Category:

Dove Tale

2/1/2016

Sunday afternoon I was washing dishes at the kitchen sink while looking out the window over the vast white hillside. Movement caught my eye and I noticed a crow land on the neighbour’s outbuilding roof. It was looking at something on the ground and I watched it fly down several times, peck at something and then fly back to the roof.

Whatever it was worrying, was alive and kicking, as the object fluttered around trying to escape the crow’s beak. I thought it might be a bird as it appeared dovelike, was smaller than the crow and maybe dragging a wing. Any creature higher up the food chain wastes little time targeting the old and weak and the crow was very determined.

Repeatedly, it dive-bombed the bird below, getting bolder each time.    The American crow is omnivorous. It will feed on invertebrates of all types, carrion scraps of human food, seeds, eggs and nestlings, stranded fish on the shore and various grains. They are active hunters and will prey on mice, frogs and other small animals so a wounded smaller bird wasn’t off the menu.

I suppose I was thinking that perhaps the dove needed saving. If it was a matter of a broken wing, that could be fixed and a trip to Hope For Wildlife was in our future. So I put on my coat and hat and gloves that would protect me from the beak and went outside.

As I stepped out on the deck, the screen door banged behind me and both birds took flight. The crow flew away and settled in a nearby tree, cawed a few times and then watched me. The dove tried to fly away but only made it a few feet and then dropped something out of its claws to the ground below and then flew out of sight.

I could feel the crow’s eyes burning deep as I made my way through the crusty snow. As I approached the object I could make out a wing and then saw the entire body of a dead bird. The reason why I couldn't make out the creature on the ground from the window was because it was flopping about while holding on to a dead bird. I realized immediately I had interfered in something, whether for the good or the bad, I did not know.

I scooped up the cold, limp body of a dove and examined it closely. One doesn’t get this kind of up close moment to examine nature often.   The bird was beautiful. The delicate head, with iridescent feathers, shapely beak and eyes were like a beautiful painting. I examined the body to determine the cause of death but nothing was revealed. Some wing and body feathers had been plucked away leaving bare, rippled skin but there wasn’t any blood. Perhaps the cause of death was a broken neck from hitting something hard or maybe it was just its time on the roster.

I laid the little, fragile body on top of the BBQ cover and went into the house wondering if the dove would come back looking for its ward. I looked up doves on the internet to read about their habits and it said that they will take care of their dead mate. I felt sad momentarily that I had interrupted a natural process but as I read further maybe I helped. It said that mourning after a mate can put them in jeopardy of predators and that was clearly the case with the opportunist crow muscling in on an easy meal.

Although I meant well, maybe I shouldn’t have interfered. Perhaps in my clumsy way I saved the living dove from danger as it tried to protect its dead mate, but perhaps I cheated it of closure, saying goodbye and letting go.

I read that a dove mates for life but will seek another if they are rendered alone, but I’m not so sure they all do. We have dozen of doves in the yard at all times, but there is one odd fellow who is always alone. It sits on the peak of our house roof and makes the most mournful sound, seemingly cooing out its woes to the countryside. While all the others are in pairs, it sits by itself and I’ve often wondered what its story is as I stop to listen to its mournful song.........

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Stranger in the night.....

2/5/2015

1 Comment

When you have ELIMINATED the impossible,
whatever remains however improbable,
must be the TRUTH." - Sherlock Holmes

The night before last hubby and I were watching TV when I looked out the window and noticed a tall, thin male walking along the road heading towards Mader’s Cove. It was after 11:00 pm and the weather outside was clear but deadly cold, something like -19 C with wind chill, so it was weird to see someone out that late and on foot. He was walking with his back to traffic, foolish for that time of night, especially with dark clothing on.

These kind of temperatures freeze skin, turn the insides of your nose into hairsicles so the poor guy had to be cold to the marrow. He was wearing a short coat and a toque, probably gloves but I couldn’t tell with the pole lighting making him a silhouette against the backdrop of snow. My impression was that he was mid-twenties to early thirties; something in his walk dismissed a teenager.

He strolled past our driveway, past our neighbours mail box and then turned up their road.   I thought it strange, the woman next door lives alone and who comes a callin that late at night? Hubby had gotten up to make a coffee and I mentioned there was a man walking up the neighbour’s driveway. We both scrambled to the window to gawk but couldn’t see any movement. We made the decision to call next door to find out if everything was okay. She’s a late nighter like us and many times I lay in bed reading to the wee hours and see her light on across the way. She answered and said she was alone and wasn’t expecting anyone. We told her if there is a knock on the door, don’t answer and give us a call. She thanked us and we hung up.

My imagination worked the various scenarios. Maybe he was a squatter, holding up in her garage for the night. Maybe he was cold and wanted to use a phone to call for a ride? Maybe his actions were more nefarious, but I tried not to go there although my mind was primed to enter the dark realm.   Too many forensic science shows and true life crime can give a gal a salted imagination.

I watched her lit window for the next few minutes waiting for movement inside. Outside, the full moon illuminated her backdoor area and up the hill behind her house so I could spot someone moving about easily.   I got out the binoculars and was able to see even better. Concern was rising like dough in a pan, but I beat it down, after all, this is Mahone Bay, the worst that ever happens is teenage vandalism, kids blowing off steam, a few tipped tombstones and a slashed tire.

Tuesday night we put the garbage out for Wednesday morning pick-up. Usually hubby takes the bags to the end of the road but I needed to do a little sleuthing. I grabbed the flashlight and the recyclables and hoofed down the driveway. It was bitter outside, not fit for a rock. Wrapped in a knee length fake fur, boots, hat, gloves and a scarf wrapped like a constrictor around my neck, I was still chilled to the bone. My face cracked; protesting the frigid dryness as it sucked the moisture from my skin. I pulled the scarf up over my nose so the warmth of my breath would protect my lips from chapping. It wouldn’t take much time in this weather to become a frozen, human Popsicle.

I went to the bottom of our driveway and starting looking for the man’s tracks in the snow. I found them as he went off the road to her property edge and traced them up the incline for about five feet. Then they turned and went back down the other side of the driveway and continued down the road. His prints were small, slightly larger than my woman’s size 8. The middle of the driveway had been ploughed and the surface was packed hard and icy so the prints didn’t show there, only the edges where it was softer snow did he leave his mark. So the question is, why this horseshoe side trip? If only I had stayed in the window when I first noticed him I might have seen him turn around and leave, sparing us all a worrisome night. If he walked up and then immediately down the driveway, what was he doing? Was he drunk and confused, staggering to the wrong home?

I read in bed to quiet my mind and find it helps to relax so sleep can come but I kept being distracted by the walking man. After putting my book down I looked out the window one last time with the binoculars and then took off my glasses and turned out our bedroom light but no sleep for me. It was a fitful night of tossing and turning for hours.   The last time I looked at the clock through weary eyes was 5:00 am.

I woke up 8:00 am, jarred from a coma by the phone ringing. A repair guy that was supposed to come by at ten to do a job, phoned to say he had to drive his mother-in-law to the hospital and would drop by later. There aren’t enough words to describe how crappy I felt, swollen from a lack of rest, with a headache pounding behind my eyes like a tribal drum, all I could think about was next door.

The rural route mail arrived in the morning and the red arm was up. I waited for her to walk down and retrieve it, something she does everyday but of course this time she didn’t. I explained it away, she probably didn’t get much sleep and slept in.   I probably scared the crap out of her. She’s a senior and lives alone and probably sat up all night with a baseball bat waiting for an intruder.   I phoned her to chat and she thanked me for looking out for her. I think she slept better than I did so I was happy about that. She told me she hadn’t seen the guy so therefore wasn’t that alarmed.

On my way home from work yesterday I drove past a very familiar shape. It was a slim man with a red toque, red trim on his black jacket with a pair of gangly legs walking toward the pub. I knew instantly it was him because of his walk.   Hate to sound boastful but I have excellent observation skills, facial recognition, and I can detect patterns quickly. I think I would have made a good detective, another fantasy I entertained as a young adult. I’d bet the farm that is the same guy I saw the night before last.   I asked my cleaning guy who lives further down the road from us and he said he’s seen a guy matching that description walking along the road before.   Mystery solved as for the who, the why is still unknown.

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If the shoe fits.....

11/4/2014

4 Comments

This blog is a bit of a catch-up. As I’ve whined before, October was a rough month personally. I was absent from work quite a bit and we got behind in some orders. I want to say thank-you to all of you who were patient, all the back orders have gone, and apologize again to those who couldn’t wait. Life sometimes gets in the way and being such a small company, I don’t have an army of employees to rush in and save the day.

November seems to be lining up as a better month. The pups are all over the coughing and Henri’s eye is almost back to normal after two weeks of draining like a culvert after a rain storm. Jake has gotten back pretty much all his strength and is now hopping up on the sofa in a single bound.   Saturday was a bit of a setback when I came home from work to discover a pocket of fluid under his shin the size of a small egg. After a panicked call to the vet who didn’t seem to think it was serious, suggested icing it and said I would probably see an improvement in a few days as the body reabsorbs it. It wasn’t there before I left for work in the morning so it came on pretty quickly. I handle my pups a lot, massaging them and checking for ticks daily, I would have noticed this large bump that is big enough to show and causes a slight limp. I used a flashlight to cover the entire area looking for a bite mark or a sting. No bruising to speak off, so that rules out an injury, just a hard bump. After a bit of research on the internet I think maybe it was a hematoma because cyst or an abscess is usually softer and would take longer to form. I’m a bit disturbed as to why it happened, especially after he had a stroke like occurrence the other week. My pups are rarely sick so I guess we’d been coasting for a long time, to have so much happen in the span of a few weeks has been rough on them and me. The stress of October has caused my hair to start shedding all over again so I am working hard to reverse that before I go bald.

My back is almost 90% although my knee decided to protest this morning. An old injury flares up every now and then. Probably from favouring my back while moving like old fart for the past week or so.   Shane’s pet name for me is “old gimpy,” and I would think it funny if not for the agony.   The hardest thing to do was get in and out of the car. I think he took a picture of me in one of my fits of trying to get in with minimal spasming. If the neighbours were in ear shot they heard a blue streak as the pain cut through me like a hatchet blade.

It sure is easy to take for granted the simply things in life, like the act of hopping in and out of the car at the grocery store. I ate eggs for days as shopping wasn’t an option. I kept going to the cupboard, opening the door to find nothing to eat. Why I did that repeatedly I’m not sure, maybe the pain dulled my brain, only an idiot does the same thing over and over expecting a different outcome. Boiled eggs, fried eggs and more boiled, slathered in butter. Protein overload. Luckily I buy dozens at a time or I would have had to dine on popcorn, or worse, dog food.   On the days I ventured out for an hour or two, I barely got in and out of the car at work let alone chance taking a spasm at the Save Easy parking lot. There wasn’t any hubby to take care of me and I always hate to ask for help, putting others out, but I would have killed for some meals on wheels. I might have complained to friends to take pity on me, but then I didn’t want anyone to see the state of my house, so pride just about starved me.

The house got messy pretty quickly. Dishes piled high along the counter, clutter everywhere. Henri likes to chew up egg cartons; a trick daddy thought cute and encouraged, and because eggs were the only staple there were extra thrown by the wood stove to be used as fire starter. Henri helped himself to the pile and ripped them to shreds leaving hundreds of bits covering the floor. I couldn't pick up the pieces, literally, so I just kicked them around as I shuffled about. Getting close to the floor to feed the pups was rough, so basically I just bent as much as I could and dropped their plates from about a half foot up, hoping they wouldn’t break. They dine off of Blue Willow china, plastic won’t do for these silver spooned babes, so it didn’t take long to run out of dishes as I couldn’t bend back down to scoop them up for a wash. I shoved them aside with my foot and the pile grew.

Putting on socks would have been a comedic video if not for the audio of my crying and screaming. The contortions were excruciating, trying to get each foot, one at a time up high enough so I could pull the sock over the toes.    Hearing me suffer, the pups were concerned and would jump up on me and try to kiss my face, only adding to the pain as I tried to ward them off.

I won’t go into details of how rough it was going to the bathroom. Just trying to push my jeans down or pull them up was a tale for Ripley’s and as for the wiping part, well, all I can say is “where are your friends when you need them?” There truly is a need for a gadget, no not a bidet, an electronic wiper, a multi-billion dollar idea waiting to be invented! FYI - I looked this up on the interent and found an article about this very thing but unfortunately the prototype backfired and ripped the poor inventor's buttocks off. Phone a friend might still be the only option....

Out of every dark cloud emerges a silver lining and from this particular woe, I discovered the clog. If anyone had said, Christine, you should buy a pair of clogs, I would have immediately pictured a wooden pair of Dutch shoes with windmills painted all over them. Unlike my misconception, today’s clog is an engineered foot massage. The only pair of shoes in the house I could get on during my flare-up was a sloppy pair of sneakers. There were already loosely tied and with a bit of wiggling, I could slip my foot in but they offered no support so I was in agony wearing them. Last week after making it to work, I hobbled over to the Mahone Bay Trading Company to have a look around after seeing a show on the Shopping Channel for a clog called a Sanita. They promoted these shoes to be the best thing since the invention of the wheel, and I bought into it enough to be curious, but not enough to get out the credit card to buy a pair. I needed relief immediately; waiting for them to arrive in the mail wouldn’t cut it.

