Blog Posts

Rug Show in Japan

5/1/2019

I am so very proud to share photos of an amazing gallery of hooked rugs from Tokyo, Japan. Supported by the Pearl K. McGown Guild, this display of beautiful rugs would have been spectacular to be viewed in person, but thanks to Chizuko Hayami for transporting us there through the magic of digital technology.

She photographed rugs of the designs that originated from our studio. Both she and her students have been wonderful supporters of our patterns and I am always thrilled to see these skilled rug hookers bring each pattern to life. I am honoured to see our combined efforts creating international eye-candy.

I even spotted a few other rugs that had been hooked in previous years that Chizuko has shared with me. Thanks so much for making my day and I know you all must be so very pleased with your efforts. Thank you all for loving rug hooking and sharing with the rest of the world!

This view would really invite you in!

How Much Is That Doggie.. Bell Pull

Our Happy Hooters Bell Pull - Daytime.
The same pattern but so very different colour plans. Lovely!

Mahone Bay Three Churches Framed

Designed by Charlene Scott, a whimsical Mahone Bay's Three Churches beautifully hooked.

Both of these iconic patterns are called Historic Lunenburg.
Two very different styles, both beautiful!

All Gulls, No Buoys, Sue Cunningham Design

Designed and hooked by Yoshiho Nara, she has graciously offered this pattern to the studio.

No Crib For His Bed

This William Morris Orange Tree looks like a sculpted Persian rug, I can imagine running my hand across its velvety surface. Excellent! Beautiful colour plan.

This pattern is SHIRLEY, a whimsical Jacobean design from our collection. It was expertly hooked by KYOKO OKAMURA as a stitch sampler. Everything about it is truly amazing, from the special techniques in the Jacobean flowers, stems and leaves, to the hooked plaid border. Zoom in on some of these flowers to see the clever detailing. I really like the bit of hounds-tooth patterning in the flower in the upper left corner of the center design. She has done a basket weave for the center design background. Every square inch of this rug has been lovingly brought to life. Beautifully done Kyoho.

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Dyeing to die for!

4/26/2019

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The Dye Guy has been dyeing like crazy. 80 plus yards have gone through the dye bath this week and more coming! The elves are working the evening shift as well! The shelves are looking plump!

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Easter Weekend Hours

4/19/2019

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Friday April 19th : CLOSED
Saturday April 20th: 10-5pm
Sunday April 21st: CLOSED
Monday April 22nd: 12-5pm

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Dorade Boxes

4/16/2019

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A couple of years ago I’d never heard of a Dorade box. Then we buy our first sailboat and we remove them and I find myself getting an education on refinishing tired teak. The wood was in pretty sad condition and I remember arguing that we needed to replace them with new, because the crumbling finish was exposing mold and the wood underneath looked dyer than the Sahara. Surely it had breathed its last breath and would fall apart in my hands.

But then I stripped them with the heat gun, cleaned them with a teak product and after only one coat of varnish, I had to tell hubby he was right. That doesn’t happen often, well not as often as it should, but he just smiled and reminded me that he had 50 years’ experience with boats and I barely had a couple of months under my belt….point taken.

So I stripped the boxes, the cockpit table, cockpit floor, cup holder, the wheel, the swim ladder steps and the handrails and made them look brand new. It was magic. Teak is hard and tough and amazing wood and working with it has bumped its way to the top of my list of things I like to do. It gleams of gratitude.

Twelve coats of Epiphane later, the boxes were installed and looked good as new and will last our lifetime with a light sand and recoat every couple of years. This year I hope to have canvas covers made for them to slow the sun damage and cut down on the work needed to keep them looking fresh. One disappointing thing I have learned, nothing lasts forever on a boat, maintenance is ongoing, the sun and salt guarantee it.

The deck under the boxes was a sad sight. Forty years of grime and hardened sealer took a while to remove. The sealant now dried and hard, had filled in the dips of the nonskid surface that would need a lot of gouging out with a small chisel. There were a few broken fingernails, scraped knuckles and a bit of cursing, the air a sickening shade of blue under the canvas cover. Our Nonsuch 33 has two boxes so that meant double the work but there is a deep satisfaction knowing these newly rejuvenated boxes sit on top of a pristine area. Call me crazy but I wish the boat had more teak items to refinish like a lovely combing top that I drool over on other boats, but hubby thinks I might change my mind over time so we could use less.

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Happy Anniversary To EWE! Our Guild is 40!

4/12/2019

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This year is the 40th anniversary of the Rug Hooking Guild of Nova Scotia. Forty years! Wow! This is a big deal peeps! Of course, rug hooking has been going on a lot longer than forty years, but organizing it into a guild and starting our rug school has really brought this craft into focus in our province. It brought us together and made us part of something bigger than a simple little past time, giving many the opportunity to explore and share this passion. Like a tiny seed the Guild has grown like a mighty, 40 year old oak.

Rug hooking has provided many with added purpose, something outside the day to day comings and goings, something creative and special. Ask any rug hooker that travels across North America and even further afield to take workshops, attend schools and congregate for hooking events, how this craft has enhanced their lives and you’ll be inundated with smiles and abundant tales.

Most of us will agree rug hooking has enriched our lives and for someone like me it’s been life altering. I’m immersed up to my chin with both feet planted in this business providing quality supplies, unique designs and wool to drool over. It has certainly added a dimension to my life that I would have never thought possible back in the day of 9 to 5, pushing a pencil in the office grind. Being able to explore my creative side in a profession that can’t really be classified as work, I thank my lucky stars every day that my circumstance has allowed this blessing to happen and continue. When I turn the key and walk through the door of my studio, I’m met with the most beautiful array of colour and this visual feast shapes a broad smile across my lips and a flutter in my heart. Truly, entering the door is like receiving a hug from a rainbow. I can hardly believe my good fortune and I pinch myself occasionally to make sure it’s real.

I’ve been thinking about a commemorative pattern to celebrate the four decades of the guild. I think about the rug hookers I’ve met, some have passed while others continue carrying the torch; some have been here from the start while newbies continue to join in. I’ve been hooking for 20 years, have been a guild member since day one, yet it seems only yesterday that I pulled my first loop.

Although when one thinks of rug hooking people come to mind, all the many friends we have made, teachers that had given their time and shared their knowledge, but we mustn’t forget the real hero behind our passion, the magnificent sheep. Whether you hook with wool yarn or wool fabric cut into strips, it is clearly the most desired medium for this art form. The blissful, peaceful sheep; heavenly creatures working behind the scenes, growing and providing us with the best, hard wearing, soft and abundant material to create our rugs.

So obviously my vision for the guild anniversary had to represent a sheep. It’s leaping through the number 40, perhaps being counted by a sleep deprived soul tossing and turning under the covers. I made the legs and feet primitive hooks, the most important tool of the craft and deserving of a mention. The background has fireworks, stars and steamers shooting out in all directions for this grand celebration of our guilds birthday.

I envisioned hit and miss for the four corners, an old style tradition to use up leftover worms. A simple design of the past that has been carried to modern day rugs, a style never aging, never losing its appeal. I wasn't able to create that in Photoshop, my skill level there is a mere one out of ten.

I hope you like this pattern and if you do, it can be yours. I am offering it as a paper design that is free with any purchase, either from shopping at the studio or mail order. Please remember to ask for it when placing an order as it won’t be automatically put in your parcel.   This pattern is copyrighted and meant for a one time personal use only so please respect this. For those not interested in transferring it to backing on their own, we will be selling it made up on Linen as well.

If you hook this piece and send us a photo we will vote on the one we like best and there will be a reward of a $150.00 Gift Certificate to the studio to add whatever you desire to your stash. The cut-off for this contest will be June 30th, 2019 so that’s plenty of time to hook it. I’m not worried about numbers, if only one rug hooker sends a photo; well that’s a guaranteed prize! The size is 18” x 19. The paper pattern will be available until the end of April at which time the 40 will be removed from the design and we will sell the pattern on Linen. Who doesn't love to hook sheep! I look forward to seeing this design spring to life in full colour from the creative minds of our customers. Cheers!

I used Photoshop to tint the pattern in a soft and simple plan to show how delightful it might be once your wool colours it in. Cheers fellow rug hookers!

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The Flying Horse

4/3/2019

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I’m torn. Back in 2014 I designed this flying horse to commemorate the Year of the Horse in the Chinese calendar. The Horse is the seventh in the 12-year cycle of the Chinese zodiac sign. The Years of the Horse include 1918, 1930, 1942, 1954, 1966, 1978, 1990, 2002, 2014, 2026... The 12 Chinese horoscope animals are: Rat, Ox, Tiger, Rabbit, Dragon, Snake, Horse, Goat, Monkey, Rooster, Dog, Pig.

About 25 years ago, Hubby and I were visiting his parents in BC and spent a day wondering around China Town on the waterfront of Vancouver and came across this little gem in one of the many shops. He was always interested in the flying horse; feeling it was unique from all the other horse statues, art and stories in history so we purchased it. When I set about to design the pattern my first thought was the Flying Horse to represent this year in the Chinese calendar and even used our statue for the reference.

