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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.
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. 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
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 Seaweed Large 28 1/2" x 40 1/2"
Lots of new scissor bling. Special on...buy a pair of scissors sand get a scissor bling 1/2 price!
     Fancy Fibers Galore! $5.95 a bundle
 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.  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.
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!!  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
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.......  It is now a bit over a month since my mother-in-law shuffled off this mortal coil. My brain accepts that she’s gone but sometimes it relapses to fool me into thinking we should phone her, check in and see how she’s doing. It’s probably an established routine so it might take some time to reprogram my thinking and let it sink in that’s she’s no longer going to pick up the phone to hear Gregg’s “It’s me from across the sea!”, a greeting that always made her chuckle. I’m a deflector; I deal with unpleasant things by pretending all is well. After my father died I would drive by our childhood home and visualize him in the kitchen, reclined in his lazy boy watching TV. Although I was fully aware he was gone it was comforting, like receiving a warm and fuzzy hug from beyond. But alas the new owners dissolved my little feel good fantasy by painting the white exterior a soft yellow, I sighed at the sad reality of it all and now I look up while driving by and that warm, fuzzy feeling is gone. I suppose not being at Wynn’s bedside during her final moment allows my mind to play tricks. Our last and past conversations keep running on a reel in my brain. There’s no real harm in keeping her alive and vibrant in my mind, it’s not like we talk and she replies, that would be crazy. I see it as keeping her memories bright so they’ll fade slowly as life keeps chugging along. I have a wonderful remembrance of my in-laws hanging on the shop wall. When Gregg returned home after his mother’s passing, he brought the rug I hooked for his parents nineteen years ago. It was my second completed project; each block a story of the ‘Little’ family recorded in wool. I started in the center with the Royal Canadian Air Force crest. Jim received his pilot’s licence in Claresholm, Alberta. It was perfect that the actual crest colours are the ones I love most so it set the theme nicely for the remaining rug. Not only could I exercise my creative chops it also provided me with a thrilling colour palette. Each block surrounding the crest represented their life, their loves and their likes. In the upper left hand block I started with their marriage date, a pretty important foundation in which all else was constructed. Wynn’s maiden name was Achurch and of course Jim was a Little so I added their surname initials. At first I wasn’t sure how to depict their three sons in such a small space so I made them thin silhouettes with background separating each head and then added their names, Terry, Gregg and Dale. Wynn took up painting in her sixties, a creative outlet that she enjoyed exploring. She was very prolific and we have boxes of her canvases out in the garage and around the house and Shane has several of her pieces hanging in their apartment. She liked large scaled, bold abstracts in oils but also tried her hand successfully at subtle water colours. I added an artist brush and paint palette to the design. Wynn loved to knit so I hooked needles and a few rows of knitting, perhaps a shawl in the making. Unfortunately she was allergic to wool and had to use alternate materials. We have a cream afghan, a gift 26 years ago that is still on our bed; except for a bit of pilling, acrylic seems to be ageless. She used to make Phentex slippers to sell at hospital fund raisers and sent a steady stream of them to her sons. Gregg dutifully wore his until the last pair had worn to the point his socks were the only thing between his foot and the floor. I held my tongue, a wife shouldn’t come between a man and slippers his momma made, but as that last thread bare pair was allocated to the garbage I was out the door and shopping to buy a beautiful pair of rich, brown leather replacements. I’m not a fan of man-made materials but it was mainly the colour choices I objected too, especially the orange and fluorescent green and once a pink pair that stood out like a blinking, neon sign. Gregg was man enough to pull it off but my goodness, they almost glowed in the dark! Knitting was a big part of Wynn’s life but she stopped a few years back saying her fingers were not as nimble as they used to be, but she talked about it every now and then with fond remembrance. Jim, always athletic and active, loved to fish and golf. I cheated on the golf ball and used a grey marker to draw in the dimples and they still show after almost two decades. The rug was never exposed to sunlight, always resting on the back of a sofa in their windowless TV room so it is as fresh, bright and bold as the day I gave it to them. Although Wynn was born in Saskatchewan she moved to New Brunswick at age three and classed herself a maritimer, loved this coast and harboured a potent love of lobster. We would sometimes send her a taste of home for special occasions and later when she found it difficult to take the meat out of the shell we would send her the canned alternative. She went to the pool three times a week for Aqua-size; she loved to swim and the water kept her knee limber. Despite reaching a century old, Wynn didn’t take any medications. She was extremely healthy except for a bum knee and remained completely sound of mind up to about a week before she passed away. Jim worked for Air Canada therefore the symbol of the iconic maple leaf inside a circle was a must. The four roundels surrounding the crest were from the plane he flew in the war, a B24 Liberator. As a submarine hunter, he flew escort for convoys bound for Britain. After the war he worked for Trans Canada Airlines which is now known as Air Canada flying Vicounts and Vanguards through DC8’s, L-1011’s and finally 747 commercial jets in his 35 years of service. Circumstances only allowed him to get to grade 7, but he was intelligent, well respected and experienced an impressive career. Both Wynn and Jim were avid Bridge players, meeting once a week at alternating homes of their bridge playing friends. Even after Jim died, Wynn continued to play. Her skills were highly honed so that when she moved into independent living and discovered there was a weekly bridge table in session, and after she realized they were less knowledgeable with the game rules and strategy, she shared her expertise and gained a lot of respect from the amateur players. To commemorate Bridge, I hooked the suits in four quadrants, making up one playing card to represent their years of dedication to the game. The rug had been in storage when Wynn moved into nursing care. I was worried something would happen to it so Gregg retrieved it and guarded it with his life on the trip home. This rug is one of a kind in the entire world....imagine that! Designed and hooked with love and full of priceless sentimental value. This rug was made long before the idea of opening a shop was a glint in my eye so I didn’t have the wool choices I do today. After my first rug was on our bedroom floor, I’d started gathering wool like a crazed addict. This piece was made using all recycled wool from Frenchie’s, a few plaids here and there but mostly solids. This was back in the day when you could go in the door and come out with several garbage bags of wool clothing which they cut with scissors and charged you half price if you told them it was for crafts. Those days were over once they realized how much money they were losing with the growing number of rug hookers in the area all sweeping the store for wool, so I gathered my stash back in the glory days and built up a rather large collection of a myriad of colours, enough that I was able to do a bit of shading here and there making some of the backgrounds to the motifs interesting with stripes of companionable colours. The rug will hang in the shop for a while to share with visitors. It’s so rich on the wall and I am so very proud of my meager beginnings and the gift I offered my in-laws. A story rug, a small monument of their existence, a constant reminder they lived and were loved. Every time I walk by the rug I smile.....   