It hurt like hell to walk down the road but driving was too painful and had to be reserved for getting back home. So I cautiously made my way down the street like I had a load of poop in my pants, and after the failed attempts at wiping, might not have been far from the truth.   I made it to the shoe store to inquire if they had this particular Shopping Channel brand so I could try one on to verify their truth in advertising.   No such luck on that designer, but they did have a Joseph Seibel clog and I have to admit it was pretty darn comfortable slipping my foot into this pair of well-tailored shoes. I had to stand and hold on to the salesperson to get them on but my foot slid into the shoe as if it was a reunion. It was if they were made for me, my foot sole mate! I loved the ease of being able to slip it on and off with the open back so I whipped out the debit card and bought them on the spot and had them throw my shoddy sneakers into a bag. I hoofed it back to the shop with a bit more pep, but not before ordering a second pair in another colour to be brought in from their sister store. Apparently clogs are popular and being a size 8, there wasn’t much left to pick from. My back felt better so I guess I’m a clogger now... if the shoe fits......

Friday of last week was my first full day back to work and Shane and I tackled all the orders, wrapping all the parcels to take to the post office. We felt like the North Pole getting the parcels out and he looked like Santa heading for the post office, a big bag of goodies slung over his back.

So, barring a setback, funny how that word has ‘back’ in it, I’m again at the helm and things should run more smoothly. Poor Shane had to manage the shop pretty much on his own with Nancy only part time and Michelle not here at all, and because he was out front with the customers he got behind in his dyeing.   I had to listen to a bit of moaning because he’s anal, I mean dedicated, and hates to get behind, but you step up and do what needs to be done. If not for him, the shop would have been closed so momma is pleased. His birthday fell on one the sciatica days and I offer this perk where I give employees their birthday off with pay, so he wasn’t able to cash that chip in but that means he has a day off whenever he wants.   To have such problems.....

4 Comments

They're back!

9/19/2014

3 Comments

Beautiful but dangerous!

I love and respect nature but would never turn my back on it. We live very close to the woods and all the creatures that dwell within. If only they would stick to their habitats and not invade ours but there is always a crossover, on both sides.

I have four small dogs and late night pees are always concerning. I usually go out ahead of them and search the area with my flashlight, looking for eyes that illuminate like sparkling diamonds in the beam. I used to feel confident when I saw deer on the back hill and along the tree line in our backyard, but I was told that’s when the predators are near, watching for the chance to pick off the young, the old and the weak.

Two white diamonds in the night mean deer, fox,r racoons and porcupine while yellowy glows mean coyote. The back hill is teaming with nightime activity and I see pairs of glowing, floating eyes everywhere, peeking out from bushes and under trees. You would think that daytime would be less of a concern but I’m not relaxed in the light either. I’m forever searching the surrounding bushes, on alert for movement, and keep one eye on the sky for flying scavengers large enough to carry away a small animal. Some of my guys are no bigger than a rabbit, easy pickings and the perfect weight for the strong legs and talons of a hawk. My friend Mary told me of a bunny that got snatched by a hawk and how the cries faded away as they flew out of sight...a horror story that has haunted me ever since.   Being the worry wart my father so proudly molded, I never let down my guard when it concerns my precious babies.

Last night we had nighttime visitors, the evidence of torn up grass and feces were proof that at least two were involved although there could have been more, others that didn’t share the same elimination schedule. Generally coyotes hunt in packs so any number could have been in the yard. I’m assuming they were coyotes as the poop was very dog like, and slight larger than my miniature’s normal load. They also dug up the ground like dogs do, leaving small holes the size of their muzzles, around a dozen or so of them. It looked as if they rolled around in the grass, maybe rubbing over where my dogs had peed, their scent would have been all over that area. If the coyote didn’t already know four small animals frequent here, they do now, maybe thinking it’s worth scouting out in hopes an easy meal will present itself. I’ll be extra vigilant for a while and if I have any doubts, I’ll take my pups out one at time.   I’ll carry my metal bat and load fresh batteries in the flashlight to search for those pairs of yellow eyes. If any dare approach I’d go all Walking Tall on them, swing my bat to hit a home run, them running home that is, with their tails between their legs!    The worst thing anyone can do is turn your back and run away so I’d advance in a menacing way and swing that bat like a helicopter blade. Make my day!!!

I haven’t seen a coyote for some time. Once that jogger was attacked and killed and the news reported several close encounters, panic set it and there was a movement to kill them off. For a while you heard of encounters frequently but nothing much lately. Before the panic we were frequently spying them on the back hill, one night waking to the cries of a kill and the yelping and baying at the moon to celebrate. The next day I called the department of Lands & Forests and they told me to be careful, they could be hiding behind the wood pile and one of my pups would walk that way and just disappear. More than a little concerning. I don’t take my eyes off the wooded area for a second and I keep the pups corralled together at all times after dark. Once word from me and they would run to the door. They are domesticated and no longer have to worry about something larger or higher on the food chain visualizing them on a plate, but they are weary at night, they smell what’s out there and instinct tells them to stick close to big, bat brandishing momma.

I’m not deluded in thinking the coyotes wouldn’t attack because of me. Their boldness could depend on the length of time since their last meal and how their numbers compare to us. I was told I could hire trappers to come out and kill them but that thought would never occur to me but it must have gone on as the population is almost non-existent around my area.   Killing an animal for being an animal doesn’t sit well with me. Even if they got one of my pups I would be devastated but wouldn’t seek revenge and understand it was just a normal cycle of life in the wild. I would move the heck out of here though, get as far away from this place as possible, and then spend the rest of my life on a psychiatrist couch trying to get over the grief and the images that would haunt me!

I understand that four legged animals follow a code, they don’t kill for the sake of killing, nor do they seek pleasure in it, unlike the more evolved human. They are only hunting to eat and to feed their young and you can’t fault them for that.   It’s the law of the land, survival of the fastest and the fittest. Thankfully as humans, we have crawled our way to the top of the food chain so we are no longer viewed as the food. We have enough to worry about with the trials of life, mortgages, taxes and health than have to watch our necks every time we go outside.

So my property has been coyote free for a long time. I realize they are nomadic and move around a lot but almost two years have passed without sightings on the back hill so I think they might have succumbed to a more ominous end. I’ll admit my worries had relaxed a smidgen but now I’m back on high alert and packing heat. Flashlight, air horn and baseball bat, armed and dangerous baby!

3 Comments

Life's a hoot!

9/16/2014

8 Comments

This guy is very close looking to the one I saw.

Last night was dark. The moon was at half measure and no light shone from any house window along the drive home. I’d worked late and although driven to scratch things off the list, sleep fog was rolling in and the yawns had started.

It was cold outside, not enough for frost on the windshield, but I zipped my thin shell to the chin and hustled the pups into the chilly car. The nip in the air implied the death of summer making way for the birth of fall.

Four houses before my driveway, I spied an owl along the right side of the road. It was just sitting there and it was so out of the ordinary, I thought maybe it was injured, possibly hit by a car? As I turned in the next driveway I was mentally wrapping the bird with a blanket for a midnight trek to Hope For Wildlife in Dartmouth. I have lots of blankets in the car but no box. My pups would have lost their minds barking, but I would have dropped them off at home and headed out into the night with my ward, doing whatever was necessary to save the little fellow.

He was still sitting along the road when I returned to the spot, so I crossed the yellow line, pulled in front of him and dimmed the lights. We stared at one another for a few moments, as I worked out a plan for capture. I was more than a little apprehensive about the claws as I sat with the car idling. Mr. Owl broke eye contact first and flew a few feet to the left. I thought maybe he was having trouble but then he soared up and away. I was impressed by the size of the legs and talons that hung down from his body, large and seemingly out of proportion but designed to snatch small mammals from the ground. I probably interrupted a kill, maybe a mouse or a grand mole is feeling pretty lucky right now. So much life and death happening while we sleep, a whole world of nocturnal activity.

I've never seen a real owl. He was magnificent, a light brown or brown/grey if the car lights illuminated him properly and those big beautiful eyes built for spotting small creatures scurrying about the night landscape. I wished I had my camera with me; opportunities like this come along maybe once in a life time....I've gone 55 years without seeing one so it can’t be that common, at least not in a town situation. In my backyard, I hear hooting in the nights and see them on television but never in the flesh, or in this case, the feathers.

So I turned the car around and drove home marveling over the experience. I phoned hubby and he asked if the guy had ears or not and quite frankly his eyes had been so amazing I hadn't noticed. If I had to swear, I would have to say no on the ears, but whatever the breed, he was amazing and so was the experience.

So this gave me the idea to design an owl pattern to commemorate the chance happening and cement the memory. Stay tuned for "Hooters"!

8 Comments

Short and sweet!

9/15/2014

0 Comments

Another Sunday of sleep. The sofa devoured me and then spit me out late in the afternoon. The pups piled on top of me and we caught up on all the ZZZ’s lost during the full moon.   The phone didn’t ring so there were no rude interruptions. All in all, a heavenly day off! I could whine how it was wasted but I felt rather refreshed so it must have been needed and I’m not going to beat myself up over a lost day working on the assumption there’s a lot more ahead.

In the evening, the pups got an hour of play on the front lawn.   I threw and they chased the ball until their little tongues hung on the grass.   The only pup that doesn’t play is Fiz. She’s good with one on one, but not group play, and usually sits on the edge of the lawn and watches the traffic going by, the odd person on a bicycle and any boats that come in or go out. We joke that she’s the intellect, too refined to play games or lick butt. She’s classy, except when there’s a man around, and then turns as sleazy as a two dollar hooker, drops and put her legs in the air and grunts while her admirer gives her a belly rub. She doesn’t display herself for women so there’s some kind of boy girl thing going on. We sometimes call her our "little lump" because she just sits around watching everything and is a little on the heavy side, so after I play with the other ball crazy three, Fiz and I power walk up and down the driveway until she’s taxed or I’m panting, whatever comes first.

The shop is in autumn mode, dyeing up oranges and putting together our popular fall bundles for leaves. Scarecrow Festival is coming! I’m working on a pumpkin piece and I’ll have it to show soon. I’ve been holding on to some old barn board frames so I‘m going to dust one off and use it for the finish piece. I won’t be hooking a background; I think it’ll be lovely. Stay tuned.

Then I have to get back to the Initially Yours letters as my F’n “F” has been lingering like a bad smell.

An orangeliscious basket!

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Let's Talk....A Tribute to Joan Rivers....

9/5/2014

1 Comment

I’m not a star gazer or follow celebrity careers but I'm of an age where certain iconic names are very familiar to me. Johnny Carson, Dean Martin, Elvis, to name a few and of course, right in the middle of all that male testosterone, there was Joan Rivers. I never had the pleasure of seeing her perform live and now I never will. Joan passed away yesterday afternoon at the age of 81.

I’ve had many laughs over the years, enjoying her give and take. She liked to slam others in the industry but would also pull off the self-deprecating humour that I love so much. She made history and opened doors so other females could to follow in her footsteps. People could be a bit mean when they speak of her, the surgery thing always came up. There is no denying she’s the poster child for “alterations, but that’s not really our business to tell. I found her wildly interesting; never knowing what might come out of her mouth. She shocked and awed me with her well honed wit.

For those that might not know, Joan had a passion for fashion, loving clothes and jewelry. If there was anyone who knew what’s hot and what’s not, it was Joan. Since 1990, she had used her impeccable sense of style to create fabulous fashion jewelry and her own brand of clothing. Intricately involved in the design process, Joan insisted on the highest quality standards. She was a regular feature on the Canadian Shopping Channel and although I haven’t purchased any of her pieces, bling or apparel, I would tune in and watch her showcase and describe each item. You could feel the excitement for each piece, she truly believed in her product and she proudly wore her costume jewelry on the red carpet, next to the borrowed diamonds and pearls of the starlets. Joan loved big faced watches and brooches, glitz and sparkle. She was a crow after my own heart! One of her signature lines was her beautiful Bee Brooches. There are hundreds of designs, some blinged to the hilt with crystals, some enameled, sported various metals and all darling.

Many years ago when I was going webby over spider brooches I found one of her arachnid designs on Ebay and bought it. I wore it today just as a fun little thing to do for all the laughter and entertainment she has brought me over the years. Another comedic icon is lost forever and sadly, future generations will say, Joan Rivers who?

A very small sampling of her Bee brooches that she loved so much. I can't remember what she said inspired her love of this little insect, but I'm sure there is a tale to be told. Please share if you know!

1 Comment

I am an Empath....

9/2/2014

7 Comments

The last few years I have been growing increasingly sensitive to the state of the world. I've always had problems but my cup seems to be running over more than usual these days. The state of the world has become a heavy burden and how we treat one another, and the creatures of this earth is disheartening.

Facebook and all the postings of animal cruelty, child abuse, the suffering of people in general have tipped me a bit over the edge. Even before the FB experience, TV and CBC radio were becoming unbearable. I stopped watching the news, the natural disasters and war, terrorism and the suffering of people in third world countries, starving children and abused animals. I was innondated with pain and the joy drained from my life.

Sunday Mornings, hubby loved to listen to CBC radio. That’s my only day off and I would find myself staying in bed or getting up and laying on the sofa. My limbs would seem heavy as if pinned down, I didn’t realize it the time but I was almost paralyzed by the weight of the tradedies I was listening to. So much human suffering. Rape, murders, genocides, hostage torture, terrorist violence, suicides; the stories were caked with unbelievable suffering and it was dragging me down. Back then, I never associated my weekend mood with the radio, I thought I was overly tired from a long week of work, maybe I was lazy and possibly borderline depressed. I beat myself up over until finally, I put two and two together and convinced my husband I would do better with music, something happy and upbeat to start my day. The experiment worked. On the days the music played, I was up and active and the days we listened to The Sunday Edition, I would almost lose my will to be conscious. There were so many Sunday’s wasted, buried under blankets not wanting to face the world, so filled with sadness I didn’t want to open my eyes.

