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Thursday, May 25, 2017

So Knot Easy Choices

Hi...  My name is Marissa and I'm a craft-aholic.  I was about ten years old when I used to watch a friend's mother making doilies. She had no visible pattern and her crochet hook was always moving a mile a minute, or so it seemed. Her attention was more on the conversations she carried on with friends while she didn't seem to be paying any attention to what her hands were doing. I told myself then that some day I'd learn how to crochet.

I attended a vocational high school where some of the teachers taught two entirely different subjects. Mrs. Rodericks taught quantity cooking to junior girls. We got to make lunch every day (two of four alternating semesters) for the rest of the students. When she wasn't teaching cooking, she taught embroidery. That was my introduction to needle arts. We made samplers of all the stitches we learned, as we learned them, in the same way mothers taught their daughters for hundreds of years.

After I married, I taught myself how to crochet. Checking out diagrams to see how more complicated stitches were done wasn't easy. It was like following one long strand of spaghetti with several twists. After tracing the diagram with a crochet I finally figured out how the stitch was done and got to work. Eventually I was brave enough to make a crocheted tablecloth. All those pineapples weren't so hard to make.

The next thing was learning to knit and eventually I made a cable sweater with pockets for my husband. Some years after we went our separate ways, he told me he still had the sweater.

Every once in a while I get the urge to expand my horizons, challenge myself to learn a new craft, which has led me to one great truth that all crafters share... We are "hoarders".

Hoarding isn't quite the right word. That insinuates we purchase things and just sock them away, never to be seen again. Crafters aren't quite like that, although it may be considered pretty close. We love to lay in large supplies we refer to as "stashes." I don't deny it can get out of hand. If you're not careful, it can become something of an obsession to have whatever we might need available at any time we get a bright idea. Of those bright ideas, I'd say most, if not all the projects, are made for family, friends, or charities. Personally, I make small blankets that go to an animal shelter.  When the cats or dogs are adopted, a blanket they've been using goes home with them. Having something familiar offers a sense of security and makes it easier for them to adjust to their new home.

What used to be bookshelves are now set up in closets and filled with craft supplies. Stashes of fabric in not so organized piles for quilting, tote bags filled with yarn and neatly stacked, embroidery floss and beads in sectioned storage containers, and lots of craft books and patterns. One of the things I want to learn is tatting, with all those lovely little, delicate knots. That should be fun.

Like all good crafters, if I'm not reorganizing, I'm trying to whittle down my stash a bit. Get control of it? No so likely. It just means making room again for something else that'll catch my eye. Ask any crafter what it's like to enter a fabric store or yarn shop and try to ignore those subtle whispers. (My sisters and I refer to those places as Danger Zones. Lead us not into temptation.) When fabric, yarn and beads stop begging me to bring them home, then I know I'm in real trouble. It might knot always be sew fine but as long as it doesn't leave me in a bind, it can be a ton of fun.

If you're a crafter, won't you briefly share your current project?

Saturday, April 22, 2017

Dump the Cook(ing)

For most of my adult life, my philosophy regarding cooking has been: If it takes more than ten minutes to prepare, it takes too long.  Where the attitude came from, I'm not sure, but I could probably blame it on a young family. Like the day I made shepherd's pie and took the time to put it neatly in layers then stick it in the oven for a few minutes to brown the top. I carefully served it up for my boys only to have them stir everything together until it looked like three bowls of gray slop. That was the first time they'd ever done that. Needless to say, I never went through all that trouble again. Just cooked everything, mixed it all together then put it in smaller bowls for them. It seemed the messier the meal looked, the better they liked it.  Go figure.

As time marched on, I graduated to casserole dishes with their nice heavy glass covers. They were still kind of messy, what with the water evaporating and clinging to the inside of the cover until you removed it and the moisture condensed. I don't recall making an actual casserole but whatever I did make in those dishes (had, and still have two of them) it usually came out decent but it was still too easy to end up with it slightly burned.

Along came the slow cookers. I love a slow cooker. Plug it into an outlet on the kitchen counter, put it on simmer and leave it for a few hours. What I don't like about it is trying to clean the earthenware pot that goes inside. Those things are heavy. Add to that the fact I'm short and the kitchen counter is thirty-six inches high. Makes it hard to remove the pot from the cooker but I did find a solution. There are cook-in bags you can stick into that pot but the best part is when I store the left-overs. I let everything cool a bit, then twist the top of the bag, fold it over and put the whole thing into a large storage bowl and into the fridge. No fuss, no muss.