Our family is steeped in sadness. My mother-in-law, Wynn passed away peacefully, drawing her last breath Sunday evening at the Whitecliff Nursing facility in British Columbia with her three sons and loved ones by her side. As with her life, her death was distinctive; passing on her birthday. While some might think that is extra sad, it is actually amazing that she lasted long enough to reach 100, a pinnacle that few embrace. Gregg was already on his way to BC for a planned birthday celebration when he got word that she had taken ill. She had pneumonia and kidney infection and wasn’t responding to an aggressive antibiotic treatment. He arrived in time for her to be aware enough of her surroundings to smile at him. but she wasn't conversing more than mumbles, spending most of her time sleeping. In the next few days she became even less responsive and began the final decline Saturday October 20th, when she was put on palliative care, concentrating on keeping her pain free and comfortable. I counted down each minute hoping she would make it to Sunday October 21st for her birthday. She no longer understood what was happening but to live that long she had to go the distance, allowing her sons to proudly boast that their mom reached a century old, to brag about family longevity and great genes. To fall short of 100 would have been like a novel without the last page, to run a marathon and collapse within inches of the finish line, so we are over the moon that she held on long enough to make it across the line. I think it’s a comfort to all that loved her that she reached that special crest, a final memory and story that we will all share. There were several strange little moments surrounding her passing. The most extraordinary was the time of death pronounced at 7:47 pm. I wasn’t there but I can imagine a gasp from her loved ones. Jim, Gregg’s dad, exclusively flew the 747 airplanes for Air Canada during his 35 year career with them. Of all the hours and minutes of P.M. timing, this number was called. Coincidence? I like to think not. Gregg also said there was an amazing plane contrail around the moon that evening. Unfortunately he didn’t take a photo but that will be a memory he’ll not soon forgot. Wynn was a fraternal twin, a close sibling bond few get to experience. In the photo above Wynn is on the right and her twin Lois is on the left. They made their beautiful, matching and flowing dresses for graduation. They also had an older sister Edith who lived well up into her nineties so longevity is a family trait. Unfortunately, their father died when Wynn was two years old so she grew up without a father, surviving the depression that she talked about and frequently blamed for being so frugal. She never wasted a thing or threw anything out because someday it might be needed. She wasn’t a hoarder, their home was very neat and tidy but her closets hid an obsessive collection of bed sheets and linens. She did however bulk purchase consumable necessities such as Kleenex, toilet paper and of course food. She loved when Costco opened! Many a joke was told over their 18 cubic foot deep-freeze that held all manner of sale turkeys and meats, casseroles and pies, some of the latter were dated back so far they were referred to as mystery pies, you didn’t know what fruit they were until they came out of the oven, albeit still delicious with a crust to die for. Wynn was a good cook and baker well known for her pastries especially her butter tarts. Their beast of a freezer was big enough to hide a body, perhaps several stacked on top of one another but she usually kept it full and rotated stock so there was no fear of falling in with the cover banging down on top of us as we selected a frozen entree and dessert for dinner. Perhaps, doing without during the depression left a lasting impression, especially with a single mother that worked to put food on the table and doing the best she could to raise three daughters, perhaps all that made Wynn need the security of surplus in her own pantry. One day after a trip to the grocery store where there was a sale on tins of tuna, of which I purchased a dozen cans, I said proudly to Gregg, “See, you did marry your mom.” And he jokingly replied, “No, mom would have bought it all.” Gregg’s dad was tall, handsome and broad of shoulder, an airline pilot entrusted with the 747’s during his career with Air Canada. It provided a great life for the Little clan, many vacations and opportunities that some only dream of and by his own account, Gregg had an idyllic childhood. Wynn, a tall and willowy looker caught Jim's eye, they fell in love and married July 5th, 1946. She had been working as a passenger agent for Trans-Canada Airlines but after they married she stayed home to care for her family while her husband was away on overseas flights but she volunteered more than her share, was physically active and said the secret to longevity was down to walking, swimming and keeping on the move. She collected a large circle of friends and was loved by all. I have never seen such a social butterfly. Her gift of conversation was honed to perfection, and it wasn’t put on, she had a genuine interest in people. At Jim’s memorial gathering, I watched her move about the room engaging everyone, putting them at ease with their grief, while she stoically contained hers. I always joke that I wanted to be like her when I grew up. Social graces aren’t born they are learned and I’ve lacked the gift of gab, spending too much time in my own head as a child creating the perfect introvert. That’s why I like words, I’m not intimidated by paper and pen and words flow freely whereas my mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton in a crowd. Wynn was a natural communicator, always knew the perfect thing to say to draw the other person out, and I admired her to pieces.
When I first met Jim and Wynn I loved them instantly. I always wanted to call them mom and dad, that’s the way I felt inside, but I was shy. I was like an adopted child of sorts, a daughter-in-law that is. Every time we visited them in White Rock, BC it only fueled more feeling. I made them a part of our life with constant emails, they experienced our lives through my stories, bridging the distance between us with words. I would write paragraph after paragraph, short stories really, that made our mundane lives seem far more exciting and interesting than they actually were. I used to say I wrote a lot about nothing, I could take something like a simple apple and dress it up like a party. I cut my writing teeth with four or more emails a week, if something popped up my first thought was to share it and was at the computer relaying the hot of the press news. Once when I visited them I saw a tall stack of printed matter on Jim’s desk and discovered they were all my emails and was deeply touched. I suppose he printed them for Wynn to read at the kitchen table but never threw them away like yesterday’s news. Volumes of stories piled high, our life spelled out across sheets of paper, giving them a constant view into our comings and goings. We phoned as well, if Gregg didn’t automatically connect every couple of weeks I’d remind him because I wanted to hear their voices. I can still hear his dad’s soft speech in my head, a melodic sound, warm and pleasant. Of course I was shy and tongue tied most of the time, conversations were difficult for me even on the phone, but Gregg filled in the gaps while I hung on the other line feeling soothed by their banter. Being the clown that I am, I’d manage to crack a few punch lines that would be rewarded by a chuckle and how I loved to hear them laugh. Since Jim's passing, Gregg and I kept Wynn smiling when we phoned her Sunday evenings although as she got closer to 100 we could tell she was failing a bit, not wanting to converse for long periods like before. There was a time I Skyped with her several hours an evening, every evening, she could chat endlessly, so the fact that she tired quickly and said we should let her go was a sign of things to come. I’ve been thinking a lot about them. One of my fondest funnies with Jim was while looking out their kitchen window at a hedge trimmer working in their back yard clipping the over growth. He was there a couple of hours and I asked how much something like that service would cost here. Jim said $1000. My jaw dropped and after I picked it up off the table I commented, “Oh my god, I’d have chewed it off with my teeth for that much money!” I’ll never forget his chuckle. Everything grows twice as tall and fast in the more neutral temperatures and rain of the west. Landscaping is huge business out there because of the need to keep up with the Jack in the Beanstalk kind of