Thursday, December 17, 2015

excelsis Deo

"Angels we have heard on high," I sang, handing my grandson a wooden angel to hang on the tree.
Without missing a beat he joined me.
"Sweetly singing o'er the plain, and the mountains in reply, echoing their joyous strains."
"Glo, o,o,o,o,oria, in excelsis Deo."

I knew I would always remember him just as he was in that moment.
A picture engraved,
like a snapshot,
of a nine year old,
so tall now,
singing,
our voices blending as we hung the Christmas ornaments.
Me re-learning how to say excelsis Deo.

Thursday, December 10, 2015

in the bank

"In the bleak midwinter,
frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
water like a stone;
Snow had fallen,
snow on snow,
snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter,
long ago."
Man I love Christina Rossetti.
Love all poetry.
Poetry and song lyrics.
Old hymns too.

Last night I sat with an old friend, visiting my mother.
Our conversation led us by the hand in big loops and circles and brought us around to our beginning point; the power of words to comfort us.

My mother has forgotten things.
She is even forgetting how to speak, how to frame her thoughts with words.
But words have not forgotten her.
If anything, they hold an even greater power and importance for her.
When I quote back to her, snatches of song and poem, her eyes brighten.
Hearing a story read aloud stirs all of her emotions in turn, right in time with the words.

When I was a child, students still memorized things, poems mostly although nothing like the previous generation had. Nor they, like the generation before them. My great grandmother was known for breaking into snatches of song and for reciting poetry. My great Uncle Howard could recite great long epic poems, stanza after stanza. My own grandmother was a quoter as well and my mom too.  And my dad too now that I think about it. Bits and pieces and fragments of poems, selected just for the moment from a rich repository.

I'm so glad my earliest memories include plenty of poetry and song. That while I sat fidgeting and squirming on hard wooden pews, mighty hymns swirled in an out of focus. That as I sat pouring over the pages of Childcraft Encyclopedia's stories and poems, I was building something important. Those words, so rich and varied and colorful and comforting are there now. Just like money in the bank.

Sunday, November 29, 2015

removed from the list

Sometimes when I open my kitchen door late at night, all of the darkness of the wide, wild night seems to make a rush for the door, and me. It gives me such an endangered species sort of feeling that I hurry.
Hurry to pull the garbage can free from its cover and
hurry to lift the lid and stuff in the bag.
I always hope I am alone on my deck in the still darkness, my eyes and ears on red alert.

It's because I remember a time  when I found I wasn't alone.
When I turned at the sound of a stealthy step behind me and saw a dark shape suddenly appear out of the darkness.

I didn't scream.
I knew in a moment who it was.
He had come before.
Was starting to come regularly, as though we were on some sort of route.
Darn raccoon.

A raccoon has been riffling through the garbage can on our deck late at night.
We have been forced to build an enclosure that made Fort Knox look like a kiddies playground.
Houdini would have had trouble getting the lid off of our garbage can.

We've hoped the raccoon would ponder our new defense system.
Would scratch our address off of the list.
Would warn other raccoons......

And so, when a raccoon suddenly loomed out of the darkness, I wasn't so much surprised as I was terrified.
Which is strange because I'm not scared of raccoons at all by day.
Only by night it seems.

For the next few days, I was jumpy about going out onto the deck at night.
Was jittery about opening the kitchen door  after sun down
and nervous about stepping out into the cool evening darkness.
But as the days passed, I grew calm and complacent.
Now that is the perfect set up for a set up. Calm complacency.

Sure enough, one evening, I opened the back door, my thoughts happily engaged elsewhere when I was jolted into the moment by the startled face of a raccoon.
I screamed.
The raccoon probably did too, poor thing.
It jumped in a single leap from the deck up, up onto the railing and then with paws outstretched, launched itself into the darkness.
Such a desperate act.
Lke suicide.
I was shocked.