Then I found social media. My intelligence knows we need to post pictures of animal abuse to bring awareness, work at stopping the insanity. But the heart in me can’t stand the suffering, the sad eyes, or the little dead body. My head explodes with pain, tears flow. I grow sick to my stomach and even after the picture is no longer in front of me I can’t get it out of head and the flashbacks continue to haunt throughout the day, or for weeks, even months. I’ve noticed the effects are growing worse and lasting longer. That blog I wrote about the video where that poor little baby was being beaten is still as fresh in my mind as the day I saw it. If I was an actress, that video is what I would use to bring on tears. It was as raw as it gets.

Empaths feel the energy of the people around them. Good or bad. It explains why negative people affect me so much and why positive energy makes me high.

Empath’s can take on the physical pain of those around them. We used to make a joke about how after my husband’s sciatica would flare up, so would mine. I would go months, even years and all of a sudden he hurts himself and I’m suffering right along with him. It explains so much, if only I had known this before I could have used my time to feel better about myself instead of constantly criticizing why I do things and think things. Life sure is a learning process.

I have a soft spot for animals and the underdog. I know that I would beat the evil bastard that hurt an animal in front of me. These feelings have confused me for a long time. To feel that deeply is an emotional roller coaster ride. I can go from smiling to full blown, debilitating sadness, even rage, in seconds over the cruelty of an animal or down trodden human.

Since Robin William’s suicide, I’ve been at an all-time low. I wrote a long blog after his passing but it was so raw I didn’t post it. I needed to get the emotions out, cleanse the sadness I felt so the writing was cathartic.   I’ve not been able to get him off my mind. Not the man, I didn’t know him, I only knew his work. It was the sadness, the helplessness he must have felt that bothered me. This man was so full of talent with the ability to make so many people happy, had all the resources at his disposal for help, a lifestyle most dream off, and a family that loved him, but he couldn’t stand another moment in his own skin.   That pain is so real and powerful for me, I tear up writing these words.

The other day, after talking to a friend on the phone for hours, and telling her I was having problems with out of control emotions, she told me I sounded like an Empath. I’d never heard of it. She told me she found it on the internet and thought it seemed to describe her son, sent him the link and he was blown away by how many of the 30 descriptors he related too. Later when I looked it up it was as if I was reading my own thoughts, as if someone had stolen my diary and published it.

After the shock of having the term, Empath, describe the person that I am, I began to feel better. Weights starting peeling off my shoulders like shingles in a tornado. That phone call has forever changed my life....thank-you so much Joan!

Now when something happens I don’t have to think I’m losing my mind. I can stop beating myself up for things I didn't understand. There is a reason why I am vulnerable to sadness and negative energy. Why I become depressed by the situations of the world. Why I can’t deal with confrontations from customers. Now maybe through understanding, I can change my reactions, change that self-destruct button to a coping one. I'll work on it!

Here is a link to the characteristics of an Empath. I’m sure some of you will discover, like me, that we are a special creature, not loony tunes crazy!   There is a lot of information out there...this is just one site of many.

http://projectavalon.net/forum4/showthread.php?70941-30-Traits-Of-An-Empath-How-To-know-If-You-re-An-Empath

7 Comments

Be Nice or Leave!

8/27/2014

38 Comments

For those of you that are affected by negative words, pass this one by. I write about all my experiences good and bad. This one is bad and long. And....I've used the "shit" word.

I’ll bet you all clocked off at five, went home to the family and were happy for the evening. I went home, cried for an hour, made myself ill and then went to bed for a sleepless, sheet tossing, frustrated night.

Some don’t like that I post negative blogs but right now I don’t give a hoot, I need to vent. I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired. I write about experiences and although I pray they could all be filled with butterflies and kittens, life isn’t like that. I’m a good person, with a kind and generous heart but I'm at the end of my tether.

People are crapping on me. I must be an easy target, trapped in a shop with no place to hide. Some of the people that cross my threshold are like a woman I used to know, generally sweet as pie but when she was in a restaurant she was terrible to the wait staff, took the woes of her cheating husband out on them.   It’s easy to crap on strangers, it’s unfair but who cares when you don’t have to look at them again?

Over the past two weeks I’ve been hit so many times with attitude and rudeness that I am wondering what the hell I’m doing in retail. My husband tells me to quit, he says I don’t need to do this, so why am I subjecting myself to the balls of shit being thrown at me.   I bend over backwards trying to please but I continually become the object of people’s wrath.    What do I say back? Nothing! I stand there and take it like a dummy. I don't know how to fight, talk back or defend myself and then I fall apart.

Yesterday, at 10 minutes to 5 three women came in. One introduced herself as a hooker from a Fredericton group. The other two weren’t rug hookers but they were looking at my stack of Initially Yours letters. I told them I was hooking the alphabet and then planned to write a book about it. The rug hooker of the group said she was told to come into my shop and asked who I was. I said Christine. She said, oh hi!

We chatted and then she asked to go to the bathroom. I said "sorry we don’t have a public facility".   I told her if the town hall was opened across the street she could go there.    They left and I went to get my camera to take their picture for Facebook when they came back. A visitor from New Brunswick is always exciting! At 10 after 5 two of them came back.   The rug hooker said she found a washroom and I said great. Then she said very bitterly with eyes that burned, “I have a medical condition and I am very upset that you didn’t let me use your washroom!” turned on her heel and walked out. The woman with her spoke up and said, “She was going to spend money in your shop, but now she will never come back!!!” and left.

I stood there for a moment before the tears hit. Shane said, “Mom, you can’t let that bother you!”   But it was too late. Why wouldn’t it bother me? A rug hooker hates me and all the Fredericton group will be told I’m a miserable so an so. I didn’t do anything to deserve this.

Yes, we do have a bathroom but the toilet doesn’t work half of the time. To be blunt, in the last three number twos, it didn’t flush and I had to plunge it. Yuck! It was my poop and awful, if I had to do this with a strangers, I would lose my lunch. Need I tell you how shit sticks to a plunger? Probably not.

There is a problem in the line. Apparently the building next door and my building are hooked up wrong and run on the same line that T’s to the main street pipe. We are told by the Public works department, if we pay $500 to rent a camera to put down there and find out that the problem causing all the blockages belongs to the town they will fix it on their dime, if not we are out thousands of dollars for digging up the street. I don’t have that kind of money, to date no one next door has offered to share the expense.

We can’t flush while the washing machine is spinning or rinsing. If you do it won’t flush easily, not even with pee and a bit of paper. It usually ends laying in the pipe somewhere along the line and starts blocking, usually at the 90 degree bend at the T. We’ve had to pay to snake it out on several occasions, and the neighbour has had to do it as well. We are using the washing machine to spin the dyed wet wool and wash wool all day long and try to coordinate our waste removal accordingly as not to tax the line. The poor neighbour has had to clean up his basement after our bathroom illuminations more than he cares to mention. It’s been joked about how someone in our shop likes corn…real funny!

Except for not wanting to go down the hole smoothly, it hasn’t backed up on us, because we are higher on the street. They say shit rolls downhill and we can vouch for the validity of it. We do get the smell of methane; sewer gas, oh yum backed up in the bathroom. Because of this we use the toilet sparingly and flush as little as possible.

Does anyone care? Why should I have to explain this to everyone?   Why can’t the fact that we don’t have a public washroom be enough? Other shops on the street deny access and no one gets angry with them. We are not in the food industry so we aren’t required to open it to the public. The last person who was allowed to use it left a terrible mess that I won’t describe and I said no more. If you use an excess of paper to wipe, it won’t flush. Some women are not kind in public washrooms, they are afraid to sit on a seat so they hover and leave pee all over it and don’t clean it up. Quite frankly I don’t earn enough to deal with this.

And a bigger question is why do people save up a full bladder and/or colon and go into a store expecting them to take it on? Mahone Bay has an Irving, some of the cleanest bathrooms you’ll ever see, cleaned on the ½ hour and we also have two public washrooms in town, one directly across from the Irving and visible from our shop. If I had a medical condition, I’d go to a bathroom before going into a store, there is no guarantee there will be a facility. Even the market in town that sells food and has tables outside for sitting at to eat lunch, doesn’t have a washroom. No one craps on them about it.

I ran upstairs and cried on the phone to my husband, who once again suggested it’s time to retire and then went home and bawled like a baby on the back deck because I’m so tired of this. My pups were kissing me and wondering what the heck was wrong. I don’t deserve to be treated in this manner. I can’t seem to grow a thicker skin and as I age I become more sensitive to people and their rudeness.

I have a rule, no public washroom. Why am I the bad guy, whether the toilet has problems or not? Is my face the dumping ground for frustrations that have nothing to do with me? The fact that I stand there and take it, not defend myself or speak back is justification to use me as a target? My big problem is that I keep comparing people to what I would do in any situation so I really don't understand.   I am respectful of others and don’t expect them to cater to me. Rug Hooker from Fredericton, you didn’t use my washroom but you certainly crapped all over me!

I am tired and if this is the way I am continually treated I’m afraid I won’t be around long. I carry negative feelings for a long time and it zaps every bit of energy from me. My son keeps saying, don’t let it bother you but there’s a flaw in me that takes it all on. I lose sleep, I feel physically ill. I’m a waste facility for negative energy. There is a hook-in today and I don’t want to go to the shop. I woke with a terrible headache, and I feel like I’ve been punched in the face from swollen eyes and puffy cheeks. I wanted to finish my Z last evening but I couldn’t even hook.

And....Just last week two woman came into the shop. I spent time in the back room chatting with them while they went through the patterns. The one gal kept telling me she didn’t have any money this month. Three times she brought up her financial situation. I thought it was strange. I don’t pressure people to buy things in my store, completely the opposite.

Anyway, the gal showed me her tattoos of sunflowers and said she really loved them. She said she would like a pattern with three large sunflowers on it and I offered to design it for her, letting her know that isn’t something I do anymore, but the idea was interesting and it would be a nice pattern for the rack.

The other gal wanted a design we didn’t have in stock but said she would order it and come back for it another day. We had mail orders to get out, which I didn’t mention, but I told her that if she planned on being in Mahone Bay for lunch, we would do up her pattern to save her from a three hour drive each way to come back for it. She thanked me and we rang up her order.

Her friend spied a sunflower kit and mentioned it was nice. She said the flower was perfect. Remembering the conversations about her being low on funds, I offered it to her for 20% off which was a $50.00 savings. The rug kit was originally $249.95.   She said she would think about it over lunch. The kit had been in the shop for over a year and the plastic bag was quite wrinkled and the paper label was dog eared. It needed to be rebagged, I just never got around to it. I’m saying this so you know I had no attachment to the wrinkled wrappings of the kit.

A hour or so later I was called downstairs to help a lady from BC who wanted to buy a Lunenburg kit. The Sunflower gal had come back in and asked my assistant to open the bag that held the kit and she was spreading the pattern over the floor to have a look at it and said that it was actually larger than she thought from looking at the picture but was happy with the size.   I didn’t have any thoughts about what she was doing although she accused me of being angry that she had removed the pattern from the bag.

I was at the counter ringing up the BC woman’s order, and I was getting her shipping information. While we were talking and I was writing down her mailing address the woman that wanted the sunflower kit blurted out and asked if I would take $180.00 for the kit.    I’d just offered her $50 off and now she wanted another $20.00. If she had asked me in private, took me aside and asked I probably would have said yes, the kit had been there awhile and I liked her, the project couldn’t have gone to a better rug hooker because of her love of sunflowers. But she asked in front of the woman now buying a kit and a second customer at the wool racks. There was no regard of how that would make other customers feel, they wouldn’t be getting any deals.

I said sorry, if you purchase the wool off the rack it would be more expensive than the price I offered.   (Usually a kit is more expensive because you pay for my time to dye the exact colours and cut the strips and assemble the kit.) Now she wanted even more off.   I said, if you aren’t interested in it, it will go back to the regular price after I rebag it.   I said it to impress that I was offering her the discount, that I didn’t plan to do it for anybody else.

She said she was leaving and stormed out the door. I was stunned and said “Ah, come on, don’t be like that”, It probably wasn’t the best thing to say but that’s all that came out. I’m terrible at confrontation and only come up with good things to say well after the fact. Her friend left behind her and thanked me for making up her pattern.

I started to tremble and nausea hit pretty quickly. The woman I was waiting on heard it all and saw how I was reacting and told me to breathe and relax, not to let it bother me. Well, that’s a snowball chance in hell…..not going to happen ever.   The rest of my day was ruined. I was depressed and black as tar and I left early to get away from the shop. My beautiful shop once again ruined by someone going off the rails.   All the way home I kept asking why I put myself through this?    I had a miserable evening and so did my hubby as the phone call was filled with whining.

Before I went to bed I checked my Facebook page and there was a message posted by the sunflower woman calling me “judge mental”, “rude” and “snotty”. That she has been through too much to be treated like that.   How I think I am better than her. It went on and on about how awful I was to her. How my assistant was nice and opened the kit but I was angry because of it.