The Chinese characters in each corner stand for Happy New Year and felt they framed the horse perfectly. I thought running the animal through the 0 of 2014 would be clever and create a balanced picture. I like the design, but I’m not sure if I should remove the 2014 and characters and finish only the horse and swallow with the background and a border, perhaps making a pillow for our home study.

Although I love the look of this pattern I’m not sure if I want the already outdated year to be such a focal point and I’m not Chinese, so this symbolism means little to me. We are going to produce patterns with the horse only as I it will make a lovely rug. A photo of just the horse would probably be less off-putting to anyone purchasing the design, than having to ask what all the other stuff is for?

I can easily remove all the red and fill in the body and background but my dilemma is that I love the red influence, how it plays off the antique bronze green finish of the animal and that creamy beige background. I can’t only remove the year and leave the Chinese characters either because the horse is balanced on the date and if that is removed the horse is too far to the left and although I’m not a great fan of symmetry, this would be too lopsided even for me.

I want to finish the hooking but I’m stymied by indecision on which way to go forward because there are as many pros as cons for me. A week later after digging it out of storage, it’s become a stumbling block because I’ve promised myself to complete this project before I move ahead with another and I don’t want my frame being empty when there is so much I want to do. Just make a decision Christine and stick to it instead of pitching it back and forth like a ball. I usually know exactly what I want but for this case I could use a bit of help. What would you do? If I choose to erase the motifs in question I will set some red in the border, a line or two before the outside plaid I’ve selected to frame it.

A brief History of the Flying Horse Of Gansu
Eastern Han dynasty, 25 - 220 AD
Gansu Provincial Museum

This outstanding bronze horse has become an iconic emblem of China. Racing through the skies, it treads on a swallow (base of statue) that looks up in amazement. Unlike Pegasus, the Western flying horse, the wingless Han steed is meant to be understood metaphorically rather than literally; it represents an ideal horse that can gallop so fast that it seems to outrun the wind. The sculpture is perfectly balanced on only one hoof, to complete the illusion of flight.

The Five Elements of Horse is Fire (Huo), which symbolizes enthusiasm and energy. The animal gives people an impression of independence and integrity. Its spirit is recognized to be the Chinese people's ethos - making unremitting efforts to improve themselves with passion and diligence.

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Maritime Made TV Show

3/28/2019

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Maritime Made from Eastlink TV taped a video about our studio!

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Bunnies With Tulips finished at last!

3/21/2019

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I awoke yesterday and realized it was March 20th, the day before the first full day of spring. Another year and the season has snuck up on me. Now spring is a great source of happiness and joy, but and there always seems to be a but, it signifies another year passing without finishing my Bunnies With Tulips rug. It’s been so long I can’t recall which year I started it and I could look back at previous blogs to find out, I have been hauling it out with optimism for some time, but I’m just going to move forward and do it!

Yesterday there were two hook-ins at the studio; the weekly afternoon one and the 3rd Wednesday of the month for the evening. I figured this was concentrated hooking time to finish the few loops needed to complete the rug, steam it and then go home for dinner. When I got back for the evening gathering, I zig-zagged stitched around the edge, cut it out and began adding the cording. I managed to whip one side before we said our goodbyes around 10:00 P.M. and then I went home determined to finish the job no matter how late the clock ground away.

It was going to be done for the first day of spring. I was up till 3:00 A.M. working at the speed of sound until my right arm felt a bit unhinged from tugging the yarn through the hole, but I don’t begrudge the yawning today at all. There’s the rug binding to be added but that can be done down the road but I’m notorious for not doing that job. I hate working with needles and prick myself silly and last evening as I sewed in the cording, I rammed the needle under the skin around my right thumb nail for a big ouchy. I don’t know why I’m so clumsy with sharp, pointy things but I spazz and injure myself every time.

So the rug is done and I am over the moon. I was inspired by a saying I saw on FB and copied to my page. The only thing standing between me and finishing this project are the three hundred others ones I want to start. So true! But is this really a viable excuse for procrastinating this long? So yesterday morning I dug out the wool to go with the rug and in the bag I discovered three other projects in various degrees of completion and I made a promise to them that I would do them before starting anything new. It’s time to put the horse before the cart. Shed all the weight of unfinished projects past to clear the way for future creativity. Inanimate objects seem to ferment guilt which clogs up my ability to embrace anything new without baggage.

There was a lovely flying horse I designed for the Year of the Horse in 2014 that’s niggling me next. I love the verdigris horse and the red Chinese letters for New Years. With only one or two evenings worth of work to be had I’ll mark another forgotten soul off my list. I’ll be so light and carefree after this purge of guilt from unfinished projects I might just feel unencumbered glee when starting the next riser.

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Spring and Pussy Willows

3/11/2019

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Although our yard is still packed with several feet of snow, the temperatures are all above zero this week; a sign that spring is around the corner. The driveway, already melted of all the white stuff, is actually a mud pit as the ground thawed; I got out my rubber boots, a positive sign of spring and better weather coming. Saturday the clocks went ahead an hour so the days are longer, good times are on their way.

Spring, my favourite season, always takes me back to my childhood. All my best memories evolved from springtime, a simpler age when my family was young and blissful. It was a season of newness and discovery and freedom from the heavy clothing and harsh winters that we suffered through. One of my favourite memories is of the classic pussy willow. I remember tickling the soft buds under my nose, teasing our cat with them, and we always had a vase full on the kitchen counter.

I think my generation was so fortunate to be nature walkers, taking strolls on Sunday with mom and dad to explore the wooded area behind our house. The smell of outdoors was intoxicating. Pine scented, it would tattoo itself on my nose and my clothes so I would carry it with me throughout the day.

There were so many treasures to be found and mysteries to unfold to intrigue an inquisitive kid like me. Spider webs spanning the paths glistened with morning dew. Beads of water shimmering like diamonds on the web, intoxicatingly beautiful; my five year old brain was mesmerized. I was a constant question back then, one leading directly into another like a string of pearls. I needed to know the why and the how of all things, what bird was singing, what is the name of that mushroom, does a fairy live under it? My questions probably disturbed my parent’s ears as well as the flora and fauna of the quiet woods. The wind in the swaying trees sounded like whispers overhead while the soft pine needle carpet felt like walking on clouds.

How I remember the May flowers with their delicate pink petals and their exquisite scent. If I close my eyes I can easily relive this delicate sweet perfume. Lady slippers, a dainty pink, so abundant and elegant, like ballerina shoes peppering the forest floor, so very many of them back then, so few of them now. So much beauty in nature, one only has to look to see her bounty

There are many versions of how the Pussy Willows got their name. One such story is this old Polish legend.

The story began many springtime’s ago with a mother cat crying at the bank of a river in which her kittens were drowning. The willows at the river's edge longed to help her, so they swept their long graceful branches into the waters to rescue the tiny kittens who had fallen into the river while chasing butterflies. The kittens gripped on tightly to their branches and were safely brought to shore. Each springtime since, goes the legend, the willow branches sprout tiny fur-like buds at their tips where the tiny kittens once clung.

There are other versions of the tale, although not as sweet and without a happy ending, so I chose this explanation as the one that best represents our darling pattern. The design was inspired by my mother-in-law who showed me an old drawing she’d found on a vintage post card. I embellished it more by adding the fun border to frame these sweet little kittens.

A kitten is the poster child for all things soft, fluffy and adorable and this pattern offers the option to make it all three as well. I have seen several versions of it hooked, each one telling the story perfectly. Sometimes the pussy willows are sculpted for extra texture and interest. I smile every time I see it and recently caught a glimpse of another version of this rug on Facebook, hooked and hanging at the show at Ross Farm.

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Nautical Stair Riser #9

3/7/2019

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I’ve completed my ninth stair riser with six more to go. There will be 15 risers on this staircase to nautical heaven. This one is called Customize It so the rug hooker can add their family name, cottage name or their boat name to personalize the rug. I chose to add our boat name Catalyst II, Nonsuch 33.

The name you choose will be flanked by two stylized fish/sea monsters. I had a great deal of fun colour planning and hooking them with six values of red and some green highlights. I hooked it in a #3 strip for the detail and for small objects such as these, even with the smaller cuts the work went quickly. I love how they both look and feel like velvet.

When I started this business I designed a lot of Compass Rose patterns. I love anything nautical and some of the old maps I used as references had wonderfully stylized sea serpents and creatures around the periphery. Some of the oldest compass rose designs found were on these maps and I took our Red Sky At Night design from one that was dated in the early 1400’s. I love the compass rose, the epitome of nautical spirit.

I’ve very pleased with my latest riser and it takes its place proudly on the staircase. There are enough of them now to sew the backs and attach them with Velcro in a permanent position, if only I had a PA to follow me around and do my bidding. I love to hook but sewing, that nasty, blood thirsty needle, turns me off so I procrastinate until I can no longer justify putting it off and then let the swearing begin.