vegetation growth. By 1991 I was motherless; my mom was actually taken from us by infection, the same fate my mother-in-law succumbed too. Later when my father died in 2000, I was lost and felt like an orphan but Wynn and Jim filled the void so I was never really alone. In the statistical family, the parents go before the children, so with the passing of his mom, Gregg and I have both lost the last buffer between our lives and our own deaths. We are now one step higher on the ladder, making us the buffer for our children. The cycle of life and death keeps on grinding away. After Jim died I shattered like a glass window. It was terribly painful for me and I flew out to BC to be with Wynn for the week while we waited for everyone to make it home. Gregg was in the field working and Wynn postponed the service until he could arrive. She was always about the work, it came first no matter what and said that many times. I had a week alone with her, a precious time for me that I will never forget. We polished silver and organized her closets, all those dozens of sheet sets that she’d buy and bring home from the Peace Arch Hospital Auxiliary Superfluity Thrift Store where she volunteered; second hand and still in the wrapper sheets, new and crisp while the ones on her bed could have been rotated right into the bin. There was nothing I could do to convince her to wash and use a new set. Something must have happened back in her childhood to worry about not having enough bed linens. Every time I went out to visit I organized the closets, the sheets that got disorganized over time while that drab old, olive green set on their bed got even more knobby and thread bare. I listened while she reminisced, her memory as sharp as a pin. The fun, the dancing and wartime tales, once 18 dates in one summer, all the travel and family history, especially all the antics Gregg put her through with his devil may care spirit. He apparently caused a few more grey hairs than the others, being fearless as a small boy and out for adventure. I sat like a sponge absorbing her stories. It was a very special time for me. She was a little stuck in her ways and at times curmudgeonly, but she was of a different generation and had seen and experienced so much in her lifetime she was allowed her idiosyncrasies. The one constant that was undeniable was her grand love for her boys that always shone through like a brilliant ray of sunshine; Terry the eldest, Gregg the middle and Dale the youngest. Any time someone snapped a photo of her with her boys her smile was just a wee bit bigger and the pride in her eye matched it. I know she loved me although she wouldn’t verbalize her feelings, saying it was foolish to go around telling people you love them when they already know it, perhaps another miss planted idea from her youth. I have physical proof of her love for me in a card she sent a few years ago. She told me she appreciated all the contact and sharing of our lives with them and that she loved me for it. It makes me tear up every time I think of it, perhaps I’ll have the card framed. Writing my adoptive parents was never a duty or a chore; I needed them more than they needed me. All the correspondence was done with love and respect for the two people that gave me the wonderful husband I have today. The man isn’t perfect, no one on this earth is, but by golly he’s darn near close. He’s been my saving grace since the day I met him, pulling me from an unhappy past while bringing a bright light to shine through the grey clouds. He is my rock and my anchor and I have his wonderful parents to thank for the grand life I love and live! Winnifred Little, Oct 21, 1918 – Oct 21, 2018 Born in Tuberose Saskatchewn, Winnifred Achurch You and Jim are sadly missed and will be for the rest of our lives.  Terry and Gregg on a recent visit.  From left to right, Gregg, Terry, Dale and Wynn all smiles with her boys.
I awoke this morning a little out of sorts. Crap, who am I kidding, I’m a lot out of sorts. My knickers are in a twist, have been since January and I’m learning that time does not heal a bloody thing. Once trust is gone can it ever be rejuvenated? After you’ve been gutted can you put it all back, stitch it up and get past the pain when the scar is a blinking neon light?
Maybe this morning is worse because I slept little last evening, or perhaps it’s because my knee is acting up, the nerve feels like it’s being sawn in half with a dull blade. Pain is a mood shaper, can drag anyone from a sunny porch to a dark, dank, windowless basement. Discomfort is part of this slump, that’s a given, but only a portion of it. Today is like many when I forcible pull up the big girl panties, thank my lucky stars for all my blessings, repeat my mantra in the mirror that “I am a good person”, smile and be happy to be alive. Some days are heavier and harder to crawl out from under. Today is one. Today I wallow. I’m ashamed I can let others do this to me; it’s a bitter pill that I swallow, funny how swallow has wallow in it. Perhaps one has to visit darker days to appreciate the brighter ones. Under all the gratitude, something persists, niggling at me until it accumulates into a large block so I stumble, then I get back up and it starts all over again. This fog in my head, sadness, a thief to steal my bliss started on my birthday last year. 2018 has been tough on my personal life and its taken months to deal with and accept. Everything can change in a minute, what you think you know can turn on you and you are left asking why? There are never any answers, just assumptions but what it boils down to is people are fickle, they are out for their own agenda and loyalty isn’t guaranteed in any situation. Someone kicked my dog and all my friends deserted me, took their side even though I never asked anyone to take sides, my friendship carried less value I guess. It's was another kick, to my pride this time, knowing I'm as disposable as table scraps didn't do much for my self esteem. The wife of the abuser told my husband I’m unstable and should be on drugs because I wrote a heartfelt blog of the traumatizing event, the abuser told my husband that he didn't mean to hit Jake in the face because he was aiming for his neck. People are telling me that they are saying it didn’t happen, that it’s a lie. My husband and I are not liars. Its been almost a year since it happened, yet for me it runs on a reel in my brain as if it was yesterday, the truth of it as ugly as when it happened. Some will say I shouldn't write this, but the burden of this truth is too heavy to carry anymore, I have to heal it like any festering sore and putting my feelings into words is cathartic. Besides, I have nothing else to lose; I’ve already lost it all. My husband says there was nothing to lose if it can be gone that easily and he’s right, I obviously thought more of my friends than they did me. And that’s okay, the delusion I was under is gone. I’ve never been the happiest clown at the circus, I’ve lived through a lot of dark shit, I’ve seen how low humans can fall, I’ve been manipulated, abused and bullied by those I loved, those who were supposed to love me, and despite this I don’t begrudge my past, I am the person I am today because of it, honest, loyal, a gate keeper, I'm the kind of person you'd want to have your back, be your friend. I'm sending these words out into the universe to put an end to this unfortunate story so I can begin a new chapter. I no longer want to dwell on it or give it another thought. I'm hoping that 2019 will be a better year for me, and for my husband as he was as dismayed and shocked how everything turned out as I am. This past year I've been perpetually sad, circumstances have even stolen my writing bliss so I've been silent.....its time to move on and recapture the old Christine but give her a new upgrade. In my past, because I’ve seen the worst people can throw at me, I was able to appreciate the good, but, and there is always that but, I hoped that as I got older, away from the naysayers and people who didn’t have my best interest at heart, I would see more caring, more support, more of the positive sides of relationships. Here I am almost 60, starting over and more dismayed than ever before.......  