I replied and told her my side of things and she replied back again with more of the same, paragraphs of it.   Seeing that I wouldn’t get anywhere I didn’t reply to her last message so then she posted a comment right on my FB about ‘It’s not what you do in life that people remember, but how you make them feel”.   Well that works two ways doesn’t it? I felt pretty awful after I’d been trying to help her. I wonder about her…..she stressed twice that her life has been rough, if she’s been treated so badly, maybe she’s always cocked and loaded looking for offensiveness where none exists. I’ve been treated badly too, I don’t have an attitude everywhere I go and pounce if someone looks at me sideways.   She wants me to apologize to her for being judgmental. I told her that in my heart that isn’t true. I’m not sure what I was supposed to be judging? I didn’t know her well enough to judge or even have an opinion about her, I didn’t even know her name!   She wrote that f I had just said “no” she would have been fine. Somehow I doubt that. She tells me she will never come back and hints that her friend won’t be back either.

There is not one iota of truth to my being mean with her. I was stating facts. I had offered her an exceptional deal but that wasn’t good enough. My kits are works of art, top quality, not sloppy recycled wool thrown in a bag……and they are never on sale.

I’m a bit fed up. This constant crap is tearing me down. I’m not growing a thicker skin with age, it’s thinning to the point of breaking. Even if I could come back with a retort it wouldn’t be mean, that’s not who I am. So please, if you have a chip on your shoulder stay the heck away from me because I don’t have one, nor do I want yours.    This is rug hooking for god’s sake. We aren’t fighting for world domination! We’re on the same side!

All I want to do is go to work, design some patterns, write my blogs and chat with the wonderful people I have the pleasure to meet. It’s obvious I’m too much of a pussy to handle problems. I’m an Empath, all 30 of the descriptions fit me. I feel things very deeply. I just learned this and it answers a lot of questions. It’s ingrained in my personality and I’m not going to change so I have to amend my circumstances so I don’t put myself in the way of those that are always ready to duke it out.    I have to stop wanting people to like me. I need to appreciate those that do and build from that. I need to toughen up and not sweat the small ‘minded’ stuff. And then I think, if only I could follow my own advice......

When people come in that are nice, I am high from the positive experience. I go home and smile all evening long, even while I hook. All is good in the world. But when they aren't nice, it tears me down and it’s a struggle to get back up.

Coincidentally, I was in a shoe store one the way to work yesterday and a woman wanted to use the washroom and the clerk told her that she wasn't allowed to take her purse in with her so it would have to be left behind the counter.   The woman left her bag, smiled and said thank-you. Thank-you?????   I was shocked!!!!! I couldn't believe it!!!!! If I had a public washroom and asked someone to do that the fallout would be wild. I can’t even get them to leave their coffee on the counter let alone all their money, keys and credit cards!   With me, they want to shoot the messenger.   I looked at the clerk with utter amazement, wondering what she did that created such a positive response. She didn't even say please or thank-you….could that be it?

In the past two weeks four patterns were stolen out of my back room, if I asked that purses be left at the counter, I’ll bet WWW III would break out. My door would be broken from all the stomping and slamming! I'll bet the farm I'd be accused of calling them a thief!

So universe, please send kindness my way today so I can love going to work again. I’m just a lowly rug hooker, not a witch or any of the rhyming ‘itch’ words. As much as I hate to admit it I’m an idiot.   It’s embarrassing really. I’m ashamed that I can’t let anything roll off my back. I can’t change, nor would I want too, I don’t want to be retail hardened. People have told me that retail almost destroyed them before they got out of it. If this world is on a downward spiral and people are getting progressively ruder and filled with entitlement, I will choose to be a recluse in my home.

38 Comments

House on the water......

8/26/2014

5 Comments

What a great day in the shop on Monday. I had a leg up, literally on a stool and sat on my duff to hook all afternoon. Heather Gordon, back from the Newfoundland Rug School popped in for a bit and Charlene was in for a chat.   Customers didn’t seem to mind that I wasn’t up and mobile and the tourists took advantage of the continuous demo as I hooked.

Two sisters came in, one of which graduated from Mahone Bay school in the sixties. We had a good ole chat. She said the town has really blossomed compared to the dead flower it used to be. There wasn’t much here to keep anyone after school and she couldn’t get away fast enough. After I introduced them to Shane, the other sister thought I was too young to have a 34 year old son and told me that I looked like I was in my thirties. The swelling in my knee traversed to my head although I would have been more flattered compared to a plausible 49 year old. Maybe she had cataracts, natures natural air brushing, the filtering lens that makes things appear soft and powdery.   Of course my vain side likes to believes she hit it on the head!

The rest has been good for me. Last night my knee was feeling about 95% and I look forward to normal as early as tomorrow.   Then I better start doing the exercise the osteopath gave me. I’m one of those people that live by, ‘out of sight out of mind’. Dah…the only time I think about the exercise is after the knee is pounding and then I think crap, I should have been working to strengthen it. Of course, once it throbs I can’t stretch it or risk further injury, but I promise to be vigilant on the next reprieve….but….good intentions and all, I might end up back in the vicious see saw of have pain…be stupid…have pain…be stupid.

On my way home from work yesterday afternoon I saw a beautiful sailing yacht moored in the harbour. Some people have so much money it must ooze out of their ears. Hubby estimates her at 100 ft long and $20 million. I would love a look below; see how the other half lives. I’ll bet it has a cook and a deck swabber. I like the stability of a foundation under my feet but I could slum it a bit and go for a week excursion, just to bask in a bit of luxury, try it out to see how it fits. There is about as much living space on that boat than the two floors of my house. It’s hard to even wrap my head around!

Hubby and I will have our sailboat when he retires and it will be fantastic. A galley and comfortable sleeping quarters for the two of us and a special birth for the pups. There will be standing room, a working shower and flushing head and all very affordable.   There won’t be any gold plated faucets and king sized beds.   I’m not interested in being filthy rich; I’d just like to take a peek at it and then come back to my humble comforts. I sure as heck wouldn’t want a bigger house; I can’t clean what I have. For me, the only real perk of being wealthy would be the help it affords. There would be a cleaning service in once a week, laundry help, a chef in the kitchen, and a gardener in the backyard. Oh, and a pool boy for the pool we’d have for the pups.

So I almost finished the zebra stripes. I goofed somewhere and hooked white when it should have been black but managed to fix it without the error showing.   There is very little left to do and I might sit in the shop this afternoon and finish it, give my knee one more day of rest. I’m anxious to start on the next initial. I’m thinking Jaguar spots behind the letter F which will stand for Felidae, the big cat family.

Now that I’m going beyond the actual design to create exciting backgrounds it will be difficult to go back to the simple plaids so I’m going to have to think outside the box for more ideas. This puts me at 15 completed and I'm thinking I'm going to be sad when I finish the last letter. This is an exciting ride and I don’t want it to end. The mere fact that I’m back to hooking like I did when I starting all of 15 years ago is sensational   I was prolific back in the early days, always a project on the frame and several in the dream stage.   It’s good to be back in the saddle!

I’m going to have to come up with another idea after this…….

5 Comments

Sunday RIP

8/25/2014

6 Comments

The intent was to hook all day Sunday and rest my knee. An old injury flared up, maybe even worse this time so I’ve been sitting more than standing the last few days.   I had high hopes of completing at least half of the Initially Yours Z, or possibly even reaching the finish line but there was a nasty little voice in my head, guilting me into doing things that went against the day off grain. Those piles of dirty dishes, something I try to avoid eye contact with, scream at me for a wash and dry and return to the cupboard where they belong.

I know things are bad right now. I’m back to hiding if the doorbell rings. I’m not a domestic goddess and I can ignore the mess to a point, but it’s breaching the limits I can live with and morbid thoughts are starting to creep in. What if I have a heart attack, would this mess be what I want to be remembered by? Would this sad state of affairs be wagging on the tongues of town after the shocked paramedics blab? Sure I’d be dead and wouldn’t care, but there's a worse scenario, what if I lived? The shame might kill me! I’m a proud one, just a bit on the lazy side. Housework is boring and unstimulating so when fun things call to me I run toward them. It’s so much nicer to do something creative than be in the dishpan up to the elbows in suds and dirty dishes.

All of a sudden I have discomfort in my chest. Probably that voice in my head trying to motivate a reaction. If I have a heart attack, this pig pen mustn't be the legacy I leave behind! So I got out of my comfy hooking chair and limped to the kitchen.

I hobbled around the house gathering the water glasses and plates that always seem to be hauled away and never brought back.   Then I notice how grungy the empty flatware tray is and the next thing I find myself scouring that back to a lily whiteness.   Then the stove burners are looking sad so I’m elbow greasing those.   The collection of colourful tea pots on the open shelves have lost their lustre, steam and grease from cooking float up and skim coat all the surfaces and being a crow I like things to shine so now I’m washing things that I don’t even eat out of, things just there for show. How sick is that?

So now two hours have gone by and the counters are sparkling, a sad contrast to the dull floor lined with dust bunnies and all those little cut bits from my hooking. I’m a messy hooker, I snip and chuck and then they get walked all over the house. Once hubby said, why don’t I place a garbage can handy but that never dawns on me. My dogs are great, they don’t eat wool so it’s perfectly fine to let the ends lay around.   But now I’m seeing colours from the alphabet letters two and three back so it’s time to run the vacuum.

You can’t vacuum the floors and rugs and not dust the table tops so now I'm spraying all the horizontal surface with orange oil. For goodness sakes I think, don’t look up!!!!!! But I did and I see all those cobwebs that only the sun streaming through the window will show and now I’m cleaning the beams, sweating like I’m going a few rounds in a ring.

Outside the boats are sailing by and power boats are tossing waves up on the shore. People having fun on their day off. My day has turned into a nightmare of wading through dead skin cells and dust bunnies. I’m really beginning to begrudge my house; it’s stealing my creativity, vacuuming it up along with the spider webs.   I’m afraid to go upstairs because the laundry waits. It seems like a conspiracy. If only I drank. Alcohol would put an end to this domestic guilt trip. I wouldn’t give a crap.

I will admit, the downstairs started looking pretty good. If someone dropped by I wouldn’t have to pretend I’m gone.   If only it would last....but by next Sunday I’ll be in the same boat, and it won't be the kind on the water.

I see how gross the windows are and I holler, "Stop searching for stuff to clean, it’s endless!" I’ve got to stop looking and start hooking; put blinders on and pull some loops, maybe watch a movie. My leg is throbbing from all the standing. I need to save myself from this crazy housework grind and grime! A house is a needy beggar, there is no end to its demands.

So, this was another day off murdered by household chores. RIP Sunday....if only I had a domestic worker I sure would be happy to be able to say, “the Butler did it!”

Here is my Initially Yours Z.....Z is for Zebra, the stripes are self explanatory.

6 Comments

International Left Handed Day

8/20/2014

2 Comments

I’m a bit late but better that than never. August 13th was International Left Handed Day. Being a lefty I feel obliged to acknowledge it; tell my tale of left handed woes. Funny how times change. A century back I might have been burned at the stake after being accused of dabbling in witchery and today I’m slapped on the back for my right brained talents that flow from my left hand.

It wasn’t long ago I was being beaten across the knuckles with a ruler, yard stick or blackboard pointer, whatever was the closest grab. All in the name of being forced to conform to a certain way of holding a pencil. The same ancient school spinster beat my left handed father as well. She was extremely unkind, I never saw her smile until graduation day, probably formed from the joy of getting rid of another classroom of disgusting little seven and eight year olds. Someone once said she hated children and my experience pretty much backed that up.

She was a breaker of spirits that one. If she couldn’t strap the boys into submission it wasn’t from the lack of trying.   I saw more strappings that year than all others combined. Spare the rod and spoil the child seemed to be her mantra that she practiced often. This gal was so mean my mother used her as incentive for me to study. She’d say, “You don’t want to have her as a teacher again do you?” Boy, such a contrast from today. No one would allow a brute like that in the school system.

On several occasions her stern look almost caused my bladder to empty. The thought of repeating the year under her tutelage was enough to cram in what I needed to know for a passing grade. The terror I felt as I opened my report card to see whether or not I was doomed for another year of grade three hell, could have been mistaken for a palsy.

Irene Ernst, the name still makes me quiver. They say you shouldn't speak ill of the dead but I would really like the chance to talk to her and ask "What were you thinking?" She stigmatized me so badly I never took a left handed seat for the rest of school. I hid my difference from the world and unless you were paying attention you would never have noticed the flowing letters on my scribbler came from a lefty.   Miss Ernst tried her damnedest to break me, forcing me to hold my writing utensil in the most uncomfortable way, but I rebelled, took the strappings and to this day, my penmanship is as good as any right handed person.

My dad was a lefty and from an early age I realized his writing was illegible. Other than his signature, I couldn’t discern a single word. How he was the secretary for the United Church was astounding because I’m sure no one could read the minutes! Poor dad, beaten and conformed, he spent his life with wrist bent in the most awkward of positions just to write. I on the other hand was stubborn enough to resist, although at the time I didn’t think of myself that way. I truly was frightened, but the agony of conforming was physically real. While she watched I suffered the archaic belief that we lefties had to do it her way or the highway, and behind her back did it my way.

When I was caught I suffered the whacks and the looks with those piercing eyes over the spectacles and meanness that spewed from her mouth. I was like a little left handed bug waiting to be crushed by that massive hulk of a woman.   Even though decades have passed, I often think of her as my letters flow across the page. Some will ask, did a teacher ever change your life? Well, yes they did, although in a very negative way.....although it had a positive outcome.

And now we have a special day to commemorate our left handedness....how positively wonderful!

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Word duking in the street........