The next riser is my Sea Serpent and Shane has created a new green for me suitably named Sea Serpent Green. I visualize this green with yellow undertones paired with red and gold accents, but who knows what will transpire once I begin. I like to think I have a plan but once the loops are pulled my thinking can do a 180 shift so we will see what direction I take as far as accent colours go. I must say I am thrilled to begin, the possibilities for the colour placement are exciting.

The two vertical dashes on the right of our boat name is not a quotation mark so I made it look more like a roman numeral with a skinny antique red line on the top and the bottom. Our boat name is Catalyst ll. My hubby thought it might confuse someone and it did so I had to rectify it. Thanks for pointing this out peeps!

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The joy of hooking internationally!

3/6/2019

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By Guest Blogger Sharon Loeppky

Hi Christine. I'm back from my Indian adventure. I'm so glad that I decided to do the textile art while there - the Gujarati are definitely a people with an understanding of "handwork". Although most of the local people in the Kutch didn't speak much English they all wanted to connect with a stranger who also worked with fabric. So many of the woman wanted to either show me that they, too, knew how to hook, or they wanted to try it.

I'm sending you a few pics of some of the little pieces that I made (designs based on Google Earth screen shots of the region). I'm also including a few shots of your frame in India!

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A warning for those with chimneys.....

3/5/2019

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We had a chimney fire last Thursday evening complete with a 911 call, two trucks with sirens blazing like the fire in our flue, screaming to a halt in front of our house. Luckily we didn’t experience any damage but it was frightening to see foot high flames shooting out of the top of the chimney against the backdrop of a night sky while acrid smoke permeated the house. The firemen checked the walls with a Thermal Imagine, looking for hot spots from the first floor to the attic, to make sure there wasn’t any fire smoldering behind the walls, waiting to explode and devour our home. They emptied the woodstove of the burning logs and then hung around until they were confident the drama was over and left us shaking and scratching our heads.

Two important details of note. The firemen told us there has been an unusual amount of calls for chimney fires this year. One fireman told us that he had his cleaned in December and a month later had a chimney fire. We had our Sweep guy do our annual cleanout in November, but when he came on Friday to clear out the charred remains, he took out five buckets full of blackened soot and buildup. He told us that twelve of his customers had fires this winter. He could only offer assumptions as to why, perhaps the wood isn’t seasoned enough and/or the cold temperatures are slowing the smoke and sparks from carrying up the chimney. He said because we live along the water there is more moisture in the air, probably a contributor to creosote accumulation. For whatever the reason or a combination of all, the conditions were ripe for a fire. Of course, outside chimneys are more susceptible to build-up due to not being insulated from the harsh temperatures cooling them, so they don’t burn as clean. Because of what we’ve been told and experienced, I’m suggesting those of you with chimneys, get a mirror and a flashlight to check out your flue, better to be safe than sorry.

As a solution, we are going to buy the equipment to clean our chimney once a month. Gows Home Hardware sells the brushes and the rods to do the job. A lot rests on being diligent, and this will be a small price to pay for peace of mind. We will also clean the inside stove pipes every two weeks instead of every month; it’s marked on the calendar now so we won’t forget or become complacent. I don’t want to see another fireman in my house unless he’s been invited for a social gathering but I’d like to give a big thank-you to the guys that came to our rescue, Mahone Bay’s finest!

The stress drove my blood sugar as high as Everest and later I didn't sleep well, my mind churning through the what ifs, as my mood stayed blacker than the thin sheet of ash that covered the snowy yard after the chimney erupted like a brick volcano.

Although I don't think we were in any immediate threat of losing everything, I still prepared for the worst, grabbing the pups and their coats, car keys, my rings, both laptop computers and the Baby Magic Doll that was staring at me from a shelf in the living room, her big beautiful eyes seemed to say, “don’t leave me behind!” I stood by the door and looked around and I thought what else should I grab, my mother-in-law's silver tea set? More jewelry? Some of the Blue & White dish collection from the obsessive amounts that hang on the walls and fill the cupboards? I stood dumb founded by indecision, not able to think of a single item I couldn’t live without. I figured I wouldn’t miss anything too terribly but I would mourn the inconvenience of the aftermath of a fire, the insurance claim, purchasing new clothes, finding a place to live in the interim and then a possible rebuild. I’ll bet dollars to donuts our next home wouldn’t look anything like the footprint of our current one.

We live in a moderate sized house filled to the brim with things. Surely we’ve accumulated something worth the trouble to tuck under our arm and flee!   Nothing worth dying over obviously, but if time allowed surely I could have come up with something that might have made the loss of everything less of a hardship.    I was more worried that I had a hole in the heel of my one sock, thinking great, that’s what I’ll have to live with until we can find some things to wear.  I had on clean underwear, my mom would be proud that her constant nagging is still working. Luckily I was wearing my favourite bra, a good bra is worth its weight in gold, and as I looked down at the shirt that I was wearing I figured it wouldn’t be too much of a hardship to have to sleep in it, perhaps even in the car for the first homeless night.

So after the firemen left and the quiet engulfed me, I rewound and played the entire evening in my head, over and over to make sense of it all. I came away from the experience with an interesting view of my life, contemplating what is worthy and finding the list relatively small compared to the size of our possessions. Our homes, our nests and the stuff in them is our mark on this planet...our properties makes us unique and individual....setting us apart from the Jones.  But, if none of it really matters why are we buying or building mammoth homes and purchasing stuff to fill them?  Why is it so important to have things if we can live without it? Someone once told me “Your house might be nice, but if you ever get cancer it won’t mean a damn thing.”   Well maybe it doesn’t mean that much now, if I can turn my back on it within a few heartbeats while making split second decisions on what survives and what doesn’t?

Obviously we give stuff too much credence, way too much effort, and throw too much money at it. Seriously, why couldn’t I have come to this realization in my youth when I was building our nest and dragging home stuff to fill the halls and rooms as if that’s what truly mattered? Starting over today, we’d be minimalists, parked in a bungalow with the bare necessities to exist comfortably. No dusting a bunch of items that serve little purpose but to look at, not having closets and cupboards filled with items that are forgotten; only being surrounding with things that matter. Once again, less seems to be more.

A house fire can start and develop into life threatening chaos in a matter of minutes but what would you save if you had two minutes to grab possessions? In this scenario, the family and pets are safe on the lawn and you have 120 seconds to rescue the things you can’t live without? What would they be? Something to think about.....

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In case you've wondered where I've been......

2/26/2019

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We don’t have to be Winnie the Pooh to recognize a Blustery day. One look out the window today and I was happy to stay inside until a doctor’s appointment forced me out into winter. It’s been colder lately with a wind-chill that stands behind its name all the way to my bones. Without proper attire, hat, scarf, mittens, long johns and a coat that would deflect bullets the dash between the house and the garage is like thousands of razor sharp knives piercing the skin. Living on the water has its perks; the beauty of nature and summer recreation showing from every window pane, but in the winter the north wind whips our property like a punishment.

Hubby and I had been sick for over two weeks. We’re definitely on the side of wellness, but it’s been a rough ride. The first week I had a cold, aches in the joints, headache and lethargy but nothing in the sinuses. After about a week of feeling useless, but on the mend, I left the house to shake a severe case of cabin fever and forage for provisions because this old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard was bare.

We went to the grocery store and filled the cart and much to my chagrin, the gal behind the cashier counter let loose a sneeze bomb right in my face. No covering her mouth with a hand or letting it land into the crook of her arm, or turning her head to the empty air behind her. No, she stood there and blew viral shrapnel in my face; I could feel the droplets of moisture hitting my skin, inhaling it up my wind tunnel of a nose. I took a bullet for sure, a direct hit to my immune system and it was a foreign agent, one not recognized and previously dealt with so I lacked a defense. Sure enough, two days later my nose became a leaking facet, fever set in and the headache was back with a vengeance. I groaned, sinking back into the sofa I’d only just extricated from my back.

I blame the sickness on bragging how I rarely get ill. We’d been out with friends for a delightful breakfast at the Gold Bean Café in Gold River and we were discussing flu shots, which I never get, and I said how I rarely get sick and looked for a piece of wood to knock on to seal the statement. All I could find was an Arborite table top, painted gyprock walls and upholstered seats. My hand hovered looking for some pine to tap, anything really, but there wasn’t even a tooth pick and it made me feel a little nervous. I’m not a superstitious person by any mean, but it’s a habit to knock on wood, just one of those things we do without thinking to cover the stupid things we say! I worried my boast would foil me, and sure enough, hubby got it first and because we share a house, passed it along to me as this year’s Valentine’s gift.

Today, I’m about 97% back to normal and I’m optimistic that I’ll make a full recovery in the next day or so, but I’ve learned my lesson and will watch my words and stop bragging, well actually after this two week load of crap I can’t say that I don't pick things up, a few years will have to pass without further incident before I'll dare to declare it again. . But, there’s always the but, if there should come a time that I stupidly suggest I’m a germ deflector, I’ll make darn sure there’s wood handy to back it up.