Anyone that follows my blog know that I’ve missed the last three Nova Scotia Nonsuch Rendezvous Events, an annual get together dedicated to the Nonsuch sailboat and the happy people that sail them. This year was the International gathering that happens every two years alternating between the US and Canada. I wasn’t missing this one come hell or high water and we worked over a month getting Catalyst ready to attend. I wanted her to shine as much as a thirty year old boat can and she sparkled in the glint of the sun’s eye. We left late Thursday morning assuming it would take between eight to ten hours to reach the Royal Nova Scotia Yacht Squadron. I’m not sure what I expected of the passage from Mahone Bay to Halifax, my longest excursion on the water thus far. Let’s face it, I’m rather naïve when it comes to the ways and means of sailing. All I can say is that the voyage to Halifax was quite an education and not necessarily a good one. The passage was a gyrating and white-knuckled carnival ride. I’ve learned that a ship’s motion is divided into six components in the six degrees of freedom. Heave, yaw, roll, surge, pitch and sway and we experienced them all in rapid succession like riding a mechanical bull set on high. Not being gimbaled like the stove, I was flopped around and my stomach also rolled and heaved. It was rough going, my internal organs rearranged as we pounded around in the lumpy seas. A couple of weeks ago a program on CBC radio said a plug in one ear will quell seasickness and I improvised with rolled up toilet paper but the upset was already in motion before I inserted it in my ear canal and by then nothing could stop the outcome. I must have been a sight hanging on to the counter for dear life while retching into the galley sink with a big wad of paper hanging off the side of my head. But, as every cloud has a silver lining, it certainly came in handy to wipe my chin. Hubby told me when he felt a bit queasy on a boat delivery to Hawaii, he went below to lie down and felt better, so I followed his advice. The nausea faded away and I drifted off to sleep, shortening the trip for me which was another silver lining. Even the rocking and pounding on swirling waves did little to jar me awake except for this one time I did rouse in time to hear hubby say, “Don’t worry, that’s what the deck wash hose is for.” I gathered someone else must have been woofing their cookies, ginger ones to be specific, that one of our guests, who must have known the ropes, brought as a seasickness preventative. I drifted back to sleep, unconsciousness saving me from more hours of swirling seas. I must say that I didn’t relish returning home, being a cork in a whirlpool tub with jets on the highest setting is not my idea of a fun day on the water. Perhaps over time rolling seas will grow on me, at least melt away the constant fear of our boat breaking apart and tossing us all into an angry sea. Perhaps with experience, I’ll develop a saltier disposition and a titanium stomach to match. When starting at the bottom there’s only one direction one can go. After we arrived and tied up at the finger wharf we had a day and a half to rest and tidy up. We washed the salt spray off her deck and topsides, vacuumed the cabin, polished a bit of salt encrusted stainless and then we were ready for the weekend. Friday evening, there was a social meet and greet with a serenading choir and tables of hors d'oeuvres. Although the tent we collected under was as hot as Hades, with nary a breeze to cool simmering skin, we met some very nice people, especially Bob Cornell who came up from Connecticut with his wife Sue and lovely puggle Bailey for the event and planned to race with us on Catalyst. Gregg with his 50 year history sailing and racing other boat designs had only raced a Nonsuch once and he was looking forward to learning some tricks. I hadn’t realized how skilled and knowledgeable Bob would be, I’d only just met him on the internet through a Nonsuch Facebook site but he turned out to be a terrific find. The rendezvous was well organized and full of fun things to do but I must say the pinnacle for me was the racing. Even if the day started with clouds and rain, by the race start the sun was shining and the winds were perfect. Quite the adrenaline rush, although I must confess I didn’t contribute much more then winching in the choker twice when called on. Mostly I crawled around the cockpit taking photos of our crew and the other boats; a prettier sight was never seen. I particularly love when they pass one another on the opposite tack and their sails cross in a V formation. Not to sound too smug, most of the photos were taken from our stern as the entire fleet was behind us in the first two races; bullets they called them as we crossed the finish line first. The third race Gregg made a tactical error that cost us a bit of time but we still managed to win the overall championship. Bob and Gregg performed as if they’d raced together for years and it was thrilling to see Catalyst strut her stuff as the guys tweaked the best out of her ten year old sail and thirty year old hull. There was a lot of socializing, Dark’n & Stormys consumed and late evening swims in the most exquisite salt water pool to wash away the sticky, oppressive heat of the day. The Royal Nova Scotia Yacht Squadron is beautiful as well as steeped in history, established in 1837 marking it the oldest yacht club in North America. We were welcomed by friendly and knowledgeable staff and we were immersed in an atmosphere of all things nautical. The second evening was snack and hors d'oeuvres made by the boat owners. I took Greek’s pudding, a local flavour of Lunenburg County which seemed fitting and I also made 72 mini butter tarts that disappeared quickly. One of the highlights of the weekend was the awards dinner when Chris Ouellette played guitar and sang the anthem he wrote for the Nonsuch. He was accompanied by highly respected composer and musician Paul Halley on keyboard and his equally talented son Nick on the drums. During the weekend, there always seemed to be music in the air, with Nick Halley hosting a sampling of his talented musician friends in the evenings. It was sad untying and leaving the dock for the trip home. Saying goodbye to new friends, such beautiful surroundings and the laidback lifestyle one easily adapted too. I’d never stayed on our boat for five days in a row and it was enough of a taste to know I’d like more. The Nonsuch yacht exudes comfort, has all the amenities, and if not for the fact our poodles were home with a sitter, I might have asked to sail into the sunset and keep on going. The journey home held no surprises the trip up had, except for hitting something submerged to grind us to an immediate stop. I was up on deck taking the sail cover off and the force pitched me forward, I jabbed my finger and broke a nail. It could have been worse; if we’d been motoring faster I might have been tossed overboard. Later, Gregg got in contact with the coast guard to report what looked like a four foot square cement block a couple of feet below the surface, perhaps part of a long ago peer? The depth meter registered 40 feet one minute and then we were stopped dead in the water the next. I’m sure our lead keel is sporting a dent that will need a bit of reshaping when she’s hauled out for winter. We were only a short distance from the yacht club when it happened and more to the shore side than down the center of the channel but it wasn’t marked on the paper chart or on Navionics to indicate an object to avoid. The wind was on the nose so we motored for a while and when we finally hoisted the big sail, it was another beautiful day on the water. The trip home was sweet, erasing the bitter of the trip up. Charlie Mitchell, owner of Horsefeathers, a Nonsuch 36, joined us and helmed the entire way to Mahone Bay. His boat is suffering some transmission problems so he wasn’t able to bring it to the rendezvous and we were happy to let him have some wheel time. We arrived home shortly after 8:00 pm. The sun was beginning to slip below the horizon and the sky was ablaze with long, sweeping brush strokes of pink and orange. Mahone Bay has some of the most incredible sunsets and sunrises and this one seemed to be an extra special welcome for us.  Bob tweaking the sail and Gregg at the helm. Teamwork at its very best.  Catalyst II above and below, Dark N' Stormy celebratory drinks after the race. Gregg, Alison and Bob.   A ship's motion is divided into six components in the six degrees of freedom.
 I’ve noticed over the years, as the linen displaced burlap and took over the pattern room, that a hum was gathering in the four corners, sometimes drifting out into the main shop with a distinctive pong. The back room can be pretty heady with hundreds of patterns hanging; the lingering odor permeating everything. My nose is more sensitive than most, my hubby says I should take a job sniffing out bombs and drugs at the airport. Big Ha-ha. Sometimes being able to smell acutely is a bloody curse, assaulted by odors that I will spare you the details of.