All this has gone one step further and I'd say it's my all-time favorite.  The pros have taken dumping to include side dishes, soup for one, and desserts. You can even collect ingredients, place them in a coffee mug with instructions and give them as gifts. I like the idea of making desserts in a coffee mug. The single serving eliminates the temptation of wanting more without doing the work, as opposed to just cutting another slice of cake, for example.

Cooking shortcuts have come a long way. Chefs have gone so far as to endorse sets of pans that do just about everything and have minimal clean-up. (I've got a couple and they're everything they claim.) There's hope for us yet, whether we lack the knack for food prep or just don't have the patience for it. This "part-time" cook may not get dumped after all, but she's going to be doing a lot more dumping in the future.

Sunday, April 2, 2017

Green Or Black?

Two choices in thumb color present a challenge every year and this year's challenge is just getting started. No matter how the season turns out, I look to the next season to try again. The last few months have been a learning time and it isn't over yet. My apartment faces north which means no direct sunlight, (but it can be bright on sunny days) and downright cold winters. The windows might have double-pane glass but they're set in met frames which means there are some terrific drafts.

By early winter I moved the small plants to a table in the living room where they wouldn't catch cold, (especially when their little roots were watered). The ceiling light isn't the best idea but it's better than nothing on those cloudy days where little light came from the windows. I'd say 90% of the winter days were overcast. The spider plant and devil's ivy were too big to put on the table with the others. That didn't leave me much choice but to keep them in the windows and hope they made it through the winter.  They not only survived, but thrived.

The spider plant produced three runners but keeping it on the window sill isn't exactly idea because those runners can't dangle naturally. Hopefully they can hang in there until I can get them settled into a bigger pot and set it on a barstool near the window. Have you ever seen pictures of large pots with spider plants in them, in a Victorian setting? The leaves seem to go every which way and the 'babies' like to 'hang around.' That's one of my goals this year, to see that plant get huge and have all her little ones clustered around her. Like the old woman who lived in a shoe with all those kids around.

Mom was something of a frustrated gardener. She spent years studying houseplants, reading up on everything she could find about specific ones, their care and feeding. Plant food was organic, fish emulsion, which was supposed to be good for plants. I don't know about that. I only knew when she fed them. The house smelled like fish on those days. (Even cooked fish smelled better.) She got plants that were supposed to be easy to care for. Iron plants were dubbed as being almost impossible to kill, but Mom found a way. Three of them.

She told me several times, "My thumbs are black. I read all I can about plant care and my plants die. You don't do anything besides water your plants and they thrive." I never told her I liked Miracle Grow plant food. She hated that stuff. I felt kind of bad for her and often thought she tried too hard to be successful. After she passed away I was able to keep her last two plants. One, a Z-Z plant, began growing like crazy when I switched it's menu to Miracle Grow, and so did her geranium. Unfortunately, the geranium died recently, as did my two geraniums. I think the apartment had a lot to do with it since it's quite different from the one we had for ten years.

Having gained some plant experience over the last few months, I'm ready to start again for this summer. I have to wait a month longer before doing anything but that's okay. The wait is worth it. To me, a house (or apartment) isn't a home without at least one plant around.

Monday, February 27, 2017

We Interrupt The Commercials...

We were introduced to a new form of entertainment when television came into our homes. There was the Wonderful World of Disney, Tom & Jerry cartoons; adventure shows like Robin Hood, William Tell, Sky King, The Lone Ranger and live comedy shows. Along with the shows, there were sponsors. Of course.

When you had all this transmitted into your home somebody had to pay the bills, so commercials were invented. It was big companies like Texaco, General Electric, Johnson & Johnson that stepped up to help pay those bills. At the same time they got to boost their sales pitches, promote their tried and true products as well as introduce new ones. As television took hold and gained in popularity, so did the number of companies willing to sponsor new shows. It was a money-making idea that couldn't fail.

In the last seventy years or so, commercials (as well as regular programing) have become more sophisticated along with advancing technology. That's all well and good but there comes a point where the whole concept can be overdone. Don't get me wrong. In the last few years there have been some really great/cute commercials. They hold your attention without hammering at you to buy their products. There's the boy dressed as Darth Vader who tries unsuccessfully to use the Force then is startled when the family car starts up. Then there's the Clydesdales. Who doesn't love those magnificent horses? (Have you ever stood near one of those animals? I have and it made me feel small, like a child. They are so huge!)  But when does it get to be a bit much?

