them with subterfuge, camouflaging with added clothing and maneuvers as not to show my flaws. Although I still remember each attack and the ensuing stress, the order is blurred, but here’s the run down. My ears were too large, my nose too small, my lips were paper thin, my eyes too wide apart, but then flip-flop, they seemed beady and too close together, my neck was too long, my head too large, my hair too straight and much too thin (I sure wish I had now what I had then), I perspired too much, oh my the sweaty feet, acne, my shoulders were too narrow, my arms were too short for my long torso, my legs were also overshadowed by the long body, but then nothing below my pelvis had any merit, my feet were weird with my second toe dwarfing the big one, I didn’t go outside much so I had the pallor of a creature of the night, my inner thighs were gapped like a tunnel cut through a mountain, my huge knees knocked, my calves were too thin, my breath was foul, my teeth too crooked and my eye teeth too long, there’s that vampire comparison again, and on and on it went. I was an ugly duckling with no hope of a swan transformation and felt like the loneliest, ugliest and most unloved kid in the neighbourhood, perhaps even the world. Looking back to my twenties and thirties, I regret having the confidence to wear the little spaghetti strap, black dress because my legs were shite and my arms were too hideous to reveal. The latter one really behooves me because my arms are great, have obviously been lovely my entire life. Of course now they are a bit doughy and have a couple of flaps that wave when I do, ironic isn’t it? If only I could have hated myself in reverse, let the loathing escalate as I ascend to the higher double digits after gravity has its way, while beginning my adolescence in love with my firm, youthful self. I’d spent years hiding beneath huge shoulder pads in the nineties, making my noggin look like a pin head. After that trend petered out, I was even more conscious of their shortcomings and now the fad is resurfacing for another run but I don’t need them now, I really never did! I look in the mirror and see lovely shoulders. I even bought a few sleeveless tops last year, mostly from being tired of hiding my body under fabric when I deserve to be comfortable in the heat of summer and a hidden bonus, no farmer tan! I told hubby the other morning that I don’t understand why I was so critical of my shoulders when they are perfectly normal and he said “It’s about time you shouldered aside the self-recrimination sweetie”.....my guy, my biggest fan and always the wordsmith. I’m saddened that my younger self lacked the proper building blocks to break the shackles of insecurity. My life could have been simpler, what a different person I might have been, relaxed and comfortable in my own skin instead of fidgeting, concealing and deflecting attention away from my person. It would have been wonderful to not care about which side was showing, one only mildly better than the other, or worrying how the sun or room light was highlighting something I preferred to remain unseen. Now that I’m older I look at myself in the mirror and wish I’d been kinder to me, wish I’d appreciated what I had, perhaps flaunted it, shown a bit of cleavage for goodness sake; celebrated my youth and curves with pride. We humans are strange creatures, although my story is extreme, it’s not that uncommon. Thankfully, I’m no longer that self-destructive, foolish girl that was hell bent on hurting my feelings. Thank goodness we grow older and become wiser. By the time I’m 90 and time is slipping away like pennies in a pocket hole, the vessel that carries my mind around will be soft and supple, a casing perfectly matched to the contentment I feel inside. We only get one chance in this mortal frame and I foolishly screwed up the first two thirds anguishing over it, but I don’t have regrets; they won’t serve any purpose now. So much wasted time, worrying and obsessing about absolutely nothing, at least nothing that mattered. If there was one thing I could go back and change it would be to love the younger me, embrace my flaws whether they were real or perceived. All of the energy that went into hiding and camouflaging and avoiding social contact could have been used to power a city for an entire year. Anyway, such is life. Now that I’m older I shake my head and even laugh at my foils but where do I go from here? Well, I’ll not shy away or cheat myself of life’s experiences because of my body. It is what it is and if truth be told it’s pretty amazing, a miracle of biology really and will be till the very last wrinkle settles into the vast desert of my skin and my very last breath sustains it. I am unique and formidable. When my breasts are flattened to my chest and tucked into the waistband of my pajamas, and the skin on my knees is resting on my shins, when the cracks and crevices on my body can hold a snack, maybe my keys, when I’m almost bald with a bad comb over or perhaps a wig, when my ears have grown as long as my face and my eyebrows are like bristles on a wire brush, I will be beautiful…….. Since COVID-19, I haven’t been blogging very often. Not because I don’t want too, but with the shop being so busy and working here on my own, I didn’t have time to play with words. But, after a comment was dropped on my Encompassing Designs FB page by a disgruntled person that came to the shop, I can’t help but present my side. Last week there was a knock on the shop door. A woman was standing so close to the door