If I had a dollar for every time I droned on about the stench of the back pattern room, Deborah, Shane and I could all retire. I might be a broken record but the smell bothers me, not in the sense that it makes me ill; it’s more of an embarrassment worrying what customers will think of the shop. It’s bad enough Shane is dyeing wool all day, that also hums up the place with a distinctive smell akin to a wet dog. I’m told I’m imagining things, that I’m nuts, that it’s nowhere near the caliber to which I complain of, but my nose knows. Linen smells like a barnyard. Yup, there I said it. It’s a heady mixture of cow dung and hay, a country farmer’s ode de toilette. To clarify the degree of my olfactory talents, if the average person can smell say 5 on the odor meter, I am somewhere between 12-20. I think it developed back in the day when I suffered severe allergies, heightening my sense of smell so that I could get an early warning I was about to walk into something offensive so I could retreat before I stepped into lasting, negative effects. I’m well now, but this gift/curse has remained. Of course there are benefits, the flavours of food are more intense, flowers are brilliant and I know when my deodorant is failing or when its time to clean the refrigerator. It’s really too bad I don’t enjoy the taste of wine because I would make a fantastic sommelier. Some days are better than others depending on temperatures and whether or not the pattern room is lacking ventilation. Humidity brings out the worst in the woven flax, spinning it out of olfactory control and at times, on particularly sticky days, I’ve apologized to customers, blaming the stink where it belongs, trying to circumvent their thinking that my entire shop smells like a pile of steamy horse manure. I’m super conscious of it and bless the hearts and souls of those who have come into the shop and reassured me that I was wrong, obviously beyond sweet and nose blind. Well, two weekends ago the shop was crammed to the rafters with some of the 30,000 visitors that converged on our town for the Annual Scarecrow Festival. It was standing room only on the sidewalks and traffic jams as folks arrived in droves to see the fantastic show of clever effigies of the resident’s and store owner’s imaginations that were displayed across town. A boy of around ten came in with his grandparents and he wasn’t there long when he said rather loudly with a wrinkled up nose, “This place stinks!” Followed by, “Papa, why does it smell like a barn in here?” The grandfather tried to rein him in with a hush, but the boy got one more comment in as he dragged away, “It smells like poop in here!” And then the truth teller was gone, arms flailing as he was quickly hustled out the door. The shop was full of people; I started laughing and shouted, “Finally someone speaks the truth!” All eyes turned to me. The grandmother, left behind to shop, looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Out of the mouths of babes!” I cried. So I’ve been vindicated although confirmation isn’t exactly a good thing, my shop obviously smells like poop which is nothing to be proud of. The kid must have an over-developed olfactory sense like mine, where most only detect a hint of something but cannot quite put their finger on it he sniffed out the ugly fact. Who knows why this boy was the only one to ever speak the truth, but now the truth has set me free, proving that I’m not crazy after all!  What do I do when I thaw a pastry dough for butter tarts and realize I don’t have enough currents or pecans?
Considering the house is now filled with Gravensteins I opted to make a pie. Not a shabby substitute by any means and hubby started drooling so it’s all win, win. So one full sized pie for us and a mini for Shane, who loves his momma’s apple pie! It’s Gravenstein time again and I wasn’t sure I should put you all through another ode to of my passion for this apple. I’m on the fence about it though so perhaps one is coming. I wait for these apples every fall, I love their flavour so much I need to sing it from the rooftops, perhaps I’ll recycle the last two blogs to the almighty Gravenstein, but shrink it all down a bit into a doable read. As hubby says, you need to be novel, not write one. Brrr, it was cold this morning and it was difficult getting my feet warm in bed last night so much so I had to get up and find wool socks. It’s time for flannel sheets! The frost of last night turned the top of my rather large basil plant to a sickening cadaver colour. I planned to dry it but now I’ll have to settle for only the lower leaves. The broccoli and kale are hardier, actually snow and the cold temperatures of winter don’t do much to effect the greenness of kale. I’m not sure if freezes well in bags but it’s worth a try. Maybe blanch it first? Fresh kale from the garden is wonderful; we use it as lettuce in our sandwiches as well as steamed in a pot. We haven’t lit the Woodstove yet although it’s tempting. We put it off until icicles hang off our noses because once you open that Pandora ’s Box there’s no turning back. (That reminds me, the guy hasn’t delivered our firewood yet.) At the moment a shawl can take the edge off and a blanket over the knees but the time is coming and more rapidly than sound through the air. There doesn’t seem to be much of a transition from summer heat to chilly winter anymore. Fall is a bit of a misfit without purpose. The leaves are falling on our driveway as fast as a heavy snow, they crunch under my feet when I walk to the car. Aren’t they supposed to turn fantastic colours first then drop to the ground? We can still get some nice weather, at least I hope. Except for the Nonsuch Rendezvous, we didn’t do much sailing in this summer so we hope to get in a few days leading up to October. Hubby is still out of work so nothing should stand in our way if there’s a small window of double digit warmth. I’m waiting for the pies to come out of the oven and then go out to the garage to wrestle with the spider webs to hunt for seasonal decorations for the Scarecrow Festival this weekend. It’s our biggest festival and there will be standing room only in the town. I checked the weather and it should be cooperating for a fun filled weekend. (Take note, the shop will be open Sunday as well.) The scarecrows are out all over town and people are here early with their cameras. I see a lot of new ones this year which is exciting. Once again it’s snuck up on me so I’ll have to stick out my sheep photo board and called it my contribution. We’ve been busy repairing and painting the second floor apartment of the building we have to get it rented for October. What disaster the last tenant perpetrated on our property. The most damage we’ve ever sustained. A dog chewed the antique baseboard moldings and door frames and there are monstrous holes in the walls and of course it was left dirty. We are sick and tired of cleaning up after people that don’t have respect for the property. I wish someone would take it off our hands. My dream was to live there someday when we downsize and sell our house, but I can let it go now and refocus my dreams of retirement elsewhere. There might not be anything left of the place after today’s generation full of selfish indifference are finished with it. We’ve been in our house over twenty years and the woodwork is almost as pristine as the day it was painted. Every time a tenant moves out, even if it’s only months or a year later, it looks like they were doing the tango with a chainsaw. I’ll be sixty this year and I sure am getting tired of cleaning up after people. Please someone buy it and turn it back into a single family home, run an Airbnb, make condos, open a restaurant or keep it as rental income. Anyway, the pies are out of the oven and smell divine. Sure wish you could do a scratch and sniff on the screen. I received the shop copies of 2018 Celebration magazine and I discovered an unfortunate error in the print. Being a designer and knowing how I feel when my patterns are not accredited to me, I felt compelled to say something. Not being recognized for artwork happens a fair amount, dozens of opportunities have been lost to promote my business. Only recently there was a pattern posted in a newsletter that not only failed to give me credit as the designer, but the rug hooker completely changed the name of the pattern and it read as if she designed it herself. Its the part of this business that’s irksome, to put it mildly, but ironically, in this particular mix up, I received credit for a design that isn’t mine to own. I’m talking about Angie Myers, MARITIME CHRISTMAS. The moment I saw this design that Janet Boates (Angie’s mom) was hooking, I wiped the drool off my chin and contacted Angie. I knew it would be a good little seller and a pattern I’d be proud to offer my customers. Angie gave me permission and the red dot to produce it to sell. We pay her a design fee every time we draw it off and we write along the side of each pattern that it is an Angie Myers Design. Someone bought the pattern, hooked it and submitted it to Celebrations Magazine and it was accepted. Quite a coup, as these rugs represent the best of the best in hooking and design. To have one of your rugs in this publication comes with a pretty hefty bragging right. Somehow through a miscommunication or misunderstanding it got listed as ‘Adapted by Angie Myers from a design by Encompassing Designs Rug Hooking Studio’. Mix-ups happen at times no matter how many t’s are crossed and i’s are dotted and I felt the need to set the record straight to give Angie the credit she deserves. My company name got mentioned, the pattern was purchased from us, but I can’t take credit beyond that. Congratulations to Donna Culp, the rug hooker who completed Angie’s pattern so beautifully. She added a clever rope border to the already fantastic design and her beloved Portuguese Water Dogs. She well deserves the accolades for her interpretation, it is a striking piece. I hope this blog reaches the four corners of the rug hooking community so that Angie can also share in this prestigious glory.