Our deck is on the second floor.
There is a gravel walk way below and raised wooden framed garden beds.
These are not the sorts of things one should jump on from a great height late at night in the dark.
Unless of course you are terrified for your life.

In the light of day, not a thing could be seen.
Not a hair,
not a freckle.
It was as though he had never been there.
But, we were instantly removed from the list.

Monday, November 23, 2015

wonderful place

My arms slide around my mothers shoulders.
"Well, I'm heading off now....," I say smiling, my eyes locked with hers.
"You'll be seeing my mother of course," she says brightly.
"Your mother was my grandma, wasn't she," I say by way of sidestepping the question.
"Oh, yes," my mother says, smiling.
"And then YOU became a grandma. You have a dozen grandchildren and TWO dozen great grandchildren!" I exclaim.
She smiles modestly and happily.
"And then I became a grandma," I add.
We nod and smile at each other.
Common ground is a wonderful place to meet.

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

a perfect spot

We were playing hide and go seek, just little she and I.
"Can you help me hide, Grandma?"
I picked a perfect spot.
She hid there so nicely.
I looked and looked.
And there she was.

Monday, November 16, 2015

right up there

"Do you want freezing?" he asked kindly, leaning closer.
"Uhh....will I need it?"
"Only for a couple seconds. Three. Three Seconds," he said with conviction.
"Nah, go ahead."

This conversation took place today but the story really began Saturday night.
Just before bed.
You know, on one of those evenings when you brush your teeth on automatic pilot and half-hardheartedly floss.
One of those evening when you expect to droop tiredly into bed with your mind set on some internal easy listening channel.
An evening whence you are counting on Sleep to mercifully rescue you from a thousand thoughts.
And then suddenly.......no crown.
It toppled off.
My real crown.
In my mouth.
A gold one I've grown rather fond of.
There was an ominous clink and there it was, on my tongue like a piece of macabre jewelry.

As I lay in bed I tallied up the good news and the bad news.
The bad news was that it was Saturday night.
That would mean no eating until I could get to my dentist on Monday.
If he could squeeze me in.
And things involving crowns and glue tend to be pricey.
That was the bad news.
The good news was that I had a new fairy godmother waiting in the wings called A Dental Plan.
And I had no pain.
And I hadn't lost the crown, or broken the crown, or swallowed the crown.
That seemed like pretty good news.
More good news than bad.
Strange how the heart and head don't always agree.
I felt grateful and fairly optimistic but my heart still beat faster. I didn't just drift off to sleep as per Plan A but turned about on my pillow like a chicken on a spit for longer than necessary.

Monday morning revealed much more good news though.
There was a parking spot EXACTLY in front of my dentist's office. What??!!! That never happens and it was pouring rain too. I felt like a celebrity stepping out of a limo when I stepped to the curb and hastened up the stairway.
I had been afraid that the crown would not be able to be reused and some other dire remedy would be suggested.
Instead, my dentist crowed with delight as he held the crown aloft after doing a trial fit.

I was soon leaning against the counter with wobbly knees, brandishing my bank card.
"There's no charge," the receptionist said, smiling.
She warmly agreed when I declared my dentist to be a VERY gracious man.

Relief is one of my favourite feelings.
It's right up there with happiness.

Wednesday, October 21, 2015

like comfort

Isn't there such passion in the rising of the sun?
The kind that floods your soul with light and fire.
A rush, a flare of color so intense you can't name it.
Purple, plum, terracotta, molten gold, fire,
fire....and then all is silver and grey,
like comfort.

wanting

The sunrise this morning was so beautiful, it broke a spell I have been under. I found myself wanting to catch those flaming colors in the sky and keep them in my blog for another day. Morning skies are filled with magic.
By the time I rushed to the computer, the heavy bank of purple cloud, frosted with magenta had lightened and the horizon was afire with apricot light as the sun rose behind the fringe of evergreen.

bad suits

"Oh, bad suits!" my baby granddaughter exclaimed. I knew in a flash she was quoting me.
Oh Gadzooks.