I’m not a great patient. I like my down time but only when it’s my choice, not forced against my will.   Boredom is not my friend and when you feel less than perky, it’s really difficult to pursue a hobby, read or even watch TV. Hooking was out of the question, the constant dripping made me feel like I was being tapped for maple syrup but had no place to hang a tin. So I lay around moaning and feeling the full extent of my misery. The only exertion was pulling Kleenex from the box and of course the sneezing fits that could actually propel my body like being shot from a cannon. I had fits so violent Depends could have been helpful. I’m sure those with Stock in the Kleenex company saw a marked improvement in their portfolio.   Box after box was emptied by the two of us. FYI - Hubby has a great way to dispose of the used tissues. Once a box is empty you put the used ones in it until it’s stuffed to bulging and then put it in the wood stove. These boxes ignite with a small explosion and burn like a gasoline soaked rag. Bye bye bacteria!

As the days dragged on and I started feeling a bit better I periodically stripped the top of our mahogany dining room table. I'm only redoing the top and it’s very laborious so I only did about a half hour at a time as not to run out of steam over the past week.   I started out using a card scraper but found that sand paper did a much better job. The varnish I applied decades back was flaking off so the table top looked like it had psoriasis. I finished stripping it this evening and will apply a coat of stain and then perhaps oil it for easy upkeep but if I feel ambitious, I might put on high gloss Epiphane varnish for the French polish, Victorian look. We’ll see. I really love working with good quality wood, the grain and natural patina reminds me of teak and my boat....with it being so cold it seems a long ways away but I can dream....

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It takes a village to raise an idea.....

1/24/2019

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There are folks out there that call me clever; some have gone so far as to tell me I’m brilliant, but I don’t know if I deserve such accolades. Sure I like to dabble in designs and be creative in my rug hooking, but am I a genius?

I’ve been known to land on a decent idea now and then, either accidentally or prompted by those around me who think more outside the box than I do. I’m pretty crammed into my own personal square, my arms and legs are contorted, folded in tightly around my torso with my head tilted hard to a shoulder so it doesn’t stick out and destroy any attempts to stay within the lines. I’m comfortable in my box and don’t see leaving it in the foreseeable future but I do occasionally entertain moments of inspiration where I amaze myself but other times I come away with a blown mind by someone else’s incredible vision. At those times my inner voice wails, “WHY didn’t I think of that!?”

The book I’m writing for “The ABC’s of Rug Hooking” inspired by the Alphabet I’m hooking was only supposed to be a fun, colourful poster until someone more insightful suggested it would make a lovely book. A lightbulb moment for me, why it never dawned on me is one of those mysteries I’ll take to my grave, or at least to the publisher. Ideas are always so darn easy once someone plants a seed. But for this scenario perhaps I am a genius; keeping people in my entourage who are smarter than me.

This morning is a perfect example. My hubby, my biggest supporter and fan, is a genius. The fact that he married me pretty much proves it, but I digress. I heard words come out of his mouth this morning and couldn’t believe it hadn’t dawned on me before. I mean, really, because it’s so bloody obvious I must be dull and dim-witted to miss it. It concerns the Nautical Riser project I’m working on that we were discussing as we were looking at the new pattern stretched across on my hooking frame. He says, “Why don’t you put rope across the top of the first riser and at the bottom of the last riser so it is a continuous link of rope that stops the eye from drifting off the landing.”

My eyes weren’t quite open at that point, I hadn’t had a coffee yet, but hearing this they flew open and I sat up from my whiny, I didn’t sleep much last night inclined sofa position, and cried “OMG, that’s a fabulous idea!”

So I will be designing an end and beginning pattern for my Nautical Riser collection. In the meantime I’ve started on my next installation, pattern number 9 with 7 more to go.   This one is two stylized fish flanking the name and design of our boat. CATALYST II, Nonsuch 33. The center is left open for those who wish to add their family surname or boat name as I did, and I should add we would love to put on for those that buy the pattern. I have toyed with the colour plan but haven’t fully decided where the reds will be, it being the constant that runs throughout my hooked riser rugs.

I finished my Paddles yesterday and was very happy with the way they turned out. That little #3 line of Antique Red under each paddle makes it pop, as if they were hanging on a wall in the boat shed. I used a Blue Ombre (pictured above) for the background and cut it down the various shades from a soft blue to a brown, graduating them so the darker bits were on the bottom. I really like this one and it takes its place on the risers fitting in beautifully with its predecessors.

I have also bought Velcro strips to attach to the rugs to the wood riser. In the past they were stuck on with packing tape and kept falling down to trip anyone on walking up or down the stairs. Then we had a leak from the a rain a week or so ago and hubby thinks he has fixed the problem so after the next rain to be sure there’s no more water getting in, I’ll place them back on the stairs.

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First Beginner Class of 2019!

1/22/2019

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A good indication of a person’s character is how they make you feel even after they’ve left the building. I’m sure Elvis worked his magic, but for everyday folks, people who come in and out of our lives no matter how briefly, they can also leave a lingering impression.

It was never truer on Saturday at my first beginner class of 2019. These women were fun and talented and took to rug hooking like fish to water. I can’t think of a better way to spend my time than teaching the technique of rug hooking to a group of delightful women that wish to broaden their artistic talents and add another fiber art to their portfolio. I was suitably impressed with their efforts and enthusiasm.

But on this particular day there was something else afoot, working behind the scenes. I found myself in the presence of two exceptional women whose energy lit up the room and I believe if I was gifted at seeing auras, theirs would have blinded me.

It’s amazing how strangers can cause such an emotional reaction. I’m usually quite excited from teaching and come away from the experience elated, but these gals drove it up a notch to make me feel like I was walking on air. And call me crazy but after the class, I felt sad as they walked out the door. I know this must sound superduper, stalker type weird, but there was something about them that drew me in and sucked the 'poor me' right out of my being.

I know I’ve been in need of an emotional enema lately. I’ve been feeling lower than the sole of a shoe for most of 2018 and I’ve been working hard to get it to ankle height so far in 2019, and was feeling optimistic I’d make it to a knee or perhaps a thigh by summer. These infectious gals scraped me off the floor and took my mood to the top of my crown in one felled swoop. If only I could bottle their personal magnetism, I’d be snorting it daily and world peace would be plausible.
Anyway, I don’t want to drone on but I walked away from the shop in a bit of a question mark??? I recanted the conversations we had to hubby in the car on the way home until I’d hammered it flat and ran out of words to describe the positive energy that had zapped me. I’m never like this. I’m not a person who gets excited that easily, my feet are planted a foot deep and my personality is more of a flat liner than any kind of zigzagging arrhythmia.

You can learn a lot about a person in a short conversation and their positivity and optimism was absolutely contagious. Anyway, I felt compelled to share this, putting my mental competency on the line. It was just a weird and wonderful experience to be touched by strangers in such a way that it rewired my brain for the rest of the weekend.

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Daytime Hook-in every Wednesday!

1/17/2019

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Hand Rails, worth hanging on too....

1/17/2019

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When we bought our boat the topside teak was in bad need of a facelift. Naive and not knowing the price of teak, my first thought was full replacement, but my experienced husband assured me it would rejuvenate beautifully. Of course I thought he was joking, it looked like crap to me and he’s known to be cheap, I mean frugal, so I figured I’d be working for nothing. But I ended up being totally blown away at the amazing resilience of this incredible wood.

I tackled the handrails first. The finish was scratched and the wood suffered bare areas and the varnish had turned white as water had gotten in under it and in some areas black mold had moved in. They looked dry; as if they’d crumble in my hands and I wasn’t hopeful they would ever look anything but old.    Gregg thought it best to remove them because we were experiencing several leaks below that we couldn’t pin point the source of; the sealer was missing in areas and what remained was dry and crumbly and looked suspect.   Reinstalling them with new sealer would hopefully guarantee years of problem free maintenance suiting our mantra of “an ounce of prevention”.   Also, the varnish needed to be on the underside of the handles for the finish to last longer. Any place water can get in will ruin the finish within a season and this was a job that should last a few years.

So we removed them. Unfortunately one had a hairline crack and snapped clean through so the first job was to glue it back together. Then Gregg was called away for work in Alberta and left me to refinish them, which I was very happy to do. I went to work with the heat gun removing all of the varnish. It was slow tedious work but I must say I enjoyed every minute of it. There’s something rewarding in seeing a transformation begin. The only drawback was the heat. At times not only had the humidity beaten down the garage door to stifle me, but the heat gun radiated enough warmth that I could have been a contender in a wet T-Shirt contest. Sorry, there’s no photo for that!

Funny how the rails look so small on the boat but in the garage they spanned the length of the six foot work bench and hung over both edges by several feet. They were curved and rounded which made them awkward to work with so I had to clamp them to the surface to stay in place while I melted the finish with the gun.    At times I used a card scraper but I found the gun more effective especially with the rounded edges, used in conjunction with a small sized paint scraper it was the most effective tool I found to do the job.