 Please correct me if I’m wrong, I would never want to relay a falsehood, but I have been told by several customers that Crawford Purdy from Truro, NS is no longer sharpening blades or servicing cutting machines. I called him last week to order hooks and he told me he retired and no longer makes them.
Crawford has been taking care of all the rug hookers for decades and I wish him good health and hope he is reclining in his favourite chair and putting his feet up. Cheers for his long and appreciated contribution to rug hooking! It has been brought to my attention that someone has been taking over the sharpening and cutter maintenance business right here in Nova Scotia and that’s pretty important information not to share for all Canadians. So I’m passing on the information to the rug hooking community. Please spread the word. A customer told me today that she was very satisfied with her blade sharpening and machine clean.  Saturday hubby and I took the shop on the road to the Nicholsville RugRats annual Fall Fling at Kingston, NS. This year there was almost double the participants in that they opened up the other end of the hall to accommodate more attendance. The hook-in itself is a draw but I wonder if they also come for the turkey dinner served for lunch? It’s pretty impressive, made by the Lion’s members that have the whole meal down to a science, cooking, serving and cleaning up. You’d think preparing food for 140 or so people would compromise the flavour, perhaps have watered down, flavourless gravy, but not these guys, it was plate licking delicious. The grain fed, free range turkeys were tender and juicy, barely needing teeth to chew it. Funny, the first thing I think about when I’m asked to be a vender is that meal, but then I’m pretty motivated by my stomach. Hubby was with me this time, did the driving and heavy lifting and helping me with sales and he was certainly impressed by the grub as well. Oh, and I need to mention the dessert, get all the food chat over before I talk hooking. Strawberry shortcake, need I say more? But of course I will. There’s strawberry shortcake and then there’s strawberry shortcake. I judge all by my mother’s biscuits and these guys seemed to channel her finesse so every spoonful was a memory as well as a flavour sensation. The strawberries were crushed, not sliced, as mom always did and they weren’t over sweetened so the fruit part was perfect as well. I would have preferred vanilla ice-cream, as a child I didn’t know that whipped cream existed, but it would have melted and quite frankly their whipped cream was pretty delicious as well. I took photos of most things but didn’t think about the food because I was too busy stuffing my face so you have to take my word for most of it and speaking of that I must mention the rolls. I try to stay away from bread as much as possible, the starch converts to sugar in my mouth and flows directly into my bloodstream so I limit it as much as possible, but those rolls looked homemade so I fell to temptation. The taste confirmed they were homemade. I chose a white roll even though there was a whole-wheat choice and I’m not sure if the Lion’s folk made them or if they were baked off site, but OMG they were a blast of my past. The butter spread on the warm roll like frosting on a cake. I would have gone back for more, my mind actually made the trip, but I was pretty full and one was certainly enough of a memory to last till next time. So enough about the lunch, let’s talk hooking, after all that’s what the day is all about, what brings us all together. Smiling faces were wall to wall, the atmosphere was thick with enthusiasm; the aura in the spacious hall glowed with the love of our chosen craft. You could feel the energy radiating off each participant, they were here for a good time and weren’t disappointed. I was one of two venders there to sell our wares. This year I was allowed to bring more than just patterns so we loaded up the car to full capacity, even adding a roof rack carrier to take as much as possible. We spread out along the far wall, patterns and wool and all else in between. Shane’s wool was like gold at the end of a rainbow. We’d dyed up a lot of yarn, the colours of autumn and the greens were grabbed up as folks were thinking about fall projects. Deborah made sure we were stocked with pumpkin and sunflower patterns and they were a hit as well. Fall is in the air even if it officially hasn’t arrived yet, the nights are cooler for sleeping and the winds carry a bit of nip in the shade areas, making one button up in the daytime. It’s coming; we can’t fight its ascent, so we jump right in and work with the palettes of orange, golds, browns and greens. Shane dyed a lot of our standard seasonal spots, his art imitating life in the turning of the leaves and the bountiful harvest. Towards the end of the day, when things quieted down for the shop, I was able to walk around the hall to see what everyone was working on and I must say my chest was sticking when I discovered a number of people were hooking Encompassing Designs patterns. And there were two finished rugs in the display, our Pussy Willows and Fancy Flounders, designed by Susan Leslie that we produce. There is no better feeling, than seeing a pattern I’ve designed making a connection to a rug hooker and then seeing how they lovingly make it into a personal heirloom. The rug hookers congregated from all over, representing many hooking groups from around the province and farther afield, even one member from our Main Street Hookers crowd, yeah Christine! So many familiar faces and yet new ones as well, this burgeoning traditional art form continues to mushroom through new techniques, innovative designs, and the abundance of variant wool fibers. Paul Depress did a fantastic job as always. A beautiful rug hooker as well as an organizer, he commanded the day in his usual congenial way. Everything ran smoothly and there were squeals of delight over the many prizes, 50/50 draw, gift bags and numerous draws kept the crowd excited. The entire day was like consuming unlimited candy without getting an upset tummy or a toothache. Donna Gas gave a speech and had us in stitches with stories of her follies. If you see her, ask about her elevator story; although it was an excerpt from a very trying time in her life, she created lemonade from lemons and made it a stand-up routine. Her surname kind of describes her winning personality, she’s a gas, and to call her fun would be an understatement. It’s abundantly clear how much she loves this craft, dedicating her time teaching rug hooking and spreading the joy. There was a NS Guild table selling wares. I bought two of the posters for the 40th Anniversary we will be celebrating next year and plan to have them dry mounted and hung in the shop. What an exciting monument for rug hooking. 1979 – 2019 of our Guild; forty years of talented rug hookers that have come and gone, that are still here blazing new trails and those that are newly emerging, an anniversary encompassing and rejoicing the love of rug hooking. So now it’s down to photos. I took quite a few, mostly shots of the work in progress and then the finished rugs on display. It was so inspiring I wanted to run home and begin a new project. My frame has been empty for most of the summer while our boat took precedence but now the itch is back.
 Janet Boates took second favourite with her incredible lifelike portrait of a child.....and the sunflower was pretty cool as well.
Toni Gallagher won viewers choice after the votes were tabulated on the rug display for her lighthouse on the left. On the right is the one she is working on now. Perhaps we will see it in the show next year!
