I’ve been
washing old candle jars and lids to give to Lydia, because she makes candles.
Not like I do – my candlemaking consists of melting whatever is left in the
bottom of a candle after it quits burning and then pouring it together willy-nilly
with other melted waxes until I have a jarful of striped candle. Lydia, on the other hand, makes hers with
fragrant oils, new wax, dyes, and pretty molds.
Did you
know that after you melt the same wax over and over (and over), it finally has a gooey, limp
texture, and never gets totally hard? Plus, it eventually loses its
scent.
So you
see, I’m not actually trying to make candles, I’m just trying to use
up candles. There’s a
difference.
One day last week, I sent a text to Larry and
Victoria: “I keep finding the basement door
open in the mornings, and the cats are liable to ruin the batting on my quilt!”
The cats
think that the part of the batting that lies on the floor is their personal bed.
They aren’t getting it dirty, really, but they do stretch it, and could
tear it.
Larry promptly responded, “I never go down there unless you are down there.”
Now, I knew
he meant, ‘when you are down there sewing’,
but I wrote back anyway: “Chicken.”
Victoria, as usual, ‘distinctly’ remembered shutting
the door.
Obviously, Teensy has learned to open doors.
Here’s Jeremy and Lydia’s house through the seven
years they’ve lived there. It started
out with white siding... then Jeremy put brick and stone on it – and now he’s
building an addition that’s bigger than the original house. He’s trying to finish the outside before winter,
when he’ll work inside painting trim and laying carpet and so forth.
Remember the finch I rescued from Teensy last Monday
afternoon? Well, only a few hours later,
Teensy came in, found Tabby’s food, and settled down to eat it ----- first dropping the baby bunny he’d carried
in. AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGHHH
I bawled out the cat – “BAD!!!” and booted him (gently, he’s getting old, after all) away
from bunny and soft food. “BAD!!!”
I carried the bunny out and released him in the
hostas, winding up with blood on my hands.
(Literally, not figuratively.)
Nevertheless, I tell myself the bunny will be fine, and then I run for
my life (straight to the soap and water).
I am not a veterinarian.
I must not think about it... I must not think about
it... I must not think about it...
Tuesday morning as I curled my hair, I listened to
news and weather, as I do most every morning. Did you ever listen to the
announcer naming off the towns where it’s raining, and think, I didn’t even know there was a town by that
name in our state. Sometimes I pull
up a Google map and hunt it down.
I put clothes
into the washer... scrubbed the bathroom... did a bit of kitchen cleaning...
and then went to work on plum-colored dresses for the wedding. By 1:30 a.m., I had a good deal of Joanna’s
candlelighting dress done, but I was getting sleepy, and decided I’d better
stop for the night, before I made a big blunder. My recliner was calling
me! I did some computer work – paying bills, photo-editing, answering emails,
and reading the requisite breaking news (earthquake in Italy) – and then hit
the feathers.
Wednesday, I had a blueberry streusel muffin for
breakfast, washed down with Amaretto coffee, made with fresh
ground beans from Christopher Bean. Mmmm, mmm.
I filled
the bird feeders. Whoever thought ‘eat
like a bird’ meant ‘to eat small amounts’ didn’t know much, did he? Most birds eat half their weight in food
every day!
I shook
the bathroom rugs... swept and vacuumed the floors... got the last of the
clothes off the line... watered the houseplants and the pumpkin vine in a pot
on the back deck... sent some birthday cards... and fed the cats. I
started putting away the clothes – and found Tiger in the big cubbyhole under
our tall bed when I opened a door at the foot to put away some jeans.
There he
was, curled up and staring at me with beseeching golden eyes, rather nervous
about this unexpected turn of events. He usually sleeps outside.
I laughed
and told him, “It’s okay, you can stay there,” and quietly shut the door
again. I would put the jeans away later.
Tiger is more liable to be frightened of women than of men – their feet, in
particular. Some Wicked Witch of the
West has obviously kicked him around. Every day, it takes some quiet
talking and petting before he again realizes, Oh, yes, this one is
nice to me, and then his purr rumbles into gear, and he starts wrapping
himself around my ankles.
Meanwhile,
Teensy was sleeping atop the
bed. If the twain should meet, there would doubtless be steam-engine
acoustics issuing from one or both ferocious felines. When this happens
and I’m in hearing range, I generally yell (I prefer to stop fights before they escalate, and I have to haul
one or both off to the vet for treatment of infected wounds), and cats skedaddle
lickety-split in opposite directions, there to seat themselves regally and
stare off into space in dignified demeanor, in order to convince me ‘it were de
uzzer guy’s fault’.