A few years ago, viewers complained about the volume of the commercials being louder than the programs they were paying for. I know they want to be seen and heard but when it's startling it kind of defeats the purpose. We don't like being yelled at by some barker intent on making sales. And when a commercial pops up in a bad spot, like in the middle of dialogue, it takes a few seconds to realize the programing has taken a break. Some commercials are good at cutting in seamlessly so you don't realize the switcheroo. After a ton of complaints hit the FCC, something was finally done about the problem. Programs were required to lower the volume on commercials. It sort of worked but it seems to me the advertisers found a way around the problem. The programs were taped/filmed with their own volume turned up a bit so the commercials, in contrast seemed quieter. I don't know about anybody else but that's how it seems to me.

There's another way the advertisers get to you. Have you ever stopped to count how many ads are  run in a single break? I have. In the last month, two of my favorite films have been running on a movie channel. Now, one of those films, I know for a fact, is three hours long. When it was shown, the time slot was four hours, and this wasn't even the Director's Cut.  What I learned was, for every ten minutes of movie and you get five minutes of commercials. Since those commercials are only thirty seconds long, you end up with five commercials at every break. So five minutes of every fifteen means twenty minutes of every hour is devoted to selling some products. At the end of the broadcast, you've seen one hour of advertising. That's sixty commercial messages.

 I know these programs have to be paid for and there are people who love commercials so where do we draw the line? Some years ago, the British had a solution. Commercials didn't run until the end of the broadcasting day. I don't know if they still do it that way, but it might be something to consider.

In the meantime, I suppose all we can do is "interrupt the commercials to return to the regularly scheduled programming."


Dodie stopped and gave her a questioning look. "Tessa, has no one told you? Your groom arrives with the prince."

"My...groom?" Tessa paled.

                                                                    - from Diamond In the Rough

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Finding Unexpected Nuggets

Before Mom passed away a year ago, she told me what she wanted done with her personal library. She  didn't get to finish high school, but she was well read and her library showed that. Nine good sized bookcases were packed with science fiction, European history, thrillers, mysteries and many odd titles. She was fascinated by where dust came from, with the hundreds of years the Thames River was polluted and how it got cleaned up. The fire in the 1600s that nearly wiped out the town of London. There are books on animal stories, one about a family that adopted a donkey, a couple others about beloved pets that traveled with their owners. There are three books that are over seventy years old, given to her as gifts when she was a child.

After I moved to a smaller apartment, I got as many books as I could onto the bookshelves but there's still some eight banana boxes stuffed with all sorts of genres. I didn't pay much attention to Mom's interests since our tastes in reading were as different as night and day. There was also the fact that I have a small library of my own, most of which I have yet to read but I'm getting there, slow but sure. In the process of putting books on shelves I spent a bit more time paying attention to genres, reading blurbs. Authors like Frederick Forsythe, Tom Clancy and Clive Cussler have to wait their turn because another author caught my attention. C. J. Box.

Mr. Box has written a series called the Joe Pickett novels. Joe is married and has three daughters. He's a fish and game warden in the state of Wyoming and has 1500 miles to oversee. And he never fails to find himself in trouble, trying to do the right thing. After reading one of the Pickett novels in Mom's library, I was hooked. (pun intended.) Joe is my current hero. He's more true-to-life than a lot of heroes I've read about over the years. His supervisors don't like him because he refuses to turn a blind eye to some of the goings on in his district, and he also has a reputation for being really hard vehicles and equipment. In his defense, it's rarely his fault.  Joe's friend, Nate Romanowski, might be wanted by the FBI but Joe trusts Nate with his life, and the lives of his family. The two of them often create a formidable team to solve the current mystery.

While Joe and Nate have become an enjoyable part of my reading time, I've been ignoring those other eight cartons of books that sit stacked in a corner of my living room, still needing to be sorted. I believe Anne Perry is hiding in at least one of those cartons. I'm not sure who else might be hiding with her. I do know that about half my own library is sitting in neat little stacks on the floor in my room, waiting patiently for shelf space that also doesn't exist yet. Eventually they'll all be gone through, sorted and some finding new homes. I have a feeling the process is going to take longer than I'd like. After all, who would want to miss out on whatever gems might be waiting to be rediscovered?