8/6/2014

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On Monday I witnessed a classic case of not taking responsibility for your own actions. Although Monday was a holiday I offered to open the shop for a 2:30 appointment. It being a much needed day off, I was winging it pretty close to that time and upon leaving the house, I was finding it difficult to navigate through traffic with the amount of cars and people weaving in and out in front of me. Mahone Bay was abuzz with people. As I approached the government wharf, there was bicycle in front of me so I had to slow down to a snail’s pace. This allows me to vouch for the declarations of the biker following a mishap.

The left side of the road was a string of cars along the curb, all the way to the center of town, except of course for the driveways. All of a sudden an SUV pulled out of one of the driveways into traffic, not looking my way at all and was well out past the car to his left that was parked along the curb. The biker in front of me screamed something to the tune of stop and the car immediately halted but it was pretty close. Not only had the driver pulled out in front of the biker but my vehicle as well. Luckily there weren’t any cars behind me when I slammed on the brakes. With a potentially bad scene abated, I politely allowed the SUV to pull out the rest of the way and I followed him into town.

It remained a slow process to get through town with all the people jaywalking and bottle necking the road. By the time we made it to the center of town I noticed the biker guy was in front of Eli’s Cafe chatting with people on the deck. The SUV driver also saw him and stopped right in the road and hollered something out of the window to the biker. I really can’t say what was said, but the biker responded by saying, "I wasn’t speeding", Then following another comment from the driver said, "I wasn't speeding, I was only going 25 clicks".

I gathered from that answer that the chap in the SUV was accusing the biker of speeding and therefore responsible for almost causing an accident. The biker crossed the road and was standing at the driver’s window and the shouting match ensued. Knowing the truth of what had happened it was interesting to hear the conversation evolve as the decibel level swiftly rose. Soon the voices were booming and all eyes were on the commotion.

The biker guy hollered, “You didn’t even check to see what was coming, I saw you looking the other way!”. The man in the car kept insisting the biker was speeding and on it went until not being able to win and shout the biker into a confession, he zoomed away. As I pulled up to the biker walking back to his friends I called out to him and said that I saw the entire mishap and that the SUV pulled out on us both, I too saw that he didn’t looked our way and that the biker was right. The guy said thank-you, but I could hear the exasperation in his voice for what had just happened.   When an SUV and bike collide, you don’t have to be a brain surgeon to know which one takes the fall, literally. When riding a bike or motorcycle, you have to be super vigilant about your surroundings. Both the SUV driver and passenger’s heads were looking to the left, making sure they wouldn’t hit an oncoming car as they veered out around the parked car. Not a thought to what might be approaching from the right. That split second of error could have cost that biker his life.

I’m happy nothing serious happened. No one got hurt and I wasn’t delayed as a witness to an accident. I made it to the shop with a minute to spare to open for the visitors that came from away. I never thought to take pictures of their smiling faces.

We seem to live in a world where no one makes mistakes. It’s always the other guy’s fault. If only SUV guy had shouted out the window an embarrassed “I’m sorry”. For the life of me I can’t understand why he could be so arrogant to think this wasn’t his fault. Near misses happen to us all and should be rejoiced and used as a chance to reflect and show more care and caution in the future. It was good that everyone involved got to walk or drive away, thanking their lucky stars, instead of almost seeing them.

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Dawson Daisy find

8/1/2014

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Thursday I had a lovely catch-up with an old friend, Esther Ernst-Pike. We met while I was in my twenties and for a period I worked a Sunday shift taking care of an elderly woman with Parkinsons who was in a wheelchair and needed assistance with personal care. Esther was a nurse and the job was a seven mornings a week position and spelling her allowed for a break, maybe have some fun Saturday nights and sleep in on Sunday.

It was a good time for me. I loved taking care of Lucy. She was a lady from the top of her head down to the tips of her toes and both she and her husband were still deeply in love well into their 90’s. Their faces lit up when she emerged from the bedroom freshly quaffed and wearing her pearls. For as long as I live, I’ll never forget the look they shared as their eyes met. I had worked as a PCW at Harbour View Haven for a year so I was qualified to assist in bed baths and personal care and it was nice that I could do this for both Esther and Lucy.

I always thought Esther was cool, she seemed to have a knack for things, a flair. A smart dresser, she liked antiques and had a pretty interesting apartment. She wasn’t rich by any

means but had taste and with taste you don’t always need a lot of money to do it right.

Last week, we ran into one another in the grocery store and she was telling me that she purchased a partially finished rug at the Dawson Daisy in Bridgewater. The Daisy is a second hand outlet for low-cost clothing that has raised millions of dollars to fund local health-care services at the South Shore Regional Hospital. Raising over $200,000 a year is a result of a tremendous amount of volunteer effort. Each year the Daisy donates its profits to the auxiliary of the SSRH. The auxiliary in turn funds equipment and upgrades in the hospital as well as community health initiatives.

The outlet is run like a small department store. Each week store displays are changed so the shop always looks fresh and new. clothing items on display are specific to that season and each rack is separated according to gender and/or type. Those items are further divided into subsections such as sweaters, coats, pants and dresses. There are also handbag and shoe sections. And, although it is limited, there is a household section where you can find dishes and small kitchen appliances.

On one of Esther's many jaunts to the Daisy, she found a partially hooked pattern of a funky sheep. She said it was an oval design and that she paid $40.00 for it. I assumed it was Wooly Willy, an old time favourite from the beginning days of my business. She said she would pop into the shop someday soon to show me her purchase. So it was a delight to see her yesterday and catch up on news. Sure enough it was Willy, one of the first sheep patterns I ever designed and was originally hooked by Mary Doig.

The inside oval background was completed with only the border remaining. Esther doesn't hook and wondered if I finished projects for people, that maybe I was interested because it was my pattern. Unfortunately, I'm far too busy for that sort of thing although deep inside there was an urge to say yes so thank goodness I suppressed it! That paved road of good intentions always leads me to a bad place. As she rolled it up, she said she has a friend in Lunenburg that hooks and she would ask for her help. Then we started to gab.

I was very surprised to learn she is a cancer survivor. That was why she was at the Dawson Daisy. After many trips to the hospital she would check out the latest arrivals on the racks. She's always been a Frenchy's gal, finding some pretty fantastic apparel over the years.

Esther was lucky, they caught her cancer in stage one and she only had to undergo a lumpectomy with mild radiation treatments. She told me she never let it get her down and was optimistic through it all. Her doctor thought she was amazing. She'd come home from a radiation appointment and opt to go cross country skiing to breathe in the fresh air of winter instead of take to her bed to wallow. I always had her pegged as the happy go lucky sort, she was always smiling and is definitely lucky!

So thank-you Esther for bringing in the rug and providing this lovely little story. My curious nature wonders why it was never finished, how it found its way into the Daisy bins. More than likely the rug was a work in progress and the hooker probably passed away, their personal items boxed up and donated to the Daisy. If I was able to finish it, my thoughts would drift and make up scenarios about the person that started it. Maybe someone local will read this and recognize the handiwork. The mystery of this rug could be solved.

Wooly Willy hooked by Mary Doig

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Breakfast At Tiffanys, say what?

7/18/2014

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I’m pretty far behind the eight ball when it comes to movies. I might be the only one left in North America that hasn't seen Breakfast At Tiffany’s.   It’s deemed a romantic comedy but I have to confess, I didn’t get it. For me it lacked romance until the end kiss, and as for comedy, I didn’t smile once. Holly was billed as an hilarious heroine....not in my opinion. I seemed to be appalled more than anything. The story was all over the place with one crazy moment leading to another. I don’t think my funny bone is broken, I laughed a lot at the shop all day so it must be the movie that left me untickled.

Mickey Rooney’s poor imitation of a bucktoothed Asian, Mr. Yunioshi, was an offensive ethnic caricature. It was horrifying and overtly racist.   His character left me feeling annoyed, and not only was his presence unnecessary to the overall plot, if there was one to speak of, he was loud and obnoxious, a screeching pollutant to the peace and quiet of my living room.

There is no denying that Hepburn is a fabulous actress, but this role was too spacy and all over the place for a woman of her beauty and grace. They wanted her to be quirky but she was a contradiction most of the time. And sorry for being blunt… her character was basically a prostitute although I read that Truman Capote, the author, called her an “American Geisha” which, is just splitting hairs.

The part where she opened her door to find the chap from upstairs while holding her housecoat up to her naked front, told him to turn around and then said that she would instead, turned her bare backside to him and donned her robe. Yup, that happens a lot. Why just last week I did that to the plumber who came by. And the scene when she crawled through a window and climbed into bed with the guy, and laid her head on his chest to sleep with a virtual stranger, actions like that can get a girl killed, cut up in the deep freeze or raped in a back alley.

And what was up with that party in her apartment? Some of those women were beyond tipping the elbow.   I’ve seen falling down, floor licking drunks before, but these gals acted spaced out. There was a strange scene between a woman and a mirror that left me wondering what the director was thinking.

And the cigarette smoking. Everyone seemed to have one in their hand as if it was a cure for cancer. I coughed a few times remembering all the smoke I ingested as a child. I make jokes I burned through a pack a day during my childhood from both parents who smoked unfiltered, hand rolled cigarettes. The second hand smoke and tar had to blacken my lungs, considering what it did to the ceiling in the kitchen.   Being a non-smoker it’s hard to believe that smoking was flogged to be dignified and classy, sexy if you will, oh such clever marketing.

And where did the name come from. The only hint of a breakfast at Tiffany’s was the opening scene with Holly eating a croissant and sipping coffee while looking though the store window. An absurdity really, since Tiffany’s doesn’t serve food. Yes, I know it was just a goofy wishful dream on her part, something a space cadet would yearn for. Why not ask for something attainable.....what's so great about mixing diamonds with bread crumbs! I guess that was just another metaphor for something I’m not smart enough to figure out!

Then she threw that poor little nameless cat out of the cab in the rain. I almost turned the TV off right then, but an innate curiosity kept me watching to see if Hollywood would actually go that far and happily they redeemed themselves with a rescue. I’ll bet the studio received a few bags of mail over that one!

And Buddy Epsen, or Doc as he was called, appears as her husband. That was about as plausible as a union between Sylvester the cat and Pepe le pew, and once again totally unnecessary to the plot. Although, I never realized Jed Clampett had such beautiful blue eyes or maybe the film was colour enhanced? I might have been more inclined to concentrate on a bit of dental work for the poor guy, I'm just sayin....

I wonder how many friends I would make if I changed their name to whatever was floating around in my empty little head when I met them. I’m sure customers would love it. Hi Christine, I’m Lois from Texas. Really? I’m going to call you Hazel!   That’s just bat crap, tree hugging crazy!

I wonder how I would have felt about this movie if I watched it in my early 20’s when I was still wide eyed and bushy tailed. I wonder if I would have swooned for George Peppard or wished to be the slender gazelle that was Audrey Hepburn?

The best part of the movie was Moon River. A favourite for years, I never knew it was the title song. I read it won an award. For me, Henri Mancini was the only thing that rocked this movie!
If I was a Roger Ebert, I’d have to be honest and give it a thumbs down.   I did read a bit about the movie and all the nuances of Holly’s character, there were pages and pages of a psychological profile, why she did this or that, but for me, if it has to be explained it didn’t work. Maybe I’m too grounded to understand a broad like that. I’m more of a “don’t beat around the bush, shit or get off the pot” kind of gal. I’m not interested in trying to be exotically clever or mysterious….I is what I is, and like my peeps to be the same.

Remember this is only my opinion. I'm just calling it like I saw it, not that I want to trample on an American Icon. It won awards so what do I know?

4 Comments

Laundry on the line....a thing of my past...

6/20/2014

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Mary Doig's "Clothesline" design. Hooked by Mary.

Is there anything sweeter than crawling into a freshly made bed? Well truthfully, there’s probably lots of better things, but the moment you are sliding between a crisp set of sheets, it’s divine! The sheets are tugged tight and smooth as glass, they feel pristine and starchy clean. They touch only the high points of your body, draping over you like a canopy, not settled around you like when they’ve been used and tousled about.

I take great pleasure in a well-made bed. My hubby might tell you a different story as far as the day to day maintenance is concerned, because after the first time, I could care less if it’s made or not. After that first time, I like to crawl into a soft bed with wrinkled sheets that settled around you like a cotton hug.

When I strip the bed of the old and put on the new, I take great pains to do it right. My PCW training kicks in and I fold those hospital corners and hand press the wrinkles to the flatness of a pubescent girl. I had that experience last evening and an ahhhh escaped my lips as I slipped between the covers. I lay there cocooned by 60 thread count softness with a big ole smile on my face.

I love the aroma of sheets from the closet. In our house they smell of wood, drawing from the materials used to build the shelves. I didn’t paint them for that reason. We don’t use detergents that have scents so they derive their fragrance from their surroundings. I would prefer clothesline freshness but in our house, that invites pollen indoors that is better left outside, and I’m not that much of a work horse. In my mother’s time she hung laundry outside weekly except of course for rainy days that would preempt the Monday washday to the next sunny day. Even winter, with frozen digits and cold wind whipping at her coat, she stood at the line and hung our clothes. I remember watching her from the window, seeing the steam rise from the plastic laundry basket. Each piece of apparel would rise from the pile limp and by the time it was hung it would be as hard as a board.   She would later bring them inside, slacks would stand alone, shirts with unbending arms and we would fold them to hear the snap and crack as they groaned against the pressure. I never understood the reason for hanging wash outside when after the thaw it seemed as wet as when it was hung. Was all this just for the delicious, fresh scent that only outdoors could bring? Then mom would hang the wet wash on racks in front of the stove to dry. Back then, doing laundry with the wringer washer was an all-day process. Then the hanging on the line, taking it all down and ironing took her well into the evening.   I do remember the smell of the outside filling the kitchen. Freshly pressed shirts hung on wire hangers, towels folded on the table, socks for a family of five paired and neatly stacked. The heat of the iron as it steamed each garment smelled like fresh potpourri.