I couldn’t unlock and open it to see what she wanted. Several times I motioned with my hands for her to step back, I even tried to shout through the door, asking her to backup so I can open it. She just looks confused. Our big 32” wide door opens outward and pretty much covers the entire step; it is impossible for it to sweep out without knocking someone to the sidewalk. And here is where it degrades….there is a pandemic happening and you and I both need 6 feet of distance….I not only need it, I want it for your protection as well as mine. I see you have two children with you standing to your left and not getting the response I need for you to step back; I go over to the window and tap on it where there is a sign that says I am closed due to COVID. My intent was to get you to move to the window away from the door so I could open it to see how I could assist you. But it seems the tapping on the sign instantly pissed you off and you shot me a hateful look and then hustled away with your children in tow. I was rooted to the spot trying to process your anger or I would have run back to the door, opened it and hollered to get your attention but that old doormat inside of me, that bullied child and battered wife of a previous life, wouldn’t allow my feet to move. I’ve written about this before, how rudeness and anger paralyze me, I’m pathetic I know, but old crap surfaces fast when prodded. My shop is not open to the public. This early in the pandemic, I don’t believe that it is safe for Shane, Deborah or me to allow people in the shop. If I can’t protect them, I can’t in all conscience be the catalyst that exposes them. I know the entire province seems to be opened up, pretty much every business in my small town is, but I believe it is premature. Just because the virus hasn’t infiltrated our town doesn’t mean it isn’t coming or perhaps it is already here by way of asymptomatic carriers. There are so many visitors in this town walking around, with license plates from across Canada and the US parked along the streets. There is sometimes no room on the sidewalks to pass and people almost touch shoulders. No one steps back or moves to avoid complete strangers. I sometimes people watch from the shop window and I shake my head because I really don’t understand. Very few, a small percentage wear masks while walking around and they only don them because it is a rule to enter stores. I realize that a very small percent of people die from the virus but all it takes is that one untested asymptomatic carrier to meet up with the right person and a statistic is made. This woman’s reaction ruined my afternoon and I lamented to my husband and Deborah who has been helping me catch up on pattern orders, working in the back room and respecting each other’s space. It took a while to calm down, and then I started wondering why I am even doing this when most of the door experiences have been trying. I’d say 85% of the people that knock on my door, tourists as well as rug hookers, don’t adhere to the rules of the pandemic. Some aren’t wearing masks at all, or pull them out of a pocket and put it on only because they see I’m wearing one. How are these people protecting themselves or me with a mask crumpled in their jeans pocket or purse and not handled with sanitized hands? I’ve watched hundreds of shoppers putting masks on and taking them off after browsing every shop, handling them over and over, are not these mask covered in whatever they’ve hands have touched? How is this protecting anyone? Some grab the door knob as I open it, almost pulling me out. I’ve learned to grasp it tightly as I ease it open. If they step back as the door opens, they jump back on the step becoming almost face to face with me. Others pull off their masks to speak to me as if somehow, we are both safe because they know me? I know its difficult speaking through fabric but I'm willing to raise my voice to for clarity. The masks sometimes dangle on one ear providing no protection at all or the best one, the mask is below their nose only covering their mouth. The majority of people don't want to step back to the sidewalk or on the grassy area in front of the window but the few that have, made for a very pleasant experience and gave us time for bit of a catch-up with their lives. Customers sometimes come in groups, or with husbands or children. What happened to one person per family like at the grocery stores? If I open somewhere down the road there will be a one person rule at a time in the shop and there will be guidelines to follow so we don’t have to disinfect the entire store between customers. I haven’t figured out a way to do this with selling such tactile products and I don't want the shop to look like my mother's living room sofa, wrapped in plastic so we can hose it down. I believe we are in difficult times; I believe there is a pandemic and I believe the numbers reported. Worldwide, 275,00 people, on average, are infected daily and on average, 6000 people die each day. As of Sept 3rd, there are over 870,000 deaths worldwide and that is only what is reported. And the daily infections and deaths rise every day as the virus picks up momentum. Just numbers eh? Well let me show you something. Here is a photo of a stadium that holds 3000 people, I’ve put two of them together. This is how many people (on average) die daily from this pandemic worldwide. Seeing the numbers as people is unsettling and mind blowing and its what keeps me being vigilant with caution. That’s a lot of loved ones, friends and family......