Monday, November 21, 2016

When Time Flies...Faster

Do you recall, when you were growing up, the days that seemed to drag on, that didn't want to end? They rarely happen anymore. Life still has a way of coming before the things you'd like to do. Even setting priorities doesn't always help. Still somewhere along the line you seem to manage to find time to do the things you really want, the things that give you pleasure. Like stopping to smell the roses. At those moments, we have the opportunity to take a breather from responsibilities and no matter how briefly, take some time for ourselves. All work and no play…
Have you noticed how time seems to get away from us, even more so as we age? We get to thinking, was it only yesterday... Case in point... A few weeks ago, was my 50th class reunion. I wasn’t able to attend, but that didn’t stop me from wondering who was still around, what they’d been doing these past years, and I remember the boy I had a bit of a crush on. Then there was the visit from a friend and her youngest daughter. Now the last time I recalled seeing her, she wasn't very tall, still wore her hair in two braids and was rather shy. Now, my friend mentioned her daughter’s all grown up and happily married. That's what makes me feel older...seeing friends' children growing up, marrying... Even my own adult sons never made me feel like time was getting away from me. The fact I have an adult grandson as well, doesn’t really phase me.

As I get older, I begin to think about how much time might be left and how best to use it. It creates an incentive to get more done, to figure out what's really important, and what dreams are waiting to be fulfilled. The problem is the physical me doesn’t care to cooperate. I seem to be at constant war with what my sister calls a joint conspiracy. They work when they feel like it. If they don’t feel like working, tough luck.
 Retirement? I don't think we ever really retire. It's just a matter of changing priorities. I thought I could spend more time with hobbies, to create the things I didn’t have time to do when I was working. It seems like there still isn’t the time for those things. Until a year or so ago I was an avid reader. That time has, un-fortunately, been greatly diminished. It’s not so easy to find the time to do some of the things you’ve always wanted to do.
Some responsibilities have run their course, like caring for elderly parents, leaving me to face the scary thought of my own mortality. When my dad was having a particularly trying day with his health he used to tell us, “Don’t get old.” After he passed, Mom took over telling us the same thing. Now that she’s gone as well, my siblings and I have taken up that mantra. The difference is we look at each other and laugh and say, “Too late.”  
This is our time, to do what we’ve always loved but couldn’t. Not only do we have more time, but we also have more experience to draw from, as well as memories, many fond, others not so much. We want to put more of ourselves into our creative efforts, to give our children something to remember us by. Then we watch time zip past us even faster giving more meaning to "Time Flies When You're Having Fun."

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

One More Time

There are few of us who can settle into one place and stay there for a lifetime. (That doesn't include buying a home.) If I've learned anything over the years, it's the fact that no time is good for moving, at least not in my book. For almost eleven years, Mom and I had a nice apartment but with her passing a few months ago, I was expected to move into a smaller apartment. No problem with that. According to the in-house grapevine, (and it's quite reliable around here) there were several other people waiting to downsize, so I knew it would be a while. In the meantime I was going to turn Mom's room into a sewing room for the duration.
You know Murphy. He's the guy who moves in when you least need him around, but you never see him. He has his own law he follows and his favorite moments are when he can make things go wrong for you: Murphy's Law...whatever can go wrong, will. The day he decided to move in was the day I got the call. Management had an apartment for me. There went the sewing room. When I saw the place, I realized it was perfect for me and I couldn't wait to move in. I still intended to set up a sewing corner and I had the perfect spot.
Never move during a heat wave, even if you are staying in the same building. After every trip my son and daughter-in-law made to bring up a large or heavy piece of furniture, they made a mad dash for the Solarium to cool off. Murphy must have taken pity on them because it wasn't until two days later that the Solarium was closed for repairs. It's not so much the heat but the humidity that'll do you in.
The bathroom was the first to be sorted out and settled, followed by my room. The sewing machine table, still in its carton, was leaning against the wall beneath a window. That was next to be attended to, or so I thought. Murphy had his own plans to disrupt mine. Two weeks later and that poor table is still waiting. Maybe it'll be set up by Christmas?
Murphy has even messed with my writing, the stinker.  In the process of moving, the printer cable has gone missing and my laptop's start menu has nothing in it. Blessings on my computer tech son who suggested a way around that problem till he can actually figure out what went wrong. There has to be a plot in all this. Not that I want to give Murphy any more notoriety because he certainly doesn't deserve it. But maybe there can be found some humor in the situation that could translate to a challenge for a story character. It's worth thinking about.
After the last three weeks of hauling cartons to the third floor, stacking them in whatever out of the way spots I can find, deciding what goes and what stays, dealing with the hot weather and a houseguest who was never invited, I can say without a doubt...  This building can grow old and fall down around my ears  I am NEVER moving again.