When I was much younger, I tried the wash line route but icy fingers are painful.   Struggling with clothespins when your hands are too numb to feel was a huge turnoff. Thank goodness for modern convenience.   The dryer just might be the best invention since sliced bread. My mother was a hard working woman who kept us scrubbed clean and neatly pressed….her lot, not mine.

In her day she ironed everything. From dish towels to the cotton bras, underwear, sheets and she starched the heck out of my father’s work shirts. His pants had a sharp enough crease to cut butter. He went to work every day immaculate as if a model for a men’s catalog. His shirt gleamed white, his tie a smart contrast, the result of my mother’s pride for her white collar guy. We went to school as neat, only a hair or two out of place after one of the frizzy perms.

I iron nothing. Only the clothes I put on my back in the morning gets a lick and a promise pressing. Items folded as soon as the dryer stops is pretty much good enough for me, and if they lay there for a time, so be it; I’m not offended by wrinkles in a tea towel.   If I had extra time in the day to perform domestic perfection I’d do something else, like throw a ball in the backyard for the pups.   No one will ever comment on my domesticity after I’m gone, unless it’s to express their horror at sights seen they can’t forget.

Sue Cunningham's "Coastal Quilts" design. Hooked by Pat Rushbrook

4 Comments

Gardening versus hooking, hooking won......

6/9/2014

7 Comments

Imagine a giant heading toward you with a shovel in hand. Imagine the giant towering over your home. He sticks the spade in the ground at the edge of your house and with a firm jerk down on the handle, flicks the building up in the air. You and your family go sailing out the windows, do a spin in the air and then drop to the ground with a thump, hopefully falling on surrounding plants and three foot long weeds. Imagine the horror of it all as the giant destroys your home and tosses you out into the elements. Imagine…..

That’s what I did on Sunday to a little nest of birds. Baby birds without a hint of feathers. Transparent skin stretched over big eyes with tiny pinkish bodies. Beak open, hungry and gasping for mom.   Their peaceful world disrupted; shame on me.

I’ve been beating back the tenacious weeds that dwarf the plants. My gentle perennials are no match for the territorial weeds competing for sun and soil. I’m late starting because of the foul weather we’ve had and now the push is on to plant all the annuals I bought on Friday on my way home from the airport.   I wanted an early start Sunday morn but I hooked late into Saturday night so my eyes didn’t open until the eight hours minimum of rest had been met. At 11:00 it was already too hot to be outside and then noon being the highest sun in the sky I had to wait until later in the day. So by the time 4:00 rolled around I figured I’d get in a few hours before dinner and not burn to a crisp.

My technique is to stick the spade into the ground between the plants and push down hard on the handle sending the clump to expose the roots of the weeds. This loosens the ground around them nicely and then I grab the bundle and shake all the dirt out of the roots, then biff the clump of weeds into the wheelbarrow. I had done this twice and had cleared a little area and on the next dig, I pushed down hard on the handle and two rubbery looking things flew up into the air.   It took a few second to understand what these little flesh colour balls were and then the horror hit.   They were baby birds, newborns without wings to keep up the momentum of their projected flight so they dropped back down into the soft earth and vegetation. I fell to my knees and parted the weeds to find the little nest they had been ripped from.    There was one still in the nest and his little mouth was opening and closing in a silent cry. Maybe he thought momma was there with a grub. I could hear scolding coming from the Sand Cherry tree behind me.

I rummaged around in the weeds until I found the two babies that just experienced wingless flight and scooped them gently into my gloves. My fingers would have been less clumsy but my dad used to tell me that human scent on a nest might deter the mother from coming back. So I placed the two babies back into their twig basinet, not exactly in the way momma would have arranged them but I figured she could fix things when and if she returned. I secured the nest back down in a hollow area and moved some weeds closely to camouflage the little home.

I felt a bit ill, worried sick that momma would abandon the nest and was already contemplating a trip to Hope For Wildlife if she didn’t return. I went into the house and watched from the screen door and within seconds momma flew into the thick of the weeds to find out what the heck was going on. I waited about a half hour and then went back out on the deck. She must have heard me and flew out from the area to watch me from the same tree. Perfect I thought…she can take it from here.

I checked on them this morning to find the three little babies curled up tight in the bottom of the nest, sleeping like only babies can sleep. I watched a bit to see mom flying in and out of the area so she is back in charge of her wards. So now I have to wait a few weeks before they are ready to leave the nest. The weeds will be four and five feet high by then, choking out my plants, but really, I have no recourse, anything with a heartbeat trumps a plant so these birds take dominion over my gardens.   On warmer days I might work at bit of the garden on the other end, the mother can leave them a bit if she thinks I’m a threat and the babies won’t get cold. Between trying to avoid the snakes, I found the second one this morning sunning himself in the garden behind the house, and now birds, I’m going to have to get down on my hands and knees to check any area before I stick my shovel in. Even when I occasionally cut an earth worm in half I feel sick to my stomach, but I handle that by pretending they can grow a new tail.

So that was the end of the yard work on Sunday so I took up hooking for the rest of the day. Sitting out on the back deck enjoying the beautiful day with my pups. Boats were going out and coming in, birds were chirping and the guy next door was mowing his lawn. Oh, the smell of freshly cut grass….all positive signs that winter has finally retreated...

So I finished my "P". I'm not as happy as I could be. I think if I were to do it over again, I would lightly dye the background the softest pink or lavender. The ivory herringbone with small flecks of colour doesn't really show that well. I considered tearing it out but then thought, there are other letters to hook, I can do another one with a similar palette with a dyed background.   Why go back.....just march ahead! At some point I'm going to have to stop and sew these initials into pillows...but where's the fun in that?

7 Comments

My very own rainbows....

5/23/2014

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Well I had quite the day yesterday. Two negatives fought for a first place trophy but instead of the normal wounded bird response, I smiled and laughed at the silliness of people and their lack of manners. Maybe I’ve finally gown a thick skin, deflecting crap that periodically gets chucked my way. Maybe after 14 years in retail and 55 years on this planet, I finally get it? I’m not responsible for someone elses bad manners, rudeness or anger so it's time to stop taking it personally and shouldering the load! Just because there are a few rotten apples doesn’t mean the entire bag has to spoil.

I was spoken to very rudely by one customer and hung up on by another because I was unable to do their bidding. Saying no to their requests was right for me and the store and although I felt bullied by the one, I held my ground and deflected her undeniable disdain. Normally I would have crawled into a hole, hauled up my legs into a fetal position, sucked my thumb and bleated like a baby lamb.

Maybe it was because so many nice people visited the shop yesterday the good karma blasted the bad! Or maybe I’ve finally taken my own advice and straightened out my backbone? Whatever the reason, I came away unscathed and bursting with a sense of pride. I turned a corner and was then blessed with a magnificent reward!

After work, I saw the most beautiful double rainbow I've ever seen. The inner bow was electric, bold and distinct, the grandest I've been blessed to see. Hubby ran down to the road to capture the moment for me, this wonderful gift from the universe. Yup, it was all about me, a reward for grownup behavior! Two rainbows, two negative customers....see the link? Pretty obvious don't you think? Yesterday was an epiphany and let’s hope it lasts longer than the short lived spectrum that brought me so much joy as it arched the evening sky.

Yesterday the story of the rescued mink, "Mr. Lucky" hit the newsstand. It was a full page in the Lifestyles section, a lovely tale of helping a little furry creature after he was hit by a car, survived, brought back to health and then released back into the wild. I was pleased as punch to spread awareness for Hope for Wildlife, the organization that took him in, but I find it rather ironic that any press pertaining to me is always a factual mess. I've written about this before and thought I was jinxed because of the shop but this one was personal and it still got fuddled.   The picture above, supposedly me, was not, I was behind the camera on this one. I’ve never worn a pony tail in my life and the person pegged as me is youthful and didn’t have my signature chin to pull off the impersonation.   I’m not sure how that could have been confused but hey, how could it not, it's me! Black Cloud Chrissy. I’m obviously a Murphy’s Law screw-up when it comes to printed matter.

I think I was more concerned that my little MINK was referred to as a weasel but really they are both cute,  furry little animals, so what’s the difference eh? No harm, no foul? It would only matter to the mink when scouting for a mate.  I won’t complain or demand a correction because truthfully I’m not that concerned, writing it here is a good enough little vent. I think I was more concerned about the ponytail and the scrunchy on the young woman in the photo. At the risk of sounding too vain and snobby, I want it noted that I'm too old for a ponytail and I’ve never worn a scrunchy in my life.

The intent of the article was to bring awareness to Hope for Wildlife and that goal was met although I wished the website had been listed.   Maybe I need to take up journalism to put the truth back in it....

2 Comments

Rest in fleece......

5/21/2014

15 Comments

If you're squeamish about death maybe pass reading this one. It reflects my end of life choices and sense of humour.

Sunday evening, hubby and I were discussing end of life planning; ground burial versus cremation and the pros and cons of each. He knows I want burial and I demand with all the fortitude one can threaten “If I’m preserved with chemicals I’ll be back for revenge!” Being a survivor of Environmental Sickness and after spending twenty plus years living as green as possible, forgoing hair dye, perfumes and fingernail polish because I don't want a replay of this devastating sickness, I would be livid to think I’d have formaldehyde sloshing around in my veins.

My idea of the perfect burial is to be wrapped in linen, preferably the hooking kind from the shop. Cocoon me in this biodegradable cloth and place me in the ground like a stuffed gunny sack so I turn to dust swiftly, melding with mother earth as all dead, organic matter should. Then plant a willow over me to absorb my nutrients so I become one with the tree; sway in the wind and feel the sun on the leaves for as long as it stands.

That conversation with hubby was timely, because coincidentally, the very next day, I was on the way to work listening to Terry O’Reilly's CBC radio show “The Age of Persuasion” and caught an interesting tidbit. He was talking about the funeral industry and how it’s changing to capture the green market. He said that there is a company in Europe that makes wool caskets. My ears perked up. Did I hear that correctly? Wool? As soon as I arrived at work I did a little research on the internet and low and behold such a thing exists. These coffins are totally biodegradable but durable enough to hold a body up to 800 plus pounds.   I thought wow, how fabulous; I need to have one of those, what a fitting way for an organic gal like me to bunk down underground. And of course, it’s a fitting union, being a hooker, I hold wool in very high regard! The wool caskets were actually stylish and cosy looking; a coffin Sam McGee might have settled for instead of the burning barge.

Really, is there’s anything better than wool to keep you toasty and dry? I'd love to rest in fleece! My mom would have appreciated this kind of interment vessel, considering she always had cold feet. When she passed away I put socks on her and of course, in my mind I knew it was sentimental and foolish, but my heart was drowning in grief and I needed to do something to appease my sadness. It was the last bit of comfort I could provide and in a way, it made me feel better.

Thinking back, I find it strange that I did the sock thing considering I firmly believe that once you die, your body is just the shell you used to get around in. Now, void of life, it’s only biology, not something to lock up in a hermetically sealed coffin and bury in a cement crypt in hopes to keep everything intact for as long as possible. That’s all done for the living, the folks left behind; helping them to sleep better at night knowing the elements can’t get in to make a mess of things. For me, what made you the person you were, is no longer there. They’ve shed their flawed, earthly form and moved on. All the things we do to a body is for the loved ones left behind, not exactly the best for the flesh and bone remains that want to degrade and break down naturally as every other dead organism does.

To be clear, I’m not talking about the human spirit or energy of the person, I’m talking about the organic shell, the remains, the corpse, the cadaver, the corpus delicti, the carcass, the relic or the stiff! That’s why I don’t linger around the graves of my parents. They are not there. But I do visit with them and often. All I have to do is close my eyes to see them; they will live in my heart and in my thoughts until the day of my own last breath.

Anyway, this was not meant to be morbid. I know death can make some folks uncomfortable.   It was only meant to inform you about wool caskets….wow! Wish I’d thought of it myself. I have enough wool around here to go into manufacturing! I’d prefer something plaid for myself, maybe our family’s tartan or an in your face red. I would imagine one could felt a bunch of words on the casket. Friends, get out your needles and leave a few words or hieroglyphics as a sign of your undying love for me…….

Hubby and I discuss these matters often. One needs to be clear with the program so we can honour the wishes of our partners.   Most find the topic taboo but we are prepared with our bequests and wishes of favorite songs and plan for the big goodbye. For me, hopefully there won’t be many tears, just a celebration of my life with good food, good drink and a tale or two to lighten the sadness. With all the shenanigans I get up too there should be lots to tell.

So I was thinking of some fun stuff that might help deal with the grieving. Hubby knows the ‘no chemical rule’ which is tattooed on his brain, and he knows he needs to plant me quickly so I don’t stink up the place. Without preservatives a pong moves in rather quickly, especially in the summer. I've asked that he add a few provisions before sending me off. Yes, it’s all foolishness but the Egyptians believed in packing the journey with all kinds of goodies, favorite possessions, gold, food, even the servants were killed and buried along with their dead king. Today, they say you can’t take it with you, but who makes these rules?