Summer is still here with its sunny warmth and swimsuit temperatures, but fall is full steam ahead at the studio. It's actually beginning to take on an orange glow. Yarn and wool are being dyed daily, all day long, and even in the after hours the elves are working on the magic of autumn palettes. For those that hook with yarn and the many punch needle enthusiasts out there, we have hand dyed, richly saturated colours to do your autumnal rugs the justice they deserve. Remember we will gladly put our patterns on in reverse for you! And for the rug hookers that prefer dyed wool, Shane has been creating spot dyes perfect for the changing leaves on your trees. We all love fall. It is one of the most colourful and scenic times of the year, the varied palettes bring our hooked landscapes to life with bursts of colour. Yesterday, as yellow leaves were falling from the birch trees in our yard, it struck me that this marvelously beautiful season is actually all about endings, even death. Trees preparing for the cold temperatures, dropping their plumage to prepare for the long hibernation of winter. Annuals drying on their stems, crumbling to powder. The foliage turning golden shades of brown, red and orange, the grass giving up its green. It is all about one season ending; the colourful slide into the slumber of winter to reawaken for a renewal in the spring. Orange pumpkins or white we have you covered. And if there is a particular colour you have in mind for your Autumn projects, The Dye Guy can make it happen. We are busy dyeing plaids for our Fall Bundles once again. Stay tuned!  Some spot dyed wool from yesterday's yield. The pans are in the oven again today.
We're filling the racks with fall colour!  The Nonsuch 33 has a trench down the port and starboard side that drain into the scuppers. We like this trough, everything settles there, the dead flies, sand and pebbles that accumulate from shoes and things the wind carries on board. It is so easy to wash it all down the scuppers with our fresh or salt water deck wash hose. Our three pups use a pee pad on the bow and all the golden liquid runs down the trench into the scupper drain followed by a good rinsing, keeping the deck where we walk pee free. Although this gutter design was a genius idea (thank-you Mark Ellis), when we bought our boat it came fraught with cuts, scrapes and holes along them, unsightly damage to the gelcoat with potential for leaks between in the outer hull and inner liner. This summer I bought a gelcoat repair kit with colour matching paint and got to work. I prefer hands on to reading instructions and Gregg is well versed using epoxy so he gave me a demo on how to mix the two liquids. I thought, how hard can this be? Pardon the pun. I vacuumed the areas to repair and wiped them down with lacquer thinner to remove any grime to prep them properly. The Popsicle stick provided for spreading was a disaster, smearing it in uneven levels and going well beyond the area I needed to fill. There was little control and because the wood stick is curved on the end only one part of the applicator touched the surface, cutting a channel through the applied gelcoat. After my first try and subsequent sanding, I quickly discovered the less you put on the easier it was to finish the job. There were a lot of holes and because the mixture went hard within 15 to 20 minutes messing around with the stick would have meant making up many batches of gelcoat, so I had to come up with a way to make the application faster and smoother. I cut a piece of plastic from a yogurt container and used that as an applicator, it was flat to the surface and flexible which targeted filling the hole and conformed to the shape of the surrounding surface so that it didn’t leave any excess gelcoat behind. So I filled all the holes and scuffs, sometimes needing more than one coat to build up in the deeper areas. I was pretty lucky matching the faded smoke white original colour, a wee bit of brown and an even tinier bit of black, the amount that would sit on the tip of a toothpick with room to spare. In the brilliant, blinding glare of the sunlight on the deck, it’s almost a perfect match. I’m wasn’t sure why the gutters were so cut up but Gregg thought perhaps the metal frame that is erected for winter storage was the culprit. The rubber feet that usually protect the boat were old and chalky and the sharp metal edges punctured through grinding back and forth as the winter winds caught the cover and shifted the frame. Like scissors cut paper, metal is going to slice plastic every time. Gregg replaced the rubber feet and then built bases for each frame pole out of wood. They are 4” x 4” in size with drilled out depressions about half way into the thickness of the 1 ½” block of wood. A hole saw cut the circle and then he chiseled out the inside of the cut. The first year of use worked as far as preventing further chaffing but the underside drew moisture and mold formed so the next year he painted the bottom to seal it and they were clean the following spring when we removed the frame. Prevention is always the best medicine. In the never ending work a boat requires, if you can pre-empt problems, there’s less repairing and more time for sailing.    At my age, I really don’t know why I’m surprised when people do stupid things. In my time I’ve seen plenty of poor decision making, and I’m not exempt by any means, I’ve tasted shoe leather plenty, I’ve assumed wrongly and had my share of ditsy moments, but, and there’s always that three letter word, I don’t understand putting one’s life in peril or others around you. I suppose the Darwin Awards continually need new recipients doing the asinine to win a toe tag and like the comedian Ron White says, don’t call it a loss when someone dies in the throes of a senseless, idiotic, stupid episode. Maybe they were someone we could afford to lose. Now don’t leave negative comments, Ron’s words not mine. I’m not saying anyone deserves to die, but I just witnessed a prime example of people tempting fate and not only with their own well-being, but they were playing fast and loose with other people as well.
Wednesday morning I drove hubby to Chester for Race-week, and on my return home there were a number of bicycles out on tour. They were broken up into small groups, perhaps they do this for traffic reasons, no more than six in a row allowing cars to weave in and out of the clusters along the highway or maybe they were sorted by ability and speed, I noticed a number of the riders in the back were elderly. Western Shore and Martins River roads are far from straight. From an aerial view they would look like winding snakes, with poor visibility as sharp corners cut the view ahead. Time after time cars gunned their engines, pulled out and passed cyclists on corners, without being able to see what might be heading toward them at 70 or 80 Km. I clenched my gut time after time, waiting for the worst case scenario as drivers took life threatening chances. Hey, I know Mahone Bay is beautiful folks, I live there, but if you’re in that much hurry to get to my town, to the tune of risking death to you and yours, hell, it ain’t worth it. The cyclists were nervous, looking over their shoulders as cars behind them crowded too close. I was late for work but never considered jeopardizing my vehicle, my life, an oncoming car’s occupants and the lives of the cyclists to get there. At times I was going 20 km and when we reached inclines as slow as 10 km and was perfectly happy to wait until the coast was clear to pass. One by one all the cars ahead of me pulled out in dangerous situations to get by without passing lanes and visibility. When I became the lead vehicle behind the bicycles with a dozen or so cars trailing me, the closest one almost crawled into my trunk, pressuring me to pass. I’m sorry but I wasn’t about to tempt fate; I obviously have far more to live for than the likes of all those that risked passing at precarious moments. Unable to wait, one at a time, three vehicles whipped past my car and the cyclists on corners without more than two car lengths of visibility. Once to my horror, an oncoming car came round the bend and the passing vehicle pulled back on their side of road, sending the cyclists off the road to the gravel. There was only seconds to spare from a head-on collision. The cyclists had to be sh@##%*g bricks because I was. An accident would have caused a major pile up of cars and bicycles. Death comes soon enough without racing towards it at mach speed so perhaps, if you have a death wish, go play Russian roulette somewhere else, maybe use a gun so only you pay the price for your thoughtless actions. Where is common sense anymore? What’s wrong with waiting an extra minute for a safe place to pass? They did occur; I waited and passed with a good view of the road ahead. It can be done! The cyclists were enjoying the fresh air and exercising their bodies. They should be applauded not run down, side swiped or made nervous because someone has a distorted sense of their own safety while driving in a big hunk of metal. I used to ride a motorcycle and I know there is little respect or thought for bikers on the highway and now with road rage and impatience on the rise, accidents are more inevitable. Really, one can’t even call them accidents anymore. That infers a mistake on someone’s part, a momentary lapse of judgment. This is pure carelessness. Zero consideration for your fellow human beings. You think a flesh and bone body is a match for a 4000 pound vehicle in a head on collision at 80 km an hour? We should all be made to see coloured photos of the aftermath of a car crash and perhaps every two years as a refresher. If more people made driving decisions with their brain instead of letting their foot do all the thinking, it would be a much safer world.  Furtherance to the previous blog about the 36” wide Red Dot not being manufactured anymore; I’ve received numerous phone calls, emails and comments on FB about alternate ideas on how to draw off patterns. Some were quite innovative but any would demand a drastic change in the way we do things at the studio. Light tables would be my first choice but then we’d have to create all our patterns on some sort of see through material, preferably vinyl and then where to source that and what sizes I can get. The heavy art paper I use wouldn’t allow the light to show through enough to see the design through the linen with clarity. We’d have hundreds of designs to do over as the red dots wear out; we’d need a year of Sundays to convert them. For future designs we could start putting smaller ones on vinyl and use our existing light table, saving the red dot for the big ones. Red Dot can be pinned to the backing nicely so the linen doesn’t shift around which it tends to do, and with red dot you can stretch out the linen corners so they are square as it tends to curl along the edge. Once you stretch the linen and pin it to the red dot it stays. Taping linen to the glass would be tricky as it is slippery as heck to work with and tape wouldn’t stick well. Duct tape would hold it but then leave residue on the linen and my customers would love that! Not!