I headed
downstairs to resume sewing, putting the lining into Joanna’s dress. I’m worrying... Is this big enough??
This doesn’t look big enough. Where did we get this fabric, in case I
need more???!!
It’s
easier to fit quilts to beds than it is to fit dresses to girls.
Somebody posted a photo of her sewing room on a
Facebook quilters’ group. My word, it
was a total calamity. There were large
and small pieces of rumpled fabric littering every flat surface from table to
floor. Cutting mat, rotary cutters,
scissors, pins, yardstick, tape measure, purse, sweaters, and multiple pairs of
shoes were strewn across the floor ’til the wood flooring could scarcely be
seen. The sewing desk was a jumble of
fabric, patterns, scissors, snips, cups, bowls, spoons, and partially-sewn
quilt pieces. Every chair was buried in
jetsam and flotsam, and the bookcase contents, part books and part knickknacks
and gewgaws, were all topsy-turvy.
Some of the ladies on the group were astonished and
horrified... others announced that it looked exactly like theirs.
“You must be my twin!” said one. “The neater
one,” she added.
Good grief.
If the heater under a table should go on, that
woman’s going to clean up the entire room fast...
with the help of the local Fire Department.
Actually, she’ll probably clean her whole house right off the face of
the earth.
I lugged the
heavy roll of plum-colored satin out to the Jeep, followed by the smaller roll
of lining and some thread, to give to Lydia after church that night. She’s going to make Kurt’s and Jacob’s satin
vests.
Here’s
Tabby doing his best interpretation of unraveled yarn.
Cats are
good at impersonations. Why do you think
someone coined the word ‘copycat’?
Tabby is
18 ½ years old. He seems healthy enough,
but he’s such a skinny little thing! I
try my best to coax him to eat his soft food, all day long. Anytime he comes begging for food, I promptly
give it to him.
A friend
wrote to say that her beloved little dog had died that week. Our pets die too soon.
We could
get a parrot! They live an average of 75 years. And a tortoise, to
keep it company – they live twice that long, an average of 150 years (if
they survive babyhood, that is). {But
then the tortoise would be crying, when owner and parrot alike depart
this place.}
The
Palomino that Larry and his siblings rode as kids was 32 or 33 when he died,
years after we were married. But Sparkle, my Most Wonderful Dog in the
World, only lived to age 14.
Donkeys
live a long time. 40 is a very common
age for them, and the oldest donkey in the world died not too long ago at over
70. They’re smart as can be, and really
love their owners, if they are treated kindly.
If you have a horse and want to ride him, you generally have to go catch
him. But donkeys will be right there beside
you the moment you step into the corral, wanting to be petted and looking for
treats. You can teach them just about
anything that enters your head, if you have the time and patience and
understanding. As a bonus, they love to mug for the camera. And
they talk funny.
After
getting the majority of the seams done on Joanna’s dress and quite a few on Emma’s,
I debated whether or not to overlock them.
The satin, since it has lycra in it, isn’t too ravelly, but the lining
does ravel a bit. I might not overlock the satin ... or if I do, I’m
going to do each side of the seam separately, so it won’t be too bulky. But
I think I will not overlock the seams that are enclosed in the lining. Overlocking can imprint the right side of the
fabric when it is ironed. I’ve done that before – and once done, there’s
no recovering.
I belong
to an online serging group, and one of the ladies is forever saying, “I’m going
to serger these pjs!” (or whatever it is she’s making) or “I’ve been sergering
all day long!” hee hee
Once upon
a time, about 30 years ago, I was feverishly sewing Christmas dresses for
Hannah and Dorcas, ages 5 and 4, the night before our Christmas program.
The fabric was a red silky stuff with a gold metallic thread running through
it. I sewed black lace on the multitudes of skirt ruffles and
over-the-shoulder ruffles, set in a black chiffon yoke on the bodice, attached
a black chiffon sash, and put in black chiffon sleeves. Those dresses
were adorable, if I do say so myself. I took the last stitch, turned off
my sewing machine, went to the iron, set the iron down on a sleeve – and the
hungry thing ate it. I mean, it gobbled a large hole right
out of the middle of that sleeve.
I had
neglected to press the Steam button before touching iron to fabric.
Luckily, I
had just barely enough chiffon left to cut another sleeve. I took out the
old… put in the new… and finished (again) at 4:00 a.m.
Morning
came pretty quickly, that day.
Dorcas
sent some pictures of baby Trevor Thursday.
He turned six months old the next day, the 26th. Ian, too, is six months old. Time flies!