When I open the door and tell people I am only open for curbside pickup and mail order, I always ask if there is anything in particular I can help them with from the doorway. Sometimes people request products, but many times I’m told no, they just want to get in and browse. Or when assisting a customer at the door with items they wish to see, they are always too close and sometimes reach out and touch the products I’m showing them before I can react, enough that I now say, “no touchy.” That seems to annoy people, everything I do seems to annoy some people because they are frustrated doing business this way. We are frustrated too. We are all in the same row boat, whether we make it to the destination or sink all comes down to how we handle the oars. I would love to throw open my doors and allow the summer trade in, that's what I rely on to support me through the winter. These are uncertain times for all businesses. We are all hurting but doing the best we can. When the dust settles many will be gone, some will prosper but most will limp along until they can regain a foothold.
As for me, I’m sorry but I can’t risk my health on a wool sale. This shop is not my life. I have not opened up the bubble that my husband and I float around in. We haven’t gone anywhere and no one has been in our house since February, absolutely no one, I even had to give up having my house cleaned, hopefully only temperately but I fear I may have lost my spot. Having my house cleaned was my gift to myself, and we love Larry. If my husband and I see fit to continue to isolate it is our choice and the right one for us. I hear “you gotta live” in reference to our lack of socializing or eating in restaurants. and I say be my guest, do as you please, go anywhere you wish. I can respect your decision and the way you live your life even if I don’t agree but please respect that I don’t feel the same. I make allowance for this behavior because I know we are going through unprecedented times. But it makes me uneasy when I am working to protect myself. I know we are all trying to deal with the pandemic the best way we can to ensure a happy outcome. I know I’m fodder around the proverbial water cooler, many think I am wrong to not open my doors to the public or allow friends in our home. I too, hope I am wrong, that the experts are wrong, I really, really do. I will be the first to admit it if I’m proven wrong. But in the meantime, I am listening to the scientists, the doctors and the pandemic experts and keeping a watchful eye on the world reports. I’m sending parcels out all over the world. I’ll bet every one of my customers like and appreciate that I practice a high degree of caution, so their items are coming from not just a perfume and smoke free environment, but a a COVID free one too. I’ve seen so much since the outbreak, a lot of negative attitudes and people being hollered at and called names as the unbeliever’s bully and persecute the believers. It’s a very strange world we live in right now and it will probably get worse before it gets better. We really need to be kind to one another no matter what side of the fence we sit on. This latest incident has prompted me to make a sign that says (Please Step Back From The Door 6 Feet). This should solve the problem of opening the door. Anyway, this is my viewpoint and I promised myself a while back to stop preaching about the pandemic, no one really wants to hear my opinion. But I don’t like to be judged unfairly or have anyone assume I was being rude when it couldn’t be further from the truth. I appreciate all my customers and I want to keep us both safe and well. My mother always said, “don’t believe anything you hear and only half of what you see”.  A while ago a parcel arrived in the mail. I hadn’t ordered anything so it was a real mystery. I opened it to find a darling hooked pillow. I was thrilled and I must confess my heart skipped a beat and my eyes misted as I read the note. This awesome gift was from Brigitte Webb, a household name in the art of rug hooking, when she was chosen in 2019, as the International Rug Hooking Artist of the Year by the Rug Hooking Museum of North America. Before that, she was known for her talent in many rug hooking circles and a friend to all that met her. Her smile could lighten any room, and her delightful Scottish brogue cast a spell on us all. I knew Brigitte, the lovely pillow fairy, from many moons ago when I first opened my rug hooking shop. It was hardly a studio in those days, just one small room with nary the inventory I have today. Brigitte placed a few kit orders at the beginning of her rug hooking foray, then developed her own way of doing things as her talent blossomed and the possibilities became endless. She told me that she was the only rug hooker in Scotland at the time and was in a group with other fiber artists, but I’m sure she’s changed that with her infectious enthusiasm for our craft. I remember her telling me she loved visiting Nova Scotia and enjoyed Tim Horton's coffee so I sent her a can of their ground beans along with one of her orders as a taste and memory of Canada. She is a friend to many on Facebook, the social media tether that keeps us all updated on our lives and projects. I see she’s been a busy beaver hooking and sending out pillows to various friends and fellow fiber artists, I know they must have been as thrilled as I was to receive one. I feel quite special to have been gifted with an original Brigitte Webb, knowing that she lovingly hooked and crafted one of her special rugs to send to me. Wow, its such an honour. She knows how much I love my beautiful boat and hoped it would find a home there. Of course, I thanked her immediately, but there were not enough words to describe what it meant to me and how it came at such a tenuous time in my life, when I needed a boost of confidence and a smile. I always planned to write about the gift, but I really wanted to take it to the boat first, and photograph it in the place it was made to be. In the meantime, it adorned a living room chair, where I would look at it think of Brigitte and that very special moment when I opened the parcel and read her message. It’s the stuff good tears are made of...... Brigitte calls her pillows small mindings. Pillows she creates and sends to folks who she values and cares about and who have been a great part of her life over the past number of years. She enjoys what she does, and it keeps her brain ticking when sharing a bit of herself with dear friends. Because of COVID-19 and being so busy at the shop filling orders, we were a month late launching the boat this year, but finally, our girl is bobbing up and down on the mooring ball. I took my precious pillow on board and positioned it in a very special spot that can be seen from the companionway and every corner of her beamy cabin. The colours and design are nautical and it fits like an old friend. Brigitte so cleverly designed, colour planned and created the perfect gift for me. The photo doesn't do it justice so let me describe it. She used a mixed media of wool, sari silk, velvet and sparkly infusions of ribbon in the star. The rich navy background is full of sparkles, like twinkling diamonds in a night sky, so perfect for a crow like me. A star might be the focal of this darling little pillow, but Brigitte is truly the brightest star of them all. Thank-you again and many hugs from Mahone Bay!