I’m a diabetic and every food that tastes decent is bad for me. My life is bland when it comes to eating. If I want to live as long as possible, mealtime is a struggle to find food that keeps the blood sugars level but still stimulates the taste buds. It’s a chore and when I see others shoveling in the good stuff I hanker for the same, but I know it’s a slow suicide. If I’m ever told I have 24 hours to live I’ll stuff myself to the gizzard with all the forbidden foods I deprive myself of. #1 on the list is the potato chip. They have been my vice and is probably the reason I have this problem in the first place. One was always too many and a thousand was never enough. Once the bag is opened it was all hand to mouth until empty.

If I don't get the advance warning so I can stuff myself with all the things I crave, I told hubby to substitute the customary rose petals for potato chips. Yup, throw deep fried potatoes over my casket. The good kinds too like Kettle Creek or Covered Bridge and maybe a bit of variety. I do like a good Salt & Vinegar and then there’s Mesquite! Usually if I cheat I eat the non-salted ones so my fingers won't swell, so forget that, throw me the good stuff, the ones heavy laden with salt, at this point I’ll be bloating anyway.

Then I took it further and requested a few watermelons. I lust after the water laden vegetable/fruit but it’s laced with sugar and so forbidden. I want the good kind too, not the modified stuff; give me the one with the black seeds, spare no expense. Anything caramel would work nicely and I haven’t had fudge in decades. It’s criminally sweet, like shooting pure sugar directly into the veins but friggin to die for! So give me some of my mother’s brown sugar fudge, firm and delicious, she made the best! Oh yes, ask Mary Jane to make her delicious pound cake with real frosting, she can’t refuse my last request right? Cut a few pieces off for me and pass the rest around. And last but not least, a couple dozen of my nana’s doughnuts and don’t forget to throw in the little fried holes.

Pack me up and send me off with a smile on your face. And just to be clear, I know I won't be tasting any of these goodies, I believe it would be a fun way to console my friends and loved ones who will undoubtedly feel a profound sadness with my passing.....at least I hope! It will give them a distraction to help deal with the helplessness we feel when someone we love dies. Everyone knows I'm a joker and quirky, why should my death be awash with tears? I wouldn't want that.

Maybe it will lighten the mood as they say their last goodbye and throw desserts and chips in the grave with me.........maybe they'll experience the same feeling I had putting socks on my mom......

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Dogs to Doughnuts!

4/21/2014

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To celebrate the bunny....here are a few designs we have honouring the rabbit!

HARE RAISIN RUN

"JACK"

SPRING BUNNIES WITH TULIPS

Easter was different this year. It didn’t involve shopping, chocolate or eggs other than a delightful omelet for Sunday morning brunch. Shane is a big lad now and in the capable hands of a committed relationship. It’s time to pass the chocolate bunny reigns to Ashley. Some will say that kids are kids for life, they may grow but will always be our babies but for me there are other factors to ponder. I really don’t like shopping, and chocolate rabbits are made of cheap chocolate which is bad for the health. Maybe I’m a stick in the mud but that’s how I feel so…..no commercial Easter this year!

We didn’t indulge the pups with Easter prezzies either. They have enough toys to last a lifetime with backup bags filled with toy box overflow to bring out later for a second time surprise. There is nothing I want or need and Gregg never wants anything so why go through the bother? Having Friday off was all the gift I needed. It was a glorious day filled with doing nothing, or thinking about something, whatever, and all done, or not while lounging in my jammies. A blissful day off, to nap and eat and hook, without any need to even look at the clock. The day pretty much went to the dogs, but in a good way. We played, threw ball outside, they got scratches and massages, they napped and just cuddled close, happy they got an extra whole day with mom and dad.

Speaking of the dogs. Michelle, our newest employee gave hubby and I sweet little boxes of Easter candy goodies. After they were emptied I had the brilliant idea to fill them with the dogs squeaky balls. They were excited by the pretty little boxes and got right to work ripping them apart to find the treasure within. Paper straw was flying in the air as the wrappings were torn to shreds. Fabulous entertainment for the humans. Henri particularly liked the curly ribbon that he enjoyed pulling into long lengths....it look like he was flossing his teeth.

HENRI, OUR CREAM MINIATURE BOY

Sunday afternoon, I got the brainiac idea to make doughnuts. Not a wise choice when one is too many and a thousand is never enough, but the craving was there and so was the means to indulge it. So I heated some shortening, threw together the ingredients and voila, doughnuts were lining the counter and wafting through the air like sweet, sentimental perfume. I ate a few of the holes to sample the wares, very conscientious that someone could get sick.....such a delicious sacrifice for the cause.

Did I say delicious? Heavenly bits of dough and fat….so forbidden and desired! Everything I remember them to be since my last visit to paradise. Of course I overdid it, how could I resist that kind of temptation. I lost count of the holes and full doughnuts I devoured. I had to jog on the spot for ½ hour to beat the high blood sugar down to normal, but damn even that was worth it. Today I’m back on my two day fast so I'm hoping there won't be any left by Wednesday. We already unloaded some to friends and hubby will indulge for a few days so I might be spared because it is perfectly clear I can't be left on my own to be sensible.

The problem with making doughnuts, other than eating them until you go into a diabetic coma, is the smell that lingers. Cooking with fat, even with the doors open and the range hood on, is a recipe for disaster if you don't want your house smelling like a greasy spoon. Fat permeates the house, every crack and cranny. Only time will erase the smell, over-writing it with other cooking odors. The good part, it takes me back to my nana's house. Never a day went by when her pantry didn't yield a tin of doughnuts although the constant use of deep fat latched on her skin to become a personal scent, no matter how much Avon talcum she used to mask it. The bad part, it keeps me hangering for the doughnuts!!!

Every time I make this recipe, I tell hubby I need to open a little coffee shop and sell real honest-to-goodness doughnuts and he groans, starting in with "when would I find time to do this with running a rug hooking shop". I say foowey, I can do more than one thing, but we both know I'm fantasizing. I'm just filled with the need to share this incredible cake doughnut with the world! I’ll bet most folks wouldn’t know what a real doughnut even tastes like. Imagine their surprise when they devour their first morsel, so tender on the inside and crunchy on the outside. All of the add water to a powder mixture, poor facsimiles sold today are nothing like the real McCoy. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted the real deal. I would love to run an afternoon coffee shop and serve my nana’s doughnuts. Plain or sugared, kept simple, not doused with piles of sugar crap that will stick to the hips and slow down the ticker. Customers would be addicted and lined up all around the block to get in for a taste of doughnut heaven, which might not be a bad name for the joint......

If you are interested in the recipe it can be found listed on my blog under recipes or click below:
http://www.encompassingdesigns.com/1/post/2013/07/my-grandmothers-sewing-machine.html

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Where there's smoke, there's fire!

4/17/2014

10 Comments

Yesterday, work ground to a halt when a fire broke out in the kitchen. Shane was off on an errand and Michelle was doing a bit of sewing when I got a whiff of something burning, a familiar scent ingrained from all the scorched rice I’ve managed to ruin over the years. Of course my first thought was for my precious sewing machine and when I looked over at Michelle, that’s when I noticed through the lattice work surrounding the kitchen, smoke barreling out from under a large box that was on top of the stove.

Now I hate to say I told you so, but I’ve preached for years about not putting things on the burners other than a pot of water to dye wool! It isn’t a desk or a table and freaky shit happens. Well shit happened big time!

A delivery guy had just dropped off Shane’s new super duper pooper scooper computer monitor, some kind of high speed, instant refresher gaming monitor for his home computer. Busy at his counter he put the box on the left side of stove over two burners. The box was fairly large and must have been pushed back enough to connect with the burner controls, pushing it in to engage the ON function and moved it ever so slightly to the right for the lowest setting. Then it was just a matter of time.

Slowly the heat built until the cardboard started to smolder. By the time I noticed the haze of smoke, it had burned a hole the size of the burner through the bottom of the box and had eaten its way through the plastic and foam wrappings and scorched the monitor front that had been face down in the box.

I hate to brag but I’m the person you want sitting next to you on an airplane in an emergency. I don’t panic, use a clear mind to do what needs to be done and then fall apart later when the what-ifs creep in. I’ll get the door open instead of sitting six rows back waiting on someone else to not lose control so that all the bodies aren’t trapped inside of an toxic off-gasing inferno, piled up in the aisles five and six feet deep.   That’s why I demand a seat near or next too an exit door when I fly.   The elderly and blind people aside, they will designate pretty much anyone with the charge of opening that door and I sure as heck don’t want my life hinging on the ability of a stranger when I know I can do the job.

So back to the fire. In one felled swoop, I turned off the burner, grabbed the box, turned it upside down to dump out the monitor on the work counter. I noticed the box flaps weren’t taped down so Shane must have examined it after it arrived or I wouldn’t have had the time to get it out of the box.

Once the smoldering box was removed from the burner and the air got to it, there was a burst of flames so now the top of the box is on fire. After the monitor was out, I put the box on the floor and grabbed the wet cloth used for wiping up dye water slosh and covered the flames trying to suffocate it first. I know that pouring water directly on a fire can make it spread faster so once the wet cloth was in place then I ran the tap to fill up a pan, opened the window to let the smoke out and poured the water over the cloth and killed it cold. Some flames had been licking up around the edge of the cloth but they quickly sizzled out.

Then I noticed the screen had debris stuck to it so I wet a cloth and wiped it clean to stop the smoking and further damage to the monitor. I could see a nasty couple of stains in the glass or whatever coating material they use. When Shane arrived back and plugged it in, the spots lit up like a moon and stars right in the middle of the screen. We’ve sent it back to see what they can do, or if there’s any hope. It might be an expensive error, with $400.00 down the crapper.

By now Michelle and I are coughing from the thick acrid smoke so I tell Michelle to open the back door and I ran to the front of the shop to throw that door open and gulp in some clean air. I now understand why people perish in a house fire, found demised just inside the door and so close to escaping. Smoke is certainly quick to stop you in your tracks and is blinding to the point of disorientation. This little fire, no bigger than a baseball, filled the shop with caustic smoke from burning cardboard and melting plastics and clawed at my eyes and throat.

From the time I discovered the problem and sprang into action about 20 seconds passed. My only regret is that I didn’t pick the box up off the floor immediately after the fire was out because some of the singed cardboard dropped off and burned one hole directly through the vinyl flooring and left a few scorch marks around it.

The fire had to be dealt with in the kitchen, moving through the shop to get it out the back door into the breeze of the day could have caused the fire to burn faster and I might have been more injured than a few singed fingers. The discoloration on my skin and fingernails makes it look like I’m a heavy smoker with a nicotine stains. I can still smell the smoke on them even after doing dishes and having a shower this morning.

The entire shop now smells of smoke, not that it will last. After a bit of airing out and dyeing wool the steam and vinegar should displace it. In all this I hope a lesson has been learned. I don’t ever want to see anything on top of the stove again other than dye pots and lunch heating!

Then to add salt on the wound, the sewing machine crapped out shortly after, what a day! Never a dull moment around here and it sure would be nice for a bit of the doldrums!

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Mission Possible has a happy ending!!!!!!!

4/12/2014

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The little mink we rescued is alive and doing well!!!!!! Here is the email I just received from Hope for Wildlife.

Hi Christine,

Thank-you for contacting Hope for Wildlife regarding the little Mink you brought in! He is indeed a mink, not a weasel, but he is just a little guy! He is still a little dopey from his bonk on the head, but we could find no other injuries. We are keeping him comfortable with some pain medication, a quiet bed and good food so he can rest and concentrate on healing.

Thank-you for giving this little guy a second chance. It is because of people like you that Hope for Wildlife exists!

Sincerely,

Katie

I must say that little guy wasn’t far from my thoughts since we delivered him to the Society on Thursday. I took the optimistic stance and used the no news is good news scenario. Hearing that the little guy is going to be okay brought tears my eyes and hubby had a bit of mist and a sniffle as well.

Coincidentally, we just happened to notice the TV show, Hope for Wildlife Friday evening and watched an episode of releasing deer and a bob cat back into the wild. Within just a day, I went from not knowing of their existence to watching their show. Boy, I need to get out more! All this good stuff going on around me and I’m in the dark! The Society is always looking for volunteers and it is unfortunate that we live so far away or I’d be planted on their doorstep but if you live handy to Dartmouth maybe you could spare an hour or two a week to help this worthy cause!! Thank-you Dr. Barry and all the other volunteers for giving this story a happy ending!

I wanted to call the little Mink “Lucky” but didn’t think it appropriate to put a moniker on a wild animal, but in my heart, that’s what I call him. Have a long and happy life little fellow!

This isn't our little guy....I just wanted to post a picture of what he will look like when he's totally recovered. Cute!

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Mission Possible......

4/11/2014

11 Comments

The day was shaping up badly from the moment the alarm sounded. Too tired to function, I turned it off and fell back to sleep. The night before I’d worked close to midnight on taxes and the long hours had taken their toll. I finally got up around 11:00 and it wasn’t until 1:00 pm before I headed out the door for work. All the ducks were lining up for what would happen next.

Midway to the shop, directly across from the sewer pumping station, I noticed a small dead creature in the middle of my side of the road. As I fast approached the still form, I noticed the animal must have been a recent hit because its little body was still roundish and plump, not the normal flattened pancake. It was lying between the wheels of my car and I drove over him, already thinking I should go back and remove the carcass off the road. I really didn't want to see what tires would do to the little guy on my way home from work later that day. I turned the car around at the Government wharf. Over the years I’ve pulled my share of dead animals off of highways, prompted by a childhood memory of my younger brother seeing his first road kill and immediately throwing-up in the car. It's traumatic for children to see a mangled body and that thought is always on my mind as I shovel the remains to the side of the road.