For breakfast
that day I had half a sourdough English muffin, toasted, with strawberry fruit
spread, followed by a small glassful of Knudsen grapefruit juice. A small
glassful is all I can cope with. I like it, but wheweeeeeeee, is
that stuff ever sour! It’s not from concentrate; nothing
but organic, squeezed grapefruit is in it. Whether you like it or not,
ain’t nobody can drink that stuff without making funny faces!
I calmed
my tastebuds with a steaming cup of Cameron’s Buttered Rum coffee. No, I
don’t drink coffee with alcohol in it; it’s flavored coffee beans, fresh
ground. A couple of winters ago I had
sinus infection, and the doctor gave me Amoxicillin. Then I told a friend I was soothing my throat
with Irish Crème coffee, and she got all excited and told me I mustn’t
combine alcohol and penicillin, I mustn’t!
Relax,
relax! It’s non-alcoholic. I’ve
never had a drop of alcohol in my life.
The
closest I’ve ever come to alcohol (other than the time we rescued a couple of
staggering drunks from their upside-down vehicle in the ditch) was the time
when I was three years old and found a six-pack out in front of our house,
sitting there on the then-graveled street in the sun on a hot summer’s
day.
What in
the world, I wondered. (That may have
been the first time I ever saw a beverage in a can; dunno.) I pulled a
tab.
Spszzzzzzztttttttwhooooooshhhh!
It sprayed all over me.
My word,
I thought. Do they always do that? I pulled another tab.
Spszzzzzzztttttttwhooooooshhhh!
That one sprayed all over me, too.
I headed
for the house at a trot to tell my mother of those strangely behaving objects
out there.
I did not
get a word out edgeways before my ladylike, gentle mother made a terrible face
and exclaimed, “Oh, pewwww, oh, my goodness, what have you gotten
into??!” and before I could answer, she swooped me up, rushed for the bathroom,
and threw me into the tub, clothes and all. She started the water,
grabbed a small pitcher, and began dumping water over me, exclaiming over the
stench all the while.
I had
never been so insulted in my whole life, and certainly never by my mother.
After a
bit, she removed my sopping wet clothes and rushed off to the washing machine
with them, then scurried back and gave me the scrubbing of my life.
And now
you’ve had your BSD (Beer Story of the Day).
(I wonder
if my mother would approve of Cameron’s Buttered Rum?)
That
evening when Larry got off work, he stopped by Jeremy and Lydia’s house to give
Jacob and Jonathan a motorcycle ride.
Lydia took a video: Jacob, Jonathan, and Grandpa
Be sure
you click the little gear icon in the lower right and bump the quality up to
480p.
The little
white helmet Jonathan is wearing was mine when I was little.
Friday, I put narrow chiffon
plackets into long, full chiffon sleeves, and started putting together the lining
for Emma’s dress.
That day,
I finally found the pdf files from Nebraska State Fair listing winners in
quilts and textile arts. My name is not
on either list. So now I want to see all
the winning quilts and other things!
They must be really, really pretty, ’cuz my stuff was really pretty,
too, you know!
I took Loren some supper
that evening: wild-caught Alaska salmon, sweet potatoes, asparagus,
blueberry streusel muffins, and lime jello.
Home again, I was washing
some dishes when I heard a little bird in the lilac bush scolding away at Tabby,
who was on the front porch. It was some kind of a wren – but it didn’t sound
like our house wrens.
Ah! Found it:
it’s a Bewick’s wren. These aren’t usually in our area. Here’s what I heard: Bewicks Wren sounds. Scroll down below ‘Songs’, and it’s the third
audio clip under ‘Calls’, the ‘Scolding call’.
By
bedtime, I had most of the little girls’ dresses together. The lining does not appreciate hot steam. It prefers a setting between cotton
and wool, no steam, and a quick iron. I
rumpled an area with a hot burst of steam, but managed to press it back down
okay with a dry iron.
Saturday, I started on
Robin’s bridesmaid dress, and got it about a third of the way done.
Tomorrow it
will be time to post the next step on the Buoyant Blossoms quilt. You know, I’ve never really cared for
block-of-the-month quilts when I was on the receiving end, because I don’t
like drawing things out for so long, and doing it in trickles and spurts and
stops. I want the whole works, all at once! Now I find I am not
liking it a whole lot better, being on the giving end of it ---- because
I forget where in the world I was, and all the steps I went through in posting
the pattern here and there the last time. I do have a detailed
list of the steps, so I can do this month what I did last month and not skip
something vital. So let’s hope I can get things right, and not lead
trusting quilters down the wrong road.