There were grooves in the wood where the finish had settled and turned dark so I used the edge of the scraper to dig at them, the varnish was brittle and would flick out, I can still hear the little crunches as it cracked free. I fussed more than I needed too but I had plenty of time on my hands, with a month to go before Gregg got home so we could install them and launch the boat.

Once the sanding was complete I used Two Part Teak Cleaner, recommended by Doug at The Boat Locker in Lunenburg. It would bleach the wood, taking care of any mold that might have been lingering in the cracks.   The first time I used it I couldn’t believe how Part One darkened the wood, and then when I rinsed it off and applied the Part Two, the wood looked fresh and clean. Another thorough rinse and then I let it dry. I laid them on their sides to apply the Epiphane Gloss to the bottom area that would mount to the boat. I put on eight coats to seal it.

Then I mounted both rails on 2 x 4 strips of wood using the existing screw holes, leaving a gap between the handle and the wood to varnish easily around the base.   This allowed me to work on both sides at once making for quicker work.   This was the fun part, watching the mirror shine build. I sanded between the coats, vacuumed and wiped them down with Epiphane thinner. The result was amazing. They looked like new rails off the factory floor. Hubby was right!

Gregg and I installed them, a tricky little job, me on top adding the sealer and holding them in place while Gregg was below with screws and the drill. It’s been three years now and they are looking a bit dull as the shine has been weathered but this year I plan to sand and put on two more coats to bring back the brilliance and they’ll be good to go for another few years. I also want to have covers made for them as the sun is brutal on the finish.

The broken area now glued and taped to hold. You can see how badly they need to be stripped and re-varnished.

Me with the gun and scraper.

The miracle chemicals, but make sure you wear eye protection, a mask and gloves.

Left rail is bleached and finished, the right rail has been coated with Step One and waiting for a rinse.

The bow pulpit teak, wheel and handrails ready for installation.

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Sleep, why do you forsake me?

1/11/2019

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There’s not an ounce of sleep in my 150 lb body. I’ve thrashed about and turned like a chicken on a spit. Hot then kicking off the covers, then chilled and wrapping myself like a burrito, hot and cold, hot and cold, never a happy medium. It’s enough to fracture sanity. All I want is sleep SSSLLLLEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPP!

I’ve counted baby goats, in cute little wool sweaters, that frolic through my mind. I’ve breathed in, deep and long, then out nice and slow, calming breaths, but nothing seems to quiet the pounding surf of my thoughts. I hear my heartbeat in my head, like a loud drum, persistent and insistent, driving me crazy with its rhythm. I keep trying to find a position that quiets the roar between my ears; I think of Poe’s telltale heart, but mine is under the covers not the floor boards.

It’s 4:30 am. I’ve tried reading several times. Light on, light out, light on, light out, light on and light out. Usually my book quiets my brain. I read till my eyes close and the book drops which wakes me enough to place the bookmark and set the book on the bedside table and turn off the light. More times than not I can drift back into dreamland, but not tonight, those few short seconds of consciousness rev up my brain into over drive and I’m wide awake again. I’m frothing mad from courting sleep, she’s a fickle date, she won’t come across, conform to my desire.

I’ve been working on finding solutions to my problem. We bought $6.00 blackout curtains from the Giant Tiger on Tuesday. I was blown away at the price, the yardage of faux suede would have been more expensive to buy at the fabric store to sew myself and then having to buy and fiddle with large grommets makes me ponder how can they sell for such a nominal amount? The curtains kill the light but these questions kill my sleep.

The street light and several lights from the neighbour’s house bother me, keep the bedroom vivid and it burns into my brain through closed eyelids. Sometimes during a full moon the room is so illuminated I can almost read without the lamp on. Not good to sleep in a bright room, melatonin needs darkness to produce in the brain, the healing element that ironically helps you sleep. The room is black as pitch now but tonight it’s not working. Tonight I am as hyper as a cat on a hot tin roof with its tongue in a light socket.

My brain races around rehashing my day, my week, then plans I have for the studio, new designs, how the woodwork needs paint, what I’ll wear to work tomorrow, the growing pile of laundry I can no longer ignore, begging the question once again, what will I wear tomorrow; the apartment we have to get ready to rent, the leak in my studio that started after Wednesday’s rain, the faucet that might be going in our house kitchen, what we’ll have for dinner tomorrow night, the price of eggs, will I still have hair in 2020? It all tumbles through my thoughts like an out of control freight train.

So I got up, ate a few peanuts and hit the laptop. I yawn as I write which is pissing me off. If I’m that tired why don’t I sleep? A million dollar question for sure.

Earlier I turned on my phone and saw a lot of Facebook friends are up, the little green dot signalling they are online, some with different time zones so maybe it isn’t that late where they live, but others are close by. I guess we are all in the same boat, a middle of the night club of restless, middle aged, irritated and exhausted women. I wonder if Anne is still awake, is Deborah struggling again? We three seem to be in sync. Misery likes company, too bad we couldn’t get together, have a glass of wine and chat; be the tooth picks that hold each other’s eyes wide, instead of our own brains sabotaging and working against us.

Well I'm now too tired and stupid to think. I’m going back upstairs to give it another go. The pups are probably wondering what I’m doing downstairs. It’s almost 5:00 am; oh joy, only three hours till the alarm goes off. Time waits for no insomniac.

What a tough day it will be tomorrow, circles under the eyes and that vacant stare, stumbling over words as I try to form sentences like I'm drunk, tripping over my own feet and feeling ditsy, I mean dizzy. I won’t be behind the wheel of the car tomorrow; it’ll be Driving Miss Chrissy for hubby. It’s zombie land all over again.

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Barking up the right fundraising tree!

1/10/2019

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How Much Is That Doggie....? 39" x 30" Pattern available

Pam Langdon contacted me a while ago to ask permission to donate her completed “How Much Is That Doggie...?” rug to raise money in support of BC SPCA. Contrary to what some believe, what you do with a finished rug is entirely up to you. Copying the pattern is not permitted but once it is hooked you can give it away or sell it, or donate it to a worthy cause for a fundraiser. Of course it is expected that the designers name is mentioned, advertising keeps us in business! I do appreciate Pam contacting me as I was delighted to learn that my pattern and her fabulous hooking were going to raise money for a worthy cause.

Pam wrote: I have just finished hooking "How Much Is That Doggie...?" and love the piece. It makes me smile each time I look at those beautiful creatures. Your brilliance shines through! The reason for touching base is that I'm wondering and hoping you would give your support if I take a slight bend and search for additional donation options. I am new to Vancouver Island and while I am whole-heartedly in support of the Humane Society, knowledgeable people and rug hookers tell me that the piece will not likely draw sufficient dollars. Therefore another option I'm currently looking at is a Silent Auction in support of a much needed Hospice House for the Cowichan Valley where I am now living. The Gala and Silent Auction will take on November 3. Last year it raised $130,000. Could you kindly let me know if you are supportive of my seeking other options beyond the Humane Society and Hospice should either of those not come to fruition?

My husband and I moved from Ottawa to Mill Bay, BC last June so that we could be nearby our son, our daughter-in-law, and 18 month old grandson. We thoroughly love the opportunity to be with our family and our life on the Island.

I am a certified Ontario Hooking Craft Guild rug hooking teacher, and a Fibre Arts graduate (traditional rug hooking) St. Lawrence College, Brockville Ontario. Slowly but surely I am making rug hooking connections in our new surroundings and at the end of April will be presenting the Compelling Art of Maud Lewis at the Annual Thetis Island Wool Gathering. This presentation is based on a Mad For Maud course that I teach.

Update: Great news from Marnie Watkin, Co-founder, Purica Foundation in Duncan, BC who generate charitable donations, fundraising initiatives and promotional support for key community initiatives. This year the recipient of their donation was the much needed Cowichan Hospice House Project in Duncan, BC on Vancouver Island.

At the Havana Nights Gala Event and Silent Auction in Duncan on November 3rd, our collaboration “How Much Is That Doggie...?” raised $550.00 for said Hospice.

I am delighted that together we contributed towards this worthy cause. Thanks you very, very much! It has been a great journey with you across the miles.

Sincerely Pam Langdon

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New patterns and items at the studio...

1/9/2019

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Two more fun pillow top patterns. LOVE YOU MORE! Hooked by Anne Holmes.
Pillows are 18" x 18"

We now have an awesome colour photo of our hooked William Morris Strawberry Thief Pillows. 18" x 18" Beautifully hooked by Marilee Pearson.

Why buy an entire skein when you only need a small amount of a particular colour. We now have 1 0z skeins of dyed yarn for your punch needle and hooking projects.

William Morris Owl 18" x 18"

William Morris Trellis 18" x 18"

William Morris Seaweed Large 28 1/2" x 40 1/2"

Vintage Vogue 35 1/2" x 22"

Teddy Pair 19" x 25"

Lots of new scissor bling. Special on...buy a pair of scissors sand get a scissor bling 1/2 price!