Tuesday, August 11, 2015

the good queen

The good queen (AKA my mom)
has gone to her summer residence (AKA the physio ward at the hospital)
where ladies in waiting are attending her with loyal devotion.
From her lofty (and fully adjustable) perch she surveys her kingdom which contains a stack of magazines, three books, cards, notes, coloring pencils, two small stuffed animals and an exuberantly blooming hydrangea in a lavender pot.

When I was a little girl I got pneumonia one summer and had a short stay in the hospital.
I was too sick to enjoy the adventure until the very last few days I was there but one of the things I remember even now was the thrill of lifting the great silver dome that covered my plate at dinner time.
Ta da!
It made me feel like a queen.
Not a princess.
A queen.

They don't use great silver domes anymore. They're smallish plastic covers now but there's still an element of surprise and suspense around Supper At The Hospital.
To help ease the suspense, the hospital includes a small menu where the items on the tray are duly recorded just in case you don't recognize them.
Pudding or soup?
Carrots or turnips?
Tea or coffee?
My mother carefully glances over the list.
She never was one for surprises.

Thursday, July 30, 2015

nature of love


This picture is an oldie. It isn't from my stash of photos, shifting endlessly in a drawer. It wasn't taken out of my mother's black paged albums either, nor my grandmother's shoe box of photos. I doubt that it belonged to my great grandmother either although it is a picture of her uncle. Photography was expensive then and I imagine that the picture was given to her parents. It's a photo of William John Haddock, and would have been a very elegant and appreciated gift to give a brother and his wife.
Doesn't my great, great, great Uncle look distinguished? Isn't his hair amazing?
He looks very sober but he was a judge and that is a very serious business.
This photo makes me ponder the fate of old family pictures.
It has been spared the Great Cull that is inevitable as the baton of life passes from generation to generation.
It has somehow managed to survive the turning of two centuries, two world wars, and a yawning gulf of time that has made dear Uncle William a complete stranger.
But he was my great, great, grandfather Robert's big brother.
He was a teenager when the Haddock's made their voyage across the Atlantic to begin anew.
The Civil War was waiting in the wings.
Both brothers fought and survived those perilous times.
I am certain that Robert loved his brother William.
And that Robert's daughter Minerva loved him as well.
Minerva had something in common with her Uncle.
She left all and moved to a new country.
Beginning anew.
Minerva and Rufus C. Ray.
My great grandparents.
Letters and postcards traveled back and forth between Alberta and Iowa.
The tie remained for a time.
My own mother never met or even spoke of this man and yet I feel something so familiar as I look at his portrait.
More than a hundred years have rolled along.
Can love be passed down?
Or the memory of love?
I think it can.
It's in the nature of love.

Thursday, July 23, 2015

be bi bo bangle





starlight bright bangle






shell pink bangle




cobalt blue bangle






like gems


A whole bunch of beautiful bangle-y button bracelets. (in a basket) This post was brought to you by the letter B apparently.


I made the white one one several years ago. I always feel so special when I wear it. All those vintage white and mother of pearl buttons are like little jewels. And it has just the right weight to hang low on my wrist and jangle softly as I move. I love it so.
When a tin of buttons fell out of my cupboard, raining down like a kaleidoscope of hail, it occurred to me that buttons in the cupboard are hoarded buttons, whilst buttons stitched into bracelets are not just jewelry, but a collection on display; a handful of happiness.


I spent a lovely afternoon yesterday stitching buttons onto wide black elastic. I made a pink/burgundy/coral bracelet first. The colors combined have a tension that excites the eye. And pink was apparently a popular vintage color. I had a hard time choosing from many.
I made the blue one next. True blue. There is a VERY old cobalt blue glass button with faceted face stitched amidst the bakelite and vintage aqua's. Blue is one of those colors that is a neutral without even trying.
The tan/cream one came next. I hadn't thought to include those colors but there were so many amazing buttons in shades of wicker that I fell under their spell.
The silver/pewter one came last. Well, last for now. It has an especially wonderful feel on my wrist. So blingy. The dull burnished glow is so elegant. Who knew old coat buttons could feel like gems.
I think I'm going to try to create a necklace next. i don't like anything I've seen on Pinterest but if I slide them around on the table an idea may come.