One of the
things I’m doing, just to make matters more complicated, is offering two different
sizes for the Buoyant Blossoms quilt. For those who are making a wall
hanging, I’ve already put out enough blocks, and they are waiting for the
pieced set of borders. For those who are making a full quilt, there are
still four more flower blocks to go ---- but next month’s BOM will be ... borders.
Borders they won’t be able to put on yet.
How do
other people who put out BOMs go about this?
I’ve looked around... haven’t found any similar scenarios. So I blunder
along, trying hard to think about it from the quilters’ point of
view. Siggghhhh... If I ever get this thing printed up in a
book like I hope to do someday, people who have tried to follow along
each month may buy it just so they can take it home and stab it with tiny pitchforks
and run their rotary cutters over it in fits of pique!
Someone on a sewing group recently offered to copy
and print some patterns for another lady and send them to her. Yikes, she
had all the group owners, several wannabe owners, and various righteous
and self-righteous folks bursting from the woodwork and spewing sawdust and
sparks all over the place.
As I was sewing, I heard an odd sound – a
scrabbling, and the sound of a glass jar scooting on cement. Teensy had something cornered under Larry’s
desk, under which are stored half a dozen canning jars. I kept still, hoping he’d go ahead and catch
it, as I couldn’t easily get to it. If
it was a mouse, I’d let him incapacitate the thing and then pitch both cat and
rodent out the patio door. If it was a
bunny, I’d rescue the poor little thing fast,
and let it loose outside.
((...minutes passed by...))
Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AAAAaaarrrrrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhh! It was a bunny.
I yelled, Teensy dropped it, I snatched it up, and
put it outside. When the poor little
thing realized it was free of the dreadful feline, it scrambled in quite a
lively fashion to get to safety. I
couldn’t see any obvious wounds on it.
Let’s say it went home to its family with much fanfare and laud, and
lived happily ever after.
Once again, I gave Teensy a lecture, punctuated with
frequent words of “bad kitty!” He stared
reproachfully; then, when the recriminations died down, made himself scarce.
An hour later he was back, treading delicately and doing
his best King Agag impersonation: “Surely
the bitterness of death is past.” He
purred, rubbed around my ankles, purred, leapt into my lap, purred, made bread
on my knee, purred, butted his head on my arm, purred, leaned against me, and
purred. I accepted his apology, though I
knew perfectly well his repentance was no more than fur deep.
That night, I
asked Larry if he’d gotten the mail. “My
new invisible zipper foot might have arrived,” I told him.
“How do
you find the zipper to unzip it, if it’s invisible?” he asked.
By the
time I quit for the day, all three dresses were mostly put together.
The quilt
on my frame is feeling really neglected and woebegone.
When we got out of church last night, the brilliant
colors of a beautiful sunset filled the sky.
And I didn’t have my camera. We
hurried home, dashed into the house for camera and tripod, and drove back to
Old Highway 81 to get pictures from the top of the hill.
There are phone
poles in the picture; there always are, when I take photos there. Oh, well.
If you can’t eradicate ’em,
incorporate ’em! Just add them to the diorama in as artistic a manner as
possible.
My sister Lura Kay sprained her ankle Friday when she
fell on her garage steps. For a while she
thought it was surely broken, but about the time she was ready to have X-rays
taken, it improved enough to convince her it was only a sprain. She used our mother’s walker to get around
for a couple of days; but is able to walk better now.
Larry
and I had a late meal of Campbell’s Chunky Sirloin Burger and Country Vegetable
soup with Multi-Grain Club crackers. I
opened a bag of just-thawed peaches, the ones I picked from the tree in the
back yard last month. I’d hoped that because I sliced and froze them at
the height of ripe perfection, they’d be good to just thaw and eat. Mmmm, mmm... were they ever. They tasted like
fresh-picked peaches.
Aaaaaaaaaaaa... katydid in the house! Katydid in the house! ((...hunting down a flyswatter...)) And now that I have the flyswatter, the
katydid has climbed up a wall right to the 9-foot ceiling, well beyond my
reach.
Okay. Ah ain’t
a deadeye with a rubberband fer nuttin’, ah ain’t. ((...hunting down a rubberband...)) Well, this ponytail band will have to do.
Taking aim... letting it fly... Got it, first try. Grabbing
the flyswatter... where’d that thing flutter down to??
Ah-ha! Found him. ((...splat...)) Katydid ain’t no mo’, no mo’, no mo’. Neither is Teensy; he fled for his life. He hates flyswatters. I wonder if his former owner used to smack
him with them?
Pulling out the canned cat
food... doling out treats... There. Now Teensy’s happy again. (And so is Tabby.)
A friend writes to me that she used to read her
horoscope until she realized that it was a form of fortune-telling, which is
taught against in the Bible. One of the more
negative descriptions of one born under her ‘sign’ actually did describe her,
but she purposefully decided not to be that way – and isn’t.