Blackburne Botanical 25" x 35"

Village Vantage 31" x 22"

Art Deco-rative 33 1/2" x 52"

Serendipity 34 1/2" x 53"

Wisdom & Grace 30 1/2" x 47"

Fancy Fibers Galore! $5.95 a bundle

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The art of thoughtful gift giving......

1/8/2019

24 Comments

At a hook in a few months back, the gals were all reminiscing about toys they’d manage to save from their childhood. They recanted tales of favourite dolls and various toys being handed down and the joy they continue to bring.

Sadness descended and I swallowed a growing lump as a memory surfaced of an incident that had been buried deep, so traumatic my brain had banned it to the dark cavern of thoughts and feelings of things better left forgotten. Now it was resurfacing, hauling with it all the woe and emotions of that time.   I grew very quiet, unable to speak as I swallowed hard and blinked back tears.

I don’t usually speak of the estrangement from my older sister but recently a thoughtful gift from a friend helped add closure to a traumatic event of my youth. Because I find writing cathartic and healing I decided to tap out the story on the keyboard. I’ve written a book about my life called Burnt Carrots, and this incident will be added to the hundreds of examples I relay about the treatment I endured at the hand of a sibling. I realize each narrative in itself is a ‘so what’ moment, but gather them all together and they take on a life of their own, rich with intent, like a great big bouquet of torment.

Very little good remains from my childhood; the negative stuff forced the happy moments through a mental shredder. I was a pathetic little person; naive to a fault, impressionable and effected by every bump and grind along the path of my youth. If self-esteem was a foundation, my house would have crumbled like bread without gluten. As a child I felt unloved and even worse, unworthy of it.

Memories are fragmented as I toil to put together the pieces, and one by one they surface and take their place in the puzzle of my life. Sometimes when the pieces emerge, the emotions of that time come with them and sadness consumes me. But sorrow aside I embrace each memory to better understand my adult self, realizing why I react to situations the way I do, how I sometimes feel the way I do, why negatives can sometimes outweigh the positives.

I suffered low self-esteem from a bullying older sister that never liked me since the day I came home from the hospital. I’ve thought about our relationship, or lack of a lot and spent a good patch of time and money with a psychologist trying to come to grips with why she didn’t like me even though she professed too. It is true that actions speak louder than words, and enough has happened that I was forced to accept the undeniable truth. My mental health practitioner told me to run and never look back, that my sister was toxic to my well-being; she told me the situation was hopeless as long as she wasn't willing to change. She said that DNA wasn’t a good enough reason to build a relationship on, that I need to cut my losses and stop analyzing each event hoping for a different result. She said the patterns were carved in granite, they would never change. I understood what she was saying but misguided loyalty wouldn’t let me walk away. Gutless to the bitter end to stand up for myself, it would take one last disturbing incident to bring things to a head and force me to face the ugly truth and when I reached my fifties that moment came crashing down and I knew we were over.

I truthfully can’t remember one nice thing she ever did for me, any kindness she afforded me, any conversation that wasn’t loaded with judgement, criticism or a backhanded comment, “You don’t look fat in that outfit” kind of thing, offering any understanding or compassion for periods of my life when I struggled, my side of any story was never considered. I was condemned unjustly and unfairly, without any provocation. Instead of trying to understand my situation or how I felt I was labelled a black sheep and slapped with a big proverbial scarlet letter.

One year when my husband was out of work and I was ill from Environmental Sickness, I suffered from allergies to all man-made products, perfumes and heavily scented items which would have limited my ability to go into shops even if we had money to spend. There was nothing extra for luxuries, like eating out in restaurants or buying presents. When Christmas loomed that year I told my sister that we could not afford to exchange gifts. It was met with disdain, no understanding at all for our predicament and later I was told that she had spoken with my brother and they both agreed, and this direct quote was burned in my brain, “Christine, we think you’re ruining the family!” It was hurtful that our plight offered no sympathy and that I was pitted as an outcast that didn’t care about family values. It wounded me but I let it slide in her presence, I had been conditioned to avoid controversy with her, I never fared well when I talked back or tried to explain myself, but I later cried in my husband’s arms.

In my formative years and beyond, my sister physically abused me and at four years her junior, the scales were always tipped in her favour. I was kicked and slapped, and battered with unkind names, the latter of which inflicted the deeper wound.   Nasty nicknames and mean words hurt more than bruises, leaving their mark long after the black and blue faded. Compared to her, I was very small in stature and less developed emotionally, so I faded into the background like a proverbial shrinking violet.

There was collateral damage from my lack of self esteem. Believing I was unlikable, I tried to buy the attention of the kids in the neighbourhood with whatever I had to offer so they would play with me; akin to tying a pork chop around my neck to get a dog to lick me. Be it Barbie doll clothes or marbles, they were bribes given to promote relationships, upping the ante to make myself more appealing. My mother was frustrated with me, canting a broken record of “Christine, you’ll give your arse away”’ and as a teen I did that a few times as well, desperately seeking someone to love me. Luckily I got over this early or perhaps my becoming a hooker would have taken on another meaning entirely.

Throughout my childhood I’d never connected with my family, my sister’s hostility and my parent’s indifference left me outside looking in, unloved and misunderstood, and I struggled with it over most of my adult life, sometimes even now. It’s probably the reason I trust to bury my heart in the companionship of dogs; their love is undeniable and true, without judgement or agenda. That is why losing one is like losing a part of my soul.

Memories aside, the tangible items of my childhood were lost; either broken and discarded or given away, with the exception of one coveted toy; my beautiful Baby Magic doll. She was created in 1966, had the ability to drink water from a bottle and would then cry real tears! I just turned seven when Santa left her under the tree and there were squeals of delight when I found her Christmas morning. She was the perfect gift for a budding little mother like me, desperate for something of my very own to love and even though she was an inanimate object, I felt loved in return. I no longer felt alone.

My baby had the prettiest dress. The yolk was red with little white bows with a pleated white skirting.   The top of her head sported a red bow, crowning her silky, flaxen hair that framed the most beautiful, sweet face. Santa was magnificent that year and left a wooden crib as well, a cream coloured bed that perfectly fit my baby and it had a satin edged, luxurious white blanket and a small pillow for sleeping comfort. Her little hands were shaped to hold her bottle and she could lift her arms to insert it into her mouth. When I pushed her arms down a big pout formed on her lips and she’d cry, tears from the water bottle finding their way to the manufactured tear ducts. I’d rock her gently and coo to her and as I lay her in the crib, the horizontal positioning would automatically close her eyes for sleep. When I picked her up, long, dark eyelashes would flutter at me then open and she would stare into my eyes. She was marketed ‘The best doll ever invented’ and although was minus the heartbeat and warmth of a real child, she was my baby in every sense of the word, and it really hurt to discover the terrible ending that befell her.

I loved playing mother and I doted on my baby as much as any child can. The fact that she wasn’t real saved her many times as feedings were occasionally forgotten, after all my maternal sophistication was on par with the doll itself, but I tried my very best, positioning her crib next to my bed so her darling little face was the first thing I greeted each morning and the last thing I tucked in at night before I crawled under the covers.

Somehow, I managed to keep her in pristine condition, washing her face and combing her hair, giving her sponge baths and wrapping her in a terry towel that had a little pocket for her head. I talked and cooed to my ward, loving her with my entire heart as any good mom would do. Someday I hoped to give her to a daughter, or if that didn’t transpire perhaps a grandchild, but even if that never came to pass, she would have remained for my pleasure, a tangible link to the younger self that began my life and perhaps someday, if senility reverted me to childish ways, we could start anew.

Sometime in the middle seventies, I asked my sister if I could store my doll and crib in her attic which she assured me was dry and safe from rodents.   Someday when I had a home of my own I’d collect her, the only piece of my childhood that I could literally revisit.

Years later on a random visit to her home, who by then had two daughters aged three and four and a house full of books and toys, the living room carpet rarely seen from the multitude of them, I nearly fainted when my niece came around a corner holding what remained of my Baby Magic.

The doll was almost unrecognizable, filthy and naked. Her hair had been butchered with scissors and what remained was sticking out in all directions in short, needle like sprigs around bald patches where clumps had been yanked out.   There were markings on her face and every square inch of her body was doodled on, senseless scrawling’s of a child. I can’t remember if it was marker or pen but that’s of little consequence now. The point is my Baby Magic was a virtual mess; a far cry from the immaculate, treasured doll of my youth.

I was shocked and speechless, my tongue almost numb. When I finally formed words I asked my sister, “Why did you give my doll to your girls?” She was belligerent mostly, told me that her girls saw it and wanted to play with it. I should have asked how a four year old and a toddler climbed up a skinny ladder to the small ceiling opening of their attic to even see it. And I had my doll wrapped in the blanket and then well taped plastic to protect her, not even recognizable as a doll in the first place.