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

well seasoned

We are seasonal creatures.
Don't you think that's true? Plants don't do the same things all year round. Neither do animals.....some even change color.
And I think we're no different.

The seasons march by in their pre-ordered order.
It can be hard to stay in step with the changing of the guard.
To enjoy the moment even while it is shifting underfoot.

When the cloak of summer heat lies breathless and heavy I long for soup and stew days of autumn, air crisp and smoky.
And in autumn, I find my thoughts straying ahead to frosty nights and silent snow.
Then windy wild spring.morns while all around is still and gray..

The circle of seasons stirred a longing almost restless.
Caused my eye to search the horizon.
Sort of seemed disloyal to the moment....

Now I think what I'm really longing for is simply change and the energy that seems to infuse transition.
It's mid-summer but I hear the distant notes of autumn.
Play on.

Monday, July 20, 2015

all around

All around is heat.
And color.
His bright blue pants,
a smolder of purple shirt,
and hot pink T-shirt,
a rosy red electric guitar,
and a couple dancing the samba on the sand.

i felt it

The Harrison Festival of the Arts was as hot as a jalapeno this year.
Maybe hotter.
I survived by darting under the icy spray of the beach shower several times. My dripping hair was dry in a blink and waywardly curled by the steamy breath of July.
The music was pretty hot too with songs like, Save Me For Later by bluesy Suzie Vinnick.
"They say cookin' it slow brings out the flavor darlin' save me for later."
Her voice, rich and sweet and warm.
Drums like hail and thunder.
And bluesy base.
Big, bad, bluesy base that played up and down our spines.
And Matuto shouting, "I say feel it...
feel it,
feel it,
FEEL IT."

I felt it.

Monday, July 13, 2015

it does

I found a piece of my mind.
It was just lying around....
a little scrap of paper that I had written on with a dull pencil

Doesn't kindness break your heart?

It does.
But sometimes it needs to break to let in the light.

Thursday, June 25, 2015

part time magic

My granddaughter has a marvelous collection of small 'stuffies.' They are her pets. Well, maybe that isn't exactly right. They are her patients. She is a part time Vet.
When she comes to play, she Sets Up Clinic. Kittens and puppies and birds and rabbits line the waiting room. She has even treated a kangeroo and a turtle recently and expanded her Small Animal Practice to include horses as necessary.
Bandages, shots, ex-rays, rehab., medicine; they all work their magic.
The Doctor is IN.

dangerway

"My life has been kind of ironic this year," my grandson stated, throwing the adults around the table into confusion.
After a flurry of murmurers, I wonderingly asked him how.
"Do you remember when I fell?" he asked.
"Do you remember when I fell in the parking lot of Safeway?
"SAFEway," he said, incredulously.
"Oh," I grinned, "It should have been called Dangerway."

sweet on sweet

"I'm hungry Gramma," my tiny granddaughter announces.
"Do you want to make pancakes?" I ask.
Quick as a flash she is beside a dining room chair, wrangling it over to the kitchen counter.
I place a large bowl in front of her and a big mixing spoon.
"Flour," she happily announces.
I hand her the brimming measuring cup and she tips it with a poof into the bowl.
She is only two but she knows pancakes.
And she knows how to count too apparently.
"That's enough," she chirps after the third spoonful of baking powder.
Right on cue.
Her spoon zig zags through the flour while I get the oil and milk and egg ready.
"Ewwww, sloopy," she exclaims as the wet meets dry.
She always says, "Eww sloopy."
It has come to be part of the recipe for me.
Makes me think of the song, Sloopy Hang On every time too and I almost hear a distant tinny jingle.
The little pancakes cook.
The little cook eats.
Sweet on sweet.