Okay, that
made me curious. What sign was I born under? I can never remember.
Hmmm...
Libra. And first on the list of traits is ‘tactful’. Haha! That’s really funny. I
reckon I can be tactful... but I’m more known for being straightforward
and direct.
Next:
‘balanced’. Haha again! When was I ever known for that? Moderation,
bah. I prefer extremes!
‘Charming’....
okay, I’ll admit to that.
((...fluttering eyelashes charmingly...))
First on
the list of negative traits is ‘superficial – carried away by outer beauty, ignoring
inner qualities of other people.’ Well! Hmmmph! I really take exception to that.
The closest I come to fitting that is in the fact that I don’t
care to be around people who don’t appreciate the qualities of soap and water.
Next:
‘Unreliable. Prone to changing their minds.’ Ha! Why, there
are things I made up my mind about at age 5 that I have stuck to ever
since!
Last: ‘Indecisive. One of the most difficult
things for a Libra is to make a decision.
When faced with a choice, it is very tough for them to select what is
best for them.’ That’s utterly and entirely the opposite from me. I
decide on most everything quick and fast, and rarely change my mind later.
Okay, I’m
done. There’s more, but I’m done. That was ridiculous from the
start, to think that anyone’s general makeup and personality could possibly be
determined by the date on which they were born. The Lord creates us...
and our circumstances shape us somewhat... and we add our own input. Everything is in the hand of an
almighty God – while we nevertheless are given responsibility, too. Sounds like a contradiction, doesn’t it? But it’s not.
Victoria has
been working on the ringbearer pillow.
She’s using gold glass beads to make leaves, and the center vein and
small flower clusters are of small ivory pearls. Isn’t it pretty?
Yesterday Larry used the poppyseed muffin mix to
make waffles. So today I’m having a
banana nut muffin with the lemon frosting that was supposed to go on the
poppyseed muffins. Scrumptious.
Oh! Hummingbird
moth alert! Hummingbird moth (aka white-lined Sphinx moth) alert!
Gotta grab my camer-------- Wait! Hold the phone! Here’s a
real, honest-to-goodness hummer – a ruby-throat! They’re so
pretty... so tiny...
It’s a juvenile
male ruby-throated hummingbird. He tried
out the feeder... but I hope he went away and found himself a flower, instead; that
stuff was rank! I rushed out and got the feeder, and cleaned it
thoroughly while heating sugar water in the microwave.
The glass
feeder is now sparkling clean, with fresh (cooled) nectar in it. The hummingbird has been back a couple of
times, probably more.
Larry just brought in the mail – and the invisible
zipper foot has arrived! The other new
presser foot is a rolled hem foot; it hasn’t come yet. I’ve had both
a 2mm and a 4mm rolled hem foot for my older Bernina since I got the machine, ♫
♪ Long, long ago; ♪ ♫ loooong ago! ♫ ♪, but haven’t had one for my newer Artista
180.
I haven’t
used an invisible zipper foot before, though. Our niece Katie assures me,
“The zipper went in perfectly the very first time I gave it a try!” Then,
“Shocking,” she adds. haha
This dress
still looks too small for Joanna.
Tell me
Joanna is small!!! :-O
((...pouring
a fresh cup of coffee...))
It’s
Caramel Macchiato by Eight O’Clock ... in the souvenir mug I bought at the
Pensacola Lighthouse Museum to give someone as a gift. I gave it ... to me. 😳
I once
posted an ad in the local paper that went something on this order:
“Wonderful
fantastic skilled genius seamstress prepared to create the most fabulously tailored
outfits eye has ever seen.”
(I may
have reworded that a bit)
The day
after the ad came out, I got a call asking for my services.
It was a local
pig farmer. He needed me to put zippers at the ankles of his overalls –
about five pairs of them – so he could get them on and off over his boots.
As I
needed the money, I of course took the job.
!
Did you know overalls belonging to pig farmers don’t smell good?!
I washed
those things four times, in various detergents and rinses. Then I gave
up, held my nose, and sewed as fast as my machine would go.
I called
the man the next day to tell him I was done. He was surprised... offered
to come get them the following week. Aaacckkk, ggaaaaack, I couldn’t wait
that long. I cheerily informed him we were going to be traveling right by
his farm that very evening (didn’t even know where the silly farm was),
and I would drop them off.
Whew.
So much
for grandiose schemes of becoming a Hollywood fashion designer.
,,,>^..^<,,, Sarah Lynn the humble pig-farmer’s overalls
zipper-putter-inner