A whipped personality, I was never quick on the draw with words in a crunch, although I’m fabulous thinking up stuff to say later when it’s too late to be on point. The conversation was tearfully blubbering, my tears and my blubbering. Apparently the crib didn’t stand up to the rigors of small children jumping in and out of it so that ended up in the furnace, kindling for their fire.

I managed “But it wasn’t yours to give”. She shrugged her shoulders and basically said “tough” and something about possession being nine tenths of the law. The look in her eyes was pure defiance as they challenged me to continue. Standing up to her was never an option, I’d learned over the years she could be cruel when the chips were down. Unlike me, she was never short on words in a pinch and if I hadn’t been her main target, I might have marveled at how quick on the draw she was. Her words cut sharper than knives, slicing and dicing my feelings with Ginsu precision. Without any backbone to put forth a case for my doll, I did the only thing I was capable of, I stood there and cried, not just sniffling with a few tears, but convulsive, gut wrenching and wailing cries. She could see how upset I was but there was no warmth in her demeanor.   Per the usual, there would never be any sympathy, explanation or an apology.

I left her house and the road ahead was blurry through my tears, but by the time I reached home I was already turning this latest pain inward, blaming myself in pure Christine fashion. I shouldn’t have trusted her, experience told me I couldn’t. I should never have left something so precious in her care. This was her typical behavior when it came to me. I was never more than a piece of sand under her eyelid, deserving about as much consideration as the grain that caused the irritation.

I was absolutely heart broken and yet, still unwilling to accept that another defining moment was begging me to wake up and acknowledge that my feelings meant very little to her. Foolishly it would take fifty years to finally break the cycle of disrespect and walk away, closing the door on us and leaving most of the baggage on the outside of the door. I didn’t escape totally unscathed, a list of mental scars will take more time to fade, but I felt lighter separated from all the proverbial bags that she’d stuffed with contempt to bulging proportions......

.........So back to the present day.

December ushered in my 60th birthday. I’m a stronger person now, no longer willing to share my time or life with anyone that doesn’t have my best interest or show me respect. It’s been a rough road, many shit storms have tried to dismantle my well-being but I’ve persevered and continued to grow in the warmth and kindness of those who genuinely care for me. Life is too short and getting shorter all the time to waste on anyone or anything that doesn’t positively add to my life experience.

I went to work on my birthday, Tuesday December 18th, and little did I know how the day would unfold. Deborah Sweet had a Christmas present for me and said it arrived in the mail the day before so she decided to give it as a birthday gift as well. I’m shy opening presents in front of people, I’ve been like that forever, I suppose it stems back to my lack of self-worth as a child, but I persevered, tore open the wrapping and was thrown for a loop.

My jaw dropped and hung like a brick as I could barely believe my eyes. My chest convulsed and grew tight as I tried to suck in air. Like a glass filling up and overflowing with water I could feel the blood rise to my cheeks, burning as it traversed and filled the blood vessels. The tears welled up and I spun around to hide the raw emotion, but there was no holding back, like a damn breaking, salty tears splashed down my face. I cried as the past memory and hurt rose to the surface, overflowed and then washed away in one felled swoop. Like a flash flood, the waters filled the hole of my long ago heartache and then retracted, taking with it the pain that was stored there, a cleansing in its wake.

Inside the box was a Baby Magic doll that she’d found on EBay. I’d told her the story of my memory the day after the hook-in, the emotion on my sleeve must have planted a seed. How can I ever express enough of a thank-you for her thoughtfulness and her kindness? She presented me with the top gift of my lifetime, not just a tangible item but a healing as well.

Although she looks exactly the same, this Baby Magic is a miniature of the doll I had as a child which is even better. She fits perfectly on the nightstand beside my bed. I can once again see her every morning and she will be the last thing I see as I turn out the light at night. She is perfect in her little dress, and those beautiful eyes seem to stare at me from the past, linking me to the younger version of myself.

As gifts go it I don’t think my Baby Magic could ever be topped. Thank-you to Deborah Sweet, you really are your namesake.

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The dying art of polishing silver.....

1/7/2019

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I managed to do a bit of writing over the holidays but never posted them as blogs. Christmas is now dismantled and packed away in the attic, our company has left and New Year’s is in the rear view mirror. The holidays can feel like running a marathon, so much squeezed into every day until it bulges at the seams but now life is back to a normal routine and the days are jogging along at a leisurely pace.

Written in December.

The Christmas season doesn’t begin until I complete a holiday ritual; polishing the family silver. Lots of little things like, candy bowls, vegetable dishes, a cruet, candle stick holders, and last but not least, my coveted tea set. Every year I tackle the tarnish and make it all shine as brilliantly as the day it was manufactured.

When I say family silver, I mean in the immediate sense. None of this collection is of heirloom status from either my husband’s or my lineage. The tea set is the closest at qualifying as a family treasure, it came from my mother-in-law who was bequeathed it by a friend who passed away, while all else came from yard sales and antique stores. I bought all of my so called heirlooms, back in the day when I became breathless every time I spied a piece dangling a price tag, sitting unwanted, unloved and tarnished. Driving by a road side table, my trained eye would spot metal glinting in the sun and I’d risk whiplash braking to a stop.

I’m well known for my polishing and every year we spent visiting my in-laws, Wynn and I would rescue the tea set from the back of her linen closet and I’d rub it affectionately to a mirror finish. She would let it sit out until the dulling crept over the surface like a dense fog, then pack it away to await my return.   She saw the lust in my eye as I charmed the beauty to the surface, saw me wipe away the drool and graciously offered it to me when she downsized to assisted living. I’d already purchased a set decades before but it was plain in design and was immediately stashed in a cupboard to make room for my new, fabulously ornate, almost family heirloom. My new Precious!

The week before Christmas, while traditional holiday tunes played in the background, three hours melted away along with the tarnish. I use Silvo and Twinkle. I prefer the latter, water based product but the Silvo is needed for the stubborn areas and then Twinkle cleans it up nicely.    By the end I was feeling it all over, the standing, the bent posture, the elbow grease sawing back and forth, rubbing with puckered fingers even with gloves on. By the time I was at the last piece, the coffee pot, I was whining like a bad bearing on a motor and wanted it to be over, my enthusiasm was the only thing that remained tarnish.

I’ve made up a name for my affliction, ‘Crow Syndrome’. Not sure when or why it began, I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but from a young age I liked shiny things and it grew with me until I had the income for it to burgeon into an obsession. Those days are over of course; I can’t get excited over derelict silver offered for sale when I already have too much that will need to be reckoned with.

I’m thinking my polishing days might be ending or maybe I should play it a bit smarter by bagging it up after the holidays so it doesn’t oxidize to the degree I feel like its scraping paint with a tooth pick. All those little bits around the handles and engraved pattern take a lot of rubbing to remove the hardened charcoal patina, the result of sulfur in the air combining with the silver to create what’s called Acanthite.   I’ll probably keep the tradition going, I like a sparkling house during the holidays, but it sure would be nice to only do a light touch-up next December.   Leaving it all out to turn an iridescent black and blue seems unfair, forcing it all to be ugly ducklings, when they should be swans to behold.

Another thought surfaced as I rubbed my fingers into cramps, there is no one coming after me that will continue the tradition. When I’m gone, it will all be sold for a pittance or discarded along with the rest of my treasures. Unfortunately, although the pieces have the potential to live for many more years, these beauties are cursed by my mortal life span and then it’s toast for us both.   I’m a dying breed. The masses don’t want or appreciate silver or the maintenance that comes with it, only freaks like me.

I don’t want to dwell on the inevitability of my death or the fate of all the stuff I’ve collected and cherished and surrounded myself with. Now I’m blasé about it all, even begrudging the care and upkeep, I’d rather be doing something creative and fun. The plan is to get rid of it in yard sales; maybe I’ll find a kindred spirit, cause a near crash for someone else on the hunt for the Precious! Surely there are a few old souls left, suffering Crow Syndrome that still appreciate the formalities of past grandeur in the dining room.

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All the best to you and yours from all of us!

12/24/2018

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Remember, it's not what you eat from Christmas to New Years, it's how you eat from New Years to Christmas.....so enjoy yourself.....eat, drink and be merry this holiday season!
CHEERS!!

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I'm a dancing fool....

12/4/2018

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Artist Kate Church's Dancing Fool in Saddle Shoes (I know I've busted that move a few times!)

Facebook just reminded me I have a birthday coming up. It’s one of those pinnacle numbers with a zero on the end, the start of a new decade, usually classed a monumental age. It’s a one foot closer, big stepping stone marker, (grave marker that is.) Just kidding, not.

I really should do something to commemorate the event instead of shrugging and calling it just another day. I think that lackadaisical attitude started with hubby away working and being alone on this so called special day. Without him I never felt like celebrating so I stayed home, watched TV and probably felt a bit sorry for myself. His birthday is actually the day after mine and we’d talk about doing something when he got home but once the day passes there’s really no thought to going back. This happened so many times our birthdays got overlooked, one year I even forgot to update the old number and was corrected months later by my son who heard me tell someone my age and interrupted me with the truth. I truly forgot, perhaps conveniently.