Hubby and the Rubbermaid container used for safe transport.

There was a surprising lack of traffic on the normally well traveled stretch of road and I didn't pass a single car on my way back to the body. I parked and walked over to the little brown guy that was slightly bigger than a squirrel but smaller than a ferret. There was a single dot of blood on the pavement and a tear shaped droplet of red on its head. His eyes were closed. I couldn’t see any signs of life and really, what chance would this tiny guy have against the crushing force of a monster sized vehicle going fifty clicks?

I picked it up by the tail and walked it to the side of the road. I wasn’t sure if I imagined movement or if it was because I’d picked it up and the muscles were settling from gravity, but I thought I felt a twitch. I laid the tiny body gently on some rocks on the side of the road and then noticed its paws were moving ever so slightly. It was alive! So I thought maybe it would be better to lay him on the grass, a softer bed and someplace in the sun away from the cool breezes off the harbour. I glanced around for a more protected area with tall grasses. That’s when the maternal instincts kicked in and I knew he was probably in shock and needed to be kept warmer than Mother Nature could provide. I knew that he probably wouldn’t survive but that didn’t mean I should abandon him in his hour or possibly minutes, of need. It now became my duty to make his transition from life to death as comfortable as possible.

I wasn’t thinking about personal injury as I scooped him up with my bare hands, cradling his potentially broken body as carefully as possible. Guilt had already set in for lifting him by the tail when I thought he was gone! I placed him in the back seat on one of my dog’s beds and drove home to seek hubby’s advice.

The gateway to wild animal salvation.

We both thought he looked the worse for wear. Still on the fleece bed we laid him under the lilac bush in a sunny area. He looked so tiny and vulnerable my heart bled for the little guy. Already invested emotionally I watched his breathing. Surprisingly it wasn’t laboured, just a steady rise and fall of his chest wall. He hadn’t lost control of his bladder or bowels and I took that as a good sign. We covered him with one of our polar fleece dog blankets to keep any body heat in. Hubby thought the little guy was a mink, and told me I was very lucky that it hadn’t attacked me. Minks are known to be quite vicious and I could have been severely bitten or scratched if he'd only been playing possum. I might be a romantic fool, but I like to think that he knew I was trying to help him, but more than likely, he was unconscious.

So I went to work but called home frequently to see how our little ward was doing, hoping against hope he would miraculously heal and sneak away. Hubby said he pulled the blanket back to check and the little guy scurried to be deep under the covers. I took that as a positive sign built on wishful thinking. That’s when I knew I had to save this little guy. Now on a mission; albeit a potentially impossible one, I had to do something proactive. I couldn't just let nature take its course, especially when there is nothing natural about a car hitting an animal. I phoned Chester Basin Animal Hospital and they told me about the Hope for Wildlife Society and gave me a number to call. They are located in Dartmouth, 91 kms away, so hubby and I discussed what to do. One option was to wait and see how fate would swing but that was dismissed quickly. We would intervene to determine the outcome, good or bad. If there was any hope for this little guy, it was our responsibility to seek it out for him. So I phoned and we were told where to drop him off so we put the bed in a large Rubbermaid container and covered him with a warm blanket and headed to the city. We peeked before placing him in the container to find that he had moved and was now curled up; we took this to be another positive sign.

We drove the distance with high spirits, as long as there was life there was a possibility of hope. We checked once to make sure we weren’t transporting a lost cause and he was still breathing and had come out from under the covers and was lying on top of the blanket. The top was cracked for air flow but the slit was too small for him to escape.

Tiffany who greeted us at the door.

The people at the rescue center were lovely. He was taken away to be examined and I asked if it would be possible to snap a few pictures so I could write a story to bring awareness to their worthy cause. When Dr. Barry removed him from the container we were told the little guy was pretty banged up but another one they’d treated was in worse shape and had made it. They planned to X-ray him to see the extent of the injuries. The Doctor seemed to think the little guy showed some alertness but might have lost an eye and then informed us our little mink was a really a weasel. He also told us they are white during winter and turn brown in the spring. I snapped a few pictures and then we left so the professionals could do their work; our little guy was now in the best of hands. Animals tug at the heart strings so quickly and tears brimmed my eyes as we got in the car. At this moment I am not sure if the little guy was treated and is on the mend, or if he was beyond repair and humanely euthanized, but I will remain hopeful until I'm told otherwise. We may not get any updates on his condition for a few weeks but in the meantime his little life, or sadly his death, can have meaning by bringing awareness to this awesome society that is rescuing wildlife in need.

Having never rescued an animal before, I didn’t know the society existed so I appreciated the education and knew immediately that I wanted to spread awareness. Apparently over 1500 injured and orphaned wild animals will be given a second chance this year. Injured, freezing and starving can become a story of strong, healthy and ready for release back into the wild. While every animal at the Hope for Wildlife Society has sad beginnings they receive compassion from volunteers who care enough to help. A worthy cause that needs donations to run. Please join me in supporting Nova Scotia’s Wildlife, either by a “Like” on their Facebook page that can be accessed from the website link below, or by making a donation. www.hopeforwildlife.org

Dr. Barry having an initial look at the weasel.

11 Comments

MORE SNOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

3/25/2014

3 Comments

I guess we’ll spend the evening battening down the hatches, hauling in dry firewood and securing the BBQ for another winter snowstorm and high winds.   "Winter Wednesday" will hit us again, this time with even more punch.   Funny how all the major storms seemed to hit us in the middle of the week this winter. I know this because most of the cancellations for our Wednesday evening hook-ins and Christmas party were due to the weather. Hump day which normally means the middle of the week, or peak, now stands for how much snow we get.....humps of it!

I personally think we’ve had enough winter but Mother Nature has the last word and she's a sassy, independent dame. Maybe Father Time did a dirty on her so she's taking it out on us, a woman scorned and all. Who can even say if this is the last of the snow for the year? Maybe we’ll have a white Easter, or worse, a white summer! It’s never over until it’s over and these days with weather a bit more erratic, who can call it? For goodness sake, we aren't that far from April.....will we be able to say 'April Showers Bring May Flowers'?

I would imagine the grocery stores will have bare shelves by the end of the day as people scramble for provisions in case there’s a power outage or conditions prohibiting trips to the store. I’ll be one of them so I hope there is something left by the time I get there after work. I don’t buy canned or packaged anything and usually the raw foods are left behind but that only lasts a few days before spoiling, especially if the power is out. That means hubby, the pups and I will be the first to perish of starvation if a natural disaster ever hits. We’d be hard pressed to find anything more than a can of tomato paste on our pantry shelves or maybe a box of linguini, but that’s it. There’s a few baking supplies, a bag of almonds and a few walnuts and of course flour but that will go down hard without water.   I often think about it, I like to be prepared for situations but we don’t eat processed food and hate to buy it just to sit on a shelf in case the tsunami hits. And, in that scenario, any food would probably end up in the neighbour’s yard or miles down the road anyway.

Speaking of a Tsunami.   It doesn’t hurt to be prepared. We’ve been talking about an evacuation plan since the town had a meeting to discuss what will happened in a natural disaster…which areas will flood and receive the most damage. Pretty much the entire town is on a flood plain including my shop, so it will be washed away, ending up somewhere on the west side of town, probably merged with what's left of our iconic Three Churches. All my beautiful wool washed away! Help yourselves gals! Pick it out of the trees. Call it a disaster sale, all you can carry, free for all!

It never hurts to have a plan. You’d be surprised how disoriented you can get in a panic, do stupid things that cost precious minutes that prevent you from making it to safety. If we see the harbor emptying of water, which is what occurs before the big wave hits, we will have about 5 – 10 minutes to get in the vehicle and ride up the neighbour’s hill to the crest were we have a bird’s eye view of our beautiful house being lifted off the foundation, smashed into splinters and head to town with all the other homes, cars and debris that were destroyed before us along the road.

We dearly hope our home is high enough to sustain minimal damage, but it’s not just the water surge, it’s what’s in the water. Ron White, a comedian has a funny bit in his routine that comes to mind. “A guy in Florida tied himself to a tree and said that he was physically fit enough to withstand hurricane force winds….and Ron says, “It’s not that the wind is blowing, it’s what the wind is blowing. If you get hit by a flying Volvo, it doesn’t matter how many stomach crunches you did that morning! “

3 Comments

Family Tree

3/17/2014

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Rough draft of FAMILY TREE OF LIFE

Sunday morning was actually its namesake. A Sun day. As pure gold streamed through our windows, Spring no longer seemed impossible. But....I won’t hold my breath, a lot can still happen. Mother nature is never one to bet on. She has a mind of her own and takes advice from no man.

I fought the urge to go into the shop because I didn’t want to get sucked into the sofa for an afternoon of long naps and intermittent TV per the usual and waste such a gorgeous day. Hubby is home now so I can’t blame loneliness for my laziness. Not that I'm ashamed for him to see me curled up in a ball wasting my day off in dreamland, he would be the first to encourage me to catch up on rest from all those sleepless nights, but I feel guilty that he will be ignored when we share so little time together. I felt we should do something together as a family. He suggested a drive to a beach for a romp with the pack but it was way too cold for me in my jammies.

Our family consists of mom, dad and four poodles and we opted to stay home and take them outside to throw ball up on the garage roof. The gang wiggles and squirms waiting for it to come rolling off the edge and they all jump to catch it in the air. Then they run laps around the yard, the winner of the ball in the lead teasing the rest, who follow in hot pursuit in case it's dropped. Such fun and great exercise but the wind was stabbing through my coat with icepick ferocity so a half hour was all that I could bear.

I played with a design that’s been in the works for a while. I made a rough draft of a family tree with winding branches and the upper limbs have rectangular boxes for the names of loved ones, immediate or otherwise. There's a bit of tweaking before it makes it on backing but I'm over half of the way there. The tree in itself will be interesting and would make a fabulous rug, so the option to not hook names in each box will be a personal choice.   It’s one of those ideas that I started several years ago and got placed on the back burner when other, more pressing items, arose.   My goal this year is to address the half finished stuff and start fresh. It would be nice to be caught up and just jump on a new thought when it arises.

An update on my hair loss.   It’s been over a month and the shower stall no longer looks like the floor of a barbershop. My fingers no longer get entangled in deserting strands as I wash it. The fact that it no longer falls out in droves is a big plus, but I also see new growth around my bang area. I equate this success to the change in my diet, eating more iodine rich foods to deal with a sluggish thyroid and more iron saturated foods for my blood. In time I might develop a taste for dulse but it's a hard chew and swallow but you have to do what you have to do! I felt better and claimed more energy right from the beginning. I am one of those people who truly believe all changes need to come from within. No cream or shampoo was going to help. So I changed my diet to enlist more of the foods that might have been underutilized and sure enough there is success.

I’ve really been working on the stress thing as well. Not letting major things reach the boiling point and trying to laugh off the rest. Really, unless the reaper is knocking at the door what could be so daunting that my hair fell out? Ridiculous really! I won’t say I’ve totally changed, it’s coded in my genes to be who I am, but I can work on things and reduce mountains to molehills. I is what I is, so I won’t change completely but easing up on a few things has definitely helped. So I'm happy and confident that my hair might come back, and the fear of baldness is now a fading memory.

Sunday went by all too quickly as most days off do. On the way to bed I looked over at the chair holding my project and regretted not hooking but being immersed it this craft six days and evenings a week, sometimes I just need some distance from it. That's the curse of making a hobby a job, there has to be a time away to decompress and regroup or you run the risk of burnout.

My aunt phoned mid afternoon and invited us out for dinner but we declined. Well I did. My day off is just that. A day to myself. If I don’t want to shower, dress in daytime clothes or be in public, that’s my choice.   Besides, a call out of the blue doesn’t give me much time to get used to the idea so as soon as it was broached stress crept in. I could feel it rise up and wash over me like a rogue wave.   My breath quickened and panic started to rise in my throat. Enthusiastic hubby took the call and he’s up for anything while I’m screeching in the background “No!”. You could call that man at four in the morning and he wouldn’t even admit he was sleeping, jump out of bed, dress and be out the door on the adventure. Me, not so much. I need advance warning, as much as possible so the idea can grow on me. I need to plan things, work out all the scenarios. I won’t win any contests for spontaneity and I’m perfectly fine with that.

We have a thing this Thursday and I will work into it mentally with careful planning…what to wear, dinner planned and eaten early, dogs to be fed and run, blog done etc. All that will be planned and I’ll be ready to arrive and have a good time. Walking into a situation unprepared is just stressful, not just for me but poor hubby will have to listen to me whine up until we arrive where we're going. He doesn't fully understand why I react so weirdly to social things but he's lived a different set of circumstances and is emotional stable! It could be a learned behavior. My poor mother always lost it getting three kids and a husband who barely qualified as an adult out the door for any event. Maybe I'm pulling a momsy?

So we turned down the invite, the angst melted away and I was back to my comfortable cocoon until I heard him suggest to my my aunt "pop over for a visit". That would mean I would have to shower and tidy up the house, I do have my pride!!! That would mean frantic work and the death of my peace and quiet, stress free day off. I screamed "No" again. So he retracted his invite and politely asked for a rain cheque for later in the week for dinner. My aunt lived with us for three months during her condo renovations so she knows I beat to a very different drum so she probably wasn’t surprised to hear me scream.

Happy St. Patrick's Day Everyone!

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