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

mine

It was his


but now it's mine.


Monday, June 15, 2015

almost irish

I did a trunk show.
Do you know what that is?
I did a quilt trunk show for a high school grade 11/12 sewing class.
It wasn't a literal trunk of course.
It was a giant suitcase on wheels stuffed to the brim with quiltish pieces and  a giant tote over my shoulder stuffed to the brim too.
Quilt trunk shows were one of the things I loved when I was part of a quilt guild.
I loved hearing and seeing the story of a quilters creative path.
I loved hearing the passion in their voice and seeing their style, unique as a finger print.
I think when you love to do something, when you have a passion, sharing it is inevitable.
And contagious.

I warned the girls that I would be talking as fast as an auctioneer. It would be a sort of archaeological dig through layers of time, up, up, up through fabric and batting.

I began by showing them something I had sewn, when like them, I sat with my foot on a sewing machine pedal in a high school sewing class.
It's crazy that I graduated from high school forty years ago this June.
It's crazier that I still have a grade 12 sewing project in my cupboard.
What!!??


The focus of my grade twelve sewing course was tailoring.
I dutifully stitched up a pale pink jacket with all the bells and whistles; covered buttons, bound button holes, a curved lapel, pleated pockets, lining......


It looked pretty good on too. Added curves. That could only be a good thing.


I also made a skirt to go with it.
A-line.
Kind of has a prim and proper vibe somehow.
Looks can be so deceiving.
How in the world has this suit survived all of the Pack It Up And Throw It Out purges that happen over the years. Especially since I moved nine times in the first five years I was married.
It's a mystery.

The girls duly admired my quilts, and were the perfect audience, involved and attentive.
It was a lot of fun.

There was one quilt that seemed to be a favourite. The girls all said, OHHHHHHHHH, in unison. It is an unfinished quilt, a work in progress actually, composed of scrappy sixteen patches. It reads as an almost Irish chain. Wow, Almost Irish would be such a great name for it. My mom has already dubbed it My Blue Heaven but maybe it could have two names.



I had originally planned to set the blocks on point but decided that having the 'Almost Irish Chain' running diagonally was actually more interesting.
I plan to add two more rows to the length and then add an oversized four patch border.
Maybe.
And an Ikea bird print for the backing.
Maybe.
That is part of the allure of quilting; the sense of mystery and surprise.
It never gets old.

just under

I sometimes feel like I'm spread as thin as a skiff of butter on a slice of toast.
Hit and miss.
Barely there.
Don't think that I'm claiming to be too busy, although I've had those seasons in my life; those times when a heady combination of duty and pleasure keep your feet skimming just above the ground.

Instead, I feel like I have become fallow land.
But is that a bad thing?

Perhaps something is happening that I can't see.
Something green and fresh.
Just under the surface.

neither do I

I"ve had a bit of a dip. Which is to say a bit of a down. If I recorded all of my ups and downs on this blog I would seem like the human equivalent of a yo yo.
Actually, yo yo's are pretty fascinating. When things are going right, they take on a mesmerizing rhythm.
Of course, when things are not going right, they sputter and stutter and stall.
The stall is always on the down swing.
Yo yo's never stall up.
Neither do I.

Thursday, June 11, 2015

grand


Nothing like a little 'time lapse' quilting to capture the fun of designing a quilt.


I began 2015, as has become my habit, by creating my Wee Quilt for for the yearly challenge at McDougall Cottage. This year the theme was The Garden and The Grand and I wanted to say something about gardens and rivers. I wanted to honor all that is precious and irreplaceable about them.


I began with the idea of Canadian geese. Geese and goslings are a wonderful harbinger of spring along Canadian waterways.


Or course, every entry in the Wee Quilt Challenge must include some plaid fabric so I chose to express the reflective quality of water in plaid.


I extended the plaid behind the head of the goose to create as great a value difference as possible.