Hubby is out in Alberta and I can’t complain after he’s been out of work for most of the year and at this point we don’t have a clue when he’ll return but I won’t be alone because his brother and wife are coming for a visit. Terry is a pretty good substitute for my husband, they are a lot alike, and Carenie is a lot of fun so we’ll think of something to pass the day.

So then I got to thinking what I might like as a prezzie. We don’t usually exchange but I’m feeling selfish this year, after all it is the big six O. Hmmm. World peace is out of the question, I’ll have to shoot a bit lower, something more attainable.

So I thought and I thought and then I smelled smoke as my brain was grinding away trying to figure out what I might like, want or need, but I batted zero on all three. Is this what the big 60 brings me, turning into someone so practical my shopping days are done? Is it wisdom that tells me things don’t bring happiness and that I don’t need anything because I have everything I need? I can’t even come up with a like that I’d be willing to spend the money on when I have too much stuff already. And as for a want, well, I’d like my husband retired so I don’t have to be alone but that’s not in the cards at the moment. So what do I want, like or need for my birthday? Nothing? Well, I'd take being able to stay 59 for a while longer but that’s about it.

Well.....I suppose I wouldn’t turn my nose up to going dancing. I sure would love a bit of that. I’ve been exercising to music, not traditional stretching and movement but getting down and dirty on the floor, gyrating and hip swinging, busting a few moves, shakin that thing, boogying off what used to be my arse, it seems to be located further south these days, like around the backs of my knees. The pups sit on the sofa and stare at me wondering what kind of freak is going on. Jake somethings comes over for a pick up so we swoon together; he’s a wonderful dancer, smooth as Tennessee Whiskey.

I’m a fan of all genres of music. I go through phases when I hang on to a particular radio station for a bit, right now, all my favourites are coming out of hot country. I like the bluesy types and there are some raunchy ones that I could play all day, never tiring of the way they make me feel.

Girl Crush, You Look Good, Dust On My Boots, On The Pontoon, Tennessee Whiskey, The Fighter, Blue Ain’t Your Colour, My Church and Stay are to name a few. Next week it might be Hard Rock or Classical; some lively Mozart pieces are fun to get down too. Anyway, I’m shaken all over and feeling fine. I’d love to go dancing when hubby comes home if that can be arranged. Surely some place has music that’s not too far away cause I’m old and hate a long drive home and I like to limit the time away from the pups. Ah the memories of rug school. It was wild this year with cutting up the dance floor to the DJ on party night, could use some of that right now.

I dance about as good as I sing, all over the place, and I dance like everyone is watching and I don’t care. Anyone observing from the sidelines, backed up so I don’t accidentally swing and arm or a leg and smack them, might think I have a dislocated hip and/or some sort of palsy but man, I’m happier than a pig in a mud puddle when I’m on the dance floor cuttin a rug! Perhaps the fumes are still in my head, I just finished the apartment floor and feel a bit high from the oil based varnish. Maybe I should lie down for a bit. Perhaps I shouldn’t write when I’m this tired and under a chemical influence.......

To see more of Kate Church's art click this link: www.katechurch.com

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International Rug Hooking Day....

12/3/2018

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I realized this morning that I was confused what day was the 4th. I thought it was Monday in my fume saturated brain. TODAY (Tuesday) is the International Rug Hooking Day, but alas I'll be varnishing a floor so the same applies....no hooking for me!

I hope everyone in hooker land had a fabulous International Rug Hooking Day. I was thinking about all the fun happening in the four corners of the earth. All the comradery throughout the fiber communities, the sisterhood of wool gathering together like a flock of sheep. I wanted to mark the day with some kind of fanfare but a tenant moved out and I knew I’d be front and center with dirt up to my arm pits and as predicted that’s exactly the way it is.

I unclogged the kitchen sink drain by plunging it out. The grimy black gunk shot out of the other drain all over my face and shirt, oh joy. My fingers nails are worn to nubs from sos pads trying to clean the stove top black enamel, burner pans. The chap must have cooked with high heat because the food was burned on and nothing would remove it except for a razor, scraping it off carefully as not to damage the enamel.   It took almost an hour for four of them but they look brand new! The inside of the cupboards were stained with spilled liquids that needed soaking to remove. The fridge vegetable drawers had so much liquid spilled on them that the glass fused to the plastic frame and had to be soaked for a while in the bathtub to give up the grip. The grout around the bathroom sink had to be bleach out. After years of hot steamy showers the dark walls had to be washed and painted. The ceiling fan was so clogged with dust little stream got out so it probably made the bathroom like a terrarium, drips coming down the walls leaving etched trails. The brand new facet in the bathroom had seized up and the drain pull was rusted shut. Brand new after the previous tenant moved out. I wish this last tenant would have phoned us to say it wasn’t working cause once it broke, well it’s over. I replaced that. I switched out all the light bulbs for LED ones. They are a lot more expensive but are cheaper to burn and last considerably longer. A perk for the new tenant. Every inch of the walls, trim and doors are washed. I slapped on a fresh coat of paint where it was needed. Repaired a large hole in the plaster where the sofa back rubbed the wall.

I only have the vacuuming left, then a wash before slapping on a coat or two of varnish to give the place the final spiff. I’m not complaining, it’s my life and I do what needs to be done. We have a mortgage so there has to be quick turnaround to keep the payments coming and the bank off our backs, but too bad I had to miss the hooking fun!

Gregg is away so it all fell on my shoulders and I’m capable but one person is slower than two pairs of hands. I’ve scrubbed until my thumb print will no longer work as the password to my phone. It must have rubbed off some of the ridges and lines. My hands were in and out of water so much my body got confused and started growing gills.

And the fumes; oven cleaner, Javex for bleaching worn bits of the floor, Mr. Clean for walls and appliances, and then the paint made for a toxic, smelly, cocktail for me. Even the low odor oven cleaner has a smell, but much better than it’s harsher cousin. I cleaned the stove at the apartment and still had a half of a can left so I got home and sprayed my house oven and after the two hour wait I was scrubbing the living daylights out of it at one in the morning. It hadn’t been cleaned in a loooonnnngggg while, it’s one of those self-cleaning stoves that scare me so I don’t like using the function. I tried it once, it made a lot of cracking and creaking noises from the metal expanding and contacting driving the pups nuts and the high temperature made the outside of it hot to the touch, quite worrisome close to the cupboards thinking it might burn down the house or explode. I left the oven racks in it per the instructions and they turned dull with colours like oil in a mud puddle. I like things to shine, not look old before their time so it annoyed me that my racks are now forever dull.

Without using the function, I was stuck with a dirty oven and you can’t use regular oven cleaners on them as the metal is more porous. So my oven grew blacker than a coal mine. I was pleasantly surprised to read that this new product was safe on self-cleaning ovens and advertised low odor, not to be confused with no order, it still bothered me but it could have been worse. Our Pot Luck Christmas party is this weekend, the reason for the clean in the first place, I was perfectly happy to live with the mess, I look in there very infrequently and once the door is closed my mind finds better things to think about. Now I won’t have to be embarrassed if someone brings a casserole that needs heating. Last year, opening that door was like entering a dark, dingy cave, the burned on black crust a harbinger of shame. Now it looks like it just rolled off the factory floor so I might have to open it just to show it off casserole or not!   It’s sad really that in no time it’ll be haunted by my unwillingness to let it clean itself. Now that it’s fresh and clean I’ll try to retain the look as long as possible but from now on, our meals will be dictated by what splatters and what doesn’t.

I don’t know if I should admit this, some will think it’s perverted and sick...but.....on some level....bless the inner freak....I kind of like cleaning. Its mindless, giving my brain a break, but getting down and dirty with the elbow grease, scouring and making something clean and shiny, breathing life back into a sad little inanimate object is a source of satisfaction and pride. I'll use an arsenal of tools to achieve my goal, like tooth picks, tooth brushes, screwdrivers and scrapers, whatever it takes to dig that scrap of dirt out of a corner to get the job done. This kind of work is fun, FUN!.

Geesh!&^#*% Maybe the fumes were stronger than I thought.......

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Rug Show in Japan

Dyeing to die for!

Easter Weekend Hours

Dorade Boxes

Happy Anniversary To EWE! Our Guild is 40!

The Flying Horse

Maritime Made TV Show

Bunnies With Tulips finished at last!

Spring and Pussy Willows

Nautical Stair Riser #9

The joy of hooking internationally!

A warning for those with chimneys.....

In case you've wondered where I've been......

It takes a village to raise an idea.....

First Beginner Class of 2019!

Daytime Hook-in every Wednesday!

Hand Rails, worth hanging on too....

Sleep, why do you forsake me?

Barking up the right fundraising tree!

New patterns and items at the studio...

The art of thoughtful gift giving......

The dying art of polishing silver.....

All the best to you and yours from all of us!

I'm a dancing fool....

International Rug Hooking Day....

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