I’ve heard about it from others, I’ve read about it on FB, I’ve heard it on the news, read about it on Google, and now I’ve witnessed it first hand. Some people don’t believe that COVID-19 is real and think we are being fed a load of bull.
I was at the shop dyeing wool and ran out of vinegar so I took a parcel to the mail and while masked up, went to the Independent Grocer to buy a few jugs. I was at the head of the outdoor line-up in my usual garb of gloves and mask when a man got out of his vehicle, walked directly toward the store door and was stopped by the duty guard, who told him to go back around the barrier and get in line. I was the only one in line and he trudged up behind me. I turned to make sure he gave me some distance, because he was breathing hard and grumbling and I couldn’t gauge how close he might be. I could tell something about me pissed him off by the look he gave me, probably adding to his annoyance of being told to wait in line. He started shouting. “You are all nothing but sheep! You are being led to act like sheep! You are sheep in a herd! If you all put down your damn phones and turned off the TV and got out and started living you would be better off! He paused to catch his breath and then continued. If it weren’t for listening to the media you wouldn’t be acting like sheep. The media is the problem! They need to be shut down! He was shouting as loudly as possible, screaming at my back and the female staff guard. The hair on my neck prickled as I turned around to face him. I had to ask. “Don’t you believe there’s a pandemic happening?” He screamed. NO! I said, “You don’t believe, as of today worldwide, the virus has killed 435,000 people? “NO!” he screams. Then goes on to say, “That many people die for all kinds of reasons! “But this is different” I said and before I could add to my statement, he screamed, “They’re blaming every death on the damn virus now, car accidents, heart attacks, you name it! There’s no damn virus! You are nothing but sheep! He was getting even louder, if that was possible. I turned away from him to mind my own business, like I should have in the first place and an uneasy feeling grew in my gut. He continued to rant, directed now at the guard. “I don’t have to go through this crap anywhere else I go, waiting in line and herded like a sheep!” The guard said he didn’t need to be here if it wasn’t to his liking. My spidey sense was tingling, anyone that angry had to be wound tight and ready to spring. A woman came out with her groceries and the guard motioned for me to go into the store. I hesitated only a moment and then thought I’d better skedaddle. I didn’t like him being that close to me, his shouting was assuredly sending spittle my way and I know from experience what turning my back to anger can do. He was clearly a person comfortable with verbal aggression and I didn’t want it to escalate at my expense. I’ve read about conspiracy theories and the length to which some people go to refuse to wear protection. It’s against their civil rights they say, but to deny the actual existence of the pandemic is another thing altogether. The entire world has basically shut down to halt its spread, that's a pretty big lie to carry out. When I finished shopping and left the store, the guard had a male employee sitting with her and she told me the man had come back out sputtering off again and was loud and abusive all the way to his vehicle. I said I was worried he might attack you but she seemed unbothered and said she’d like to see him to try. A customer that phoned to place an order told me that when a woman got really close to her in a line-up and was kindly asked to back up to six feet the woman told her to f#%! off. And several others have told me that they have encountered rudeness and anger in stores and line ups and people that crowd them or push them out of the way. Someone told me that these sorts of life altering dilemmas bring out who a person really is. It is sad we can’t agree to disagree and be kind to one another in the process of coping in this difficult time. |
Christine Little has been ranked #5 out of the 60 top rug hooking bloggers by Rug Hooking Magazine!
 
Max Anderson, Australia, recipient of my Nova Scotia Treasures rug. An award of excellence for promoting Canada through his writing.
Archives
February 2023
Gift Certificates are available for that special rug hooker in your life! Any denomination, no expiry date!
 Categories
|
RSS Feed