The fabric I used for the body of the goose had a lot of movement and texture and I hoped it would add to the illusion of feathers.


I began to block in the river bank and foliage. I had decided on daffodils and primrose.


I changed one of the goslings and added flower petals.


I kind of like this earlier version of daffodils and would just add some dark shadows and highlights if I did it again.


The orange frill on the daffodil seemed necessary to balance the weight of color in the clump of primrose.


Sandwiching a small project is such a simple, joyous thing. So bite size.


I decided to use paisley on the back. I'm kind of sentimental about paisley. After all, it was a paisley shawl that caused my great, great, great grandparents to pack up, lock, stock, and barrel and travel across the sea to North America.


Quilting a small project is a simple, joyous thing too. I loved creating ripples on the surface of the water, and fuzzy feathers on the goslings. It wasn't too late at this point to do some minor tweaking. I added a smidge more water to create the value change necessary to help a gosling beak stand out and made the silhouette of the goslings slimmer.


I bound the finished quilt in the same basket weave fabric that bound last years entry. It reminds me of an antique wicker picture frame.


My little quilt traveled across the Rocky Mountains and the Prairies, all the way to Ontario where it will hang until the end of June. When it comes back to me like a homing pigeon, it will have a nice big blue ribbon attached. Hooray!!
Guardians of the Grand has won the "Grand" Family Award.

Monday, June 8, 2015

chopped


Once upon a time my daughter gave me two identical charm packs.
I promptly chopped them into a towering stack of triangles.
All the more design possibilities that way I figured.


The colors were dazzling.
So unexpected.
I had never sewn with watermelon pink, lemon, lime, dark chocolate and iced aqua all at the same time.
I had never even thought of combining those colors at the same time.
But someone clever had.
Hooray for charm packs.


If you love scrappy quilts like I do, charm packs are a wondrous thing.
And best of all, I think they give you a shove in directions you might not have ventured. They encourage/force you to work with colors and patterns you mightn't try on your own.
Sort of like switching shopping carts with a stranger at the till.
Or a quilter's version of Chopped.

 

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

sketches


Watercolor sketches of chickadee's and squirrels.

Thursday, May 28, 2015

for goats


I seem to have developed an affection for goats. Isn't that strange? Mind you my grandparents had goats, a whole herd of goats, snow white against the weathered hillside or wandering amongst the Queen Ann's Lace.
Goats are hard wired to climb and I remember a picture of them standing on the barn roof in the winter.
Looking for spring no doubt.

painting fool


A spotted fawn is hiding in my garden. I painted it many a year ago when I was a reckless, brush wielding, canvas, wood, and rock painting fool.
Kind of miss those days.
Miss the painting.
Perhaps it is my first love.

Monday, May 25, 2015

like....congratulations


I have hastened past this photo more than once as I've trolled through old family photos. Today I realized with a jolt that the rather austere woman on the right is the very woman I was nearly named after.
Gadzooks.
Apparently in 1957, there was a bumper crop of babies born in the Royal Inland Hospital, and I was the 1000th. Woohooo, like.... "congratulations, you're the 1000th customer"- cue the confetti and balloons!!' The local paper reported this great moment in history but My mom always felt they could have at least given her a spoon or something.
Enter great, great Aunt Mildred.
My great grandmother's sister-in-law.
Some helpful soul actually suggested to my mother that since Mille and 1000 are sympatico, then calling me Mildred, whence I might be nicknamed Millie would be just the thing to do.
What!!??
I was a little girl in the 60's and a teenager in the 70's. I can tell you first hand that Mildred was NOT a name that would have been at home in EITHER of those decades.
Mind you, I kind of like the name Millie now. It conjures up a certain retro sweetness.
Minnie and Millie and Ella and Allie. Those names would have walked arm and arm once upon a time.
It's taken more than a hundred years for people to re-discover their feminine sweetness.
Sorry Auntie.