Converting all the designs we have now would be labour intensive and then storage would be a problem with all the patterns rolled up so they don’t have creases where it would wear and crack over time. We’d need an entire room dedicated to patterns! I like tucking them in the filing cabinets, nice and neat. The surface for transferring has to be flat or it would be harder to work on with a marker. I suppose we could tape it all down to the glass first but tape can leave residue that would need cleaning off. I hate tape, it’s one of the banes of my existence, it sticks to stuff. I’m not trying to be funny because that’s what its designed to do, but it’s indiscriminate and leaves behind a film places you don’t want it too and that can be a bitch to remove. I could do an entire rant on tape, especially the cheaper stuff you buy at Staples because it’s horrid to work with. It comes off the roll easily but is flimsy and moves in the slightest breeze, sticking on itself like hugs at a family reunion and good luck tearing it apart. Then you have to use twice at much on parcels because it doesn’t grab well, you have to rub it several times to keep it to stay in place. We now only buy expensive tape from the post office, they understand shipping and quality products, producing one that is heavier, sticks well and ranks low on the cursing. Anyway, I wanted to say that I appreciate all your comments and thanks for taking the time to respond. I think perhaps our future might encompass a large light table and I am more than happy to undertake that down the road as the last resort, but in the meantime I’ve broke the bank buying up as much of the red dot as I can afford. Damnit! I don’t like change so I am fighting it, throwing punches with my VISA. I just ordered two more bolts from Fabricville at loan shark pricing, but that will do a lot of patterns so I don’t have to worry about running out anytime soon. Really, I only delaying the inevitable and with my luck they'll start producing it again and I'll have wasted my money buying it at retail pricing. I hope to do a lot of designing this fall so I'll try not to begrudge it....  In a world that constantly changes, things come and go, and rug hooking supplies are no exception. For those that don’t already know, Red Dot tracing material is no longer being produced and no one is crying more than me. It actually scares the heck out of me. We will never stamp our patterns so what’s a girl to do? We have a small light box that hubby built for me back when I opened the studio which will be hauled out and dusted off for smaller patterns but what to do about the larger ones? Using a light box while trying to keep the linen straight and moving it around to capture all the design will be a nightmare. Not to mention our tables are too high for the box so we have to modify or build another work area and where is that supposed to reside?
There is a substitute red dot on the market, better in that it is 45” wide instead of the standard 36”, but it’s too thick and the marker doesn’t bleed through. I ordered a sample to try with high expectations and was sadly disappointed. It only works half as well and only with a marker with a sharp point. Once the marker dulls and loses some of its ink, good luck. Markers are not cheap so we try to maximize what we get from them and that will be a thing of the past once we are forced to use the new stuff. I found a few sources of the old Red Dot and bought up as much as I could paying a hefty price of $8.00 a yard at Fabricville, but what option did I have? Deborah certainly gets the most out of the red dot patterns we have, using them until they are thread bare. I’m hoping the rug hooking community will scream and holler so the company puts the good Red Dot back on their production line, pretty please before my stock dwindles. Unfortunately, we will no longer be selling it to the public. We have to covet what we have to stay in business. Folks have moaned at us but I don’t really think they understand how important producing patterns is to our shop. I would hate to think the lack of red dot is what foils us, causes us to close our doors. We manage to carry on with a low Canadian dollar, the high cost of US exchange when ordering supplies from the states kills us, it takes 30% or more of our profit margin right off the top. We survived losing the source of burlap, managed a frightful year when Majic Carpet Dyes were unavailable, and many other changes that put us in a bit of a tail spin, it would be devastating to think something as thin and simple as a tracing medium could be the end of us. Some people use screening material but storage on that would be tough as it couldn’t be folded like red dot and filed away with the original drawings in our cabinets. We’d have rolls of it all over the place. We might have to think outside the box, the light box that is, and come up with solutions to this dilemma. Perhaps there is an interfacing on the market that is thinner; if anyone knows of such a product please let us know. When I bought what I could find I paid a premium but at this point beggars can’t be choosy so I doled out as much cash as was needed to get it to our door. We will be using it sparingly; every scrap will be utilized, treated like gold. Usually we can get 30 or more patterns out of the tracing material and sometimes more. Over the weekend hubby worked to create a new red dot for one of our patterns called Catch of the Day II. A customer ordered the pattern and all I could think while I was drawing it, what a saint Deb is to have worked with such a crappy piece of red dot. It stuck to me like spider webbing, any roughness to my hands grabbed it so it was difficult to pin to the linen when I was always pulling it off. For me the feeling of the polyester on my fingers is worse than fingernails on a blackboard. There was swearing and yucks coming out of me until hubby stepped in to the rescue. In all good conscience, after I struggled to make a pattern for an order, I couldn’t put that old red dot back in the drawer for Deb to use so hubby drew off a new one. I don’t like change, I’m about as flexible as a two by four, perhaps even as thick, so I fight the new and don’t adapt to anything that makes my life harder. In this day and age life should be getting easier, not taking a step backwards. All this new-fangled crap isn’t worth the powder to blow it up. Red Dot don't RIP, come back kicking and screaming, we need you! If not I'll have to embrace another change and crawl begrudgingly over this latest hurtle to make room for the next problem that's waiting in the wings. So I've had my rant and now I will chill.....after all, it’s not like The Dorr Mill stopped selling natural wool……  Due to overlapping personal events for Shane, Deborah and I, we will be closing the shop Monday August 6th and Tuesday August 7th.
We will be back to normal hours on Wednesday August 8th. |
Christine Little has been ranked #5 out of the 60 top rug hooking bloggers by Rug Hooking Magazine!
 
Max Anderson, Australia, recipient of my Nova Scotia Treasures rug. An award of excellence for promoting Canada through his writing.
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