I actually have something else to say about this photo of great, great Aunt Ella and great, great Aunt Mildred.
All names aside, the more I look at this picture, the more I love it.
Isn't body language a wondrous thing?
Aunt Ella is perched on the edge of the carriage. She is the picture of inner calm. Her hair is styled low over one ear with only the sun slanting down on it. Her hat isn't primly and properly in place, but held casually in her hands. The shapeless sweater adds a further casual note. Aunt Mildred to the right, is a stunning contrast. Her hat is exactly level, exactly large and exactly black. Her jacket is crisply tailored, almost sober. In fact, her stance says sober or perhaps propriety. It gives me a vague sense of unease. I've never been good with propriety. I've been good with shapeless sweaters and bare hair under the sun though.
And I've been good with leather shoes.
Aren't theirs great?

Sunday, May 24, 2015

i am woman

It's nail polish time again.
Toe nail polish.
I never paint my fingernails. If they were glossy and bright, I'm sure I'd be so distracted I'd put a fork in my ear or shift the car into neutral on the freeway.
Toes are different.
I love painted toenails
I've talked about the delights of painted toes before.
This year, I think I'm going to spring for a new color. Something unexpected.
Something that looks as good as it sounds; Raging Rhubarb or Stolen Kiss or maybe even Mercury Glass.
I am woman hear me purr.

maybe even

Have you ever wondered who gets to name paint chips? Does a committee huddle around a table, voting on names? Or does a single lucky soul sit down and begin to write with a flourish, Dove Wing, Fresh Linen, Moon Dust, Fuzzy Mitten, Paris Sky......
Would you rather paint a room Potato Peel or Vichyssoise, Twine or Cardigan?
I think some of the names were acts of desperation made late on a Friday afternoon.
By then color would be swirling round and round and the names of each would run across the horizon like the news on CNN.
Perhaps the Paint Chip Namer rushes home to a completely white apartment each evening;
Ironstone White or Powder or Handkerchief or maybe even Perfect Pearl.

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

on the wind

Sometimes I write something several times and choose my favourite line:

White butterflies, fluttering like bits of paper in the wind.

Small white butterflies like bits of paper tossed by the hand of the wind.

Little white butterflies dancing over my garden like paper on the wind.

infused with hope

”What should we throw out today?” I ask my husband happily.
We've been striking a blow for serenity.
We've been simplifying our foyer.
Now those two statements might not seem remotely linked but they truly are.
Our entry way (foyer) has been making a very bad first impression on visitors to our home for an entire decade.
It has been dark and dingy and dusty. 
Dust always settles where indecision or apathy reign. 
This time it was likely a bit of both. First, indecision which left unchallenged gave way to apathy.
All that changed this spring when I made a decision. The wall paper had to go.
In fact, I made the decision in the very split second that I reached out and twitched a strip of paper off the wall. And then another.
Every time I descended the stairs for the next week or two, (or three) I twitched off another piece and then another.

I am married to a man who can catch a ball, even one thrown a bit on the wide side by me, and run with it. 
And make a spectacular touch down.

I should have taken 'before' pictures.
I'll take 'after' pictures though.

My husband has accrued so many brownie points that he could bank them for years to come.
He is a very hard working and particular man and I treasure his hard work for what it truly is, a large and lavish bouquet.

Our entry feels so different now.
So open and infused with hope.

makes me wonder

"Is the spring coming?" he said. "What is it like?"

Isn't that the oddest thing you ever read? I found it amongst old blog post drafts and had no idea who I was quoting or where I planned to go with it.
Sometimes I jot down a sentence or a few words although it's usually on a scrap of paper that wafts off, never to be seen again by mortal eye, or at least for a year or two. When I do happen upon it again I am not only delighted, but transported back to that very moment. It's a sort of form of time travel. Safer though.
P.S. Turns out to be a quote from The Secret Garden. Ahhh, yes, that makes sense.

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

A+

Two leather bracelets.


Two dollars


Two bracelets + a Twoonie=Thrift Shop Math