Swiss Army Super-Tool Thingy

In my daily professional life, I find myself using a number of different gizmos and gadgets to get the job--or jobs--done. For the third assignment in the book, Caffeine for the Creative Mind, Mumaw and Oldfield want the reader to invent their own "Professional Survival Swiss Army ... 'Thing.'" I'd try to draw a picture on Paint, but you remember my earlier attempt?

First off, my specialty tool will need wheels and a tow-hitch. Since I spend my days jumping from writing, to designing and sewing, to crafting, to pressing, displaying and photographing vintage and handmade items, my handy-dandy all purpose tool will likely weigh a ton. Making it tow-able will allow me to cart it wherever I go--scouting for vintage items, mailing my sold pieces, visiting family and friends' homes--you get the idea.

To start with, I'll need my sewing machine, dress form, tape measure, scissors, an iron and an ironing board. Also, roller skates would be very helpful for rushing from the dining room table where I cut fabric to the sewing room. On second thought, skates might be dangerous, because I often trip over the dogs as they accompany me to and from my destinations.

Speaking of dogs, I'll need a remote for the door so they can go out and in as needed, and maybe some biscuits or peanut butter-laced Kongs to keep them busy whle I concentrate. They simply don't understand that mommy's hands and eyes are made for other things besides petting, feeding, and casting adoring glances.

The next contraption on my Thingy (Is it just me or does that sound a little dirty?) is a bottomless cup with a built-in heater. With this, I could have an endless supply of tea and not have to be shocked and repulsed whenever I take a swig of the cold, over-brewed stuff.

Of course, I'll need my computer--laptop or PC. It doesn't matter. Though I tend to prefer the PC for all my fabulous forays into writing, a laptop will do in a pinch. And I'll need a dictionary and thesaurus. I know I can use the online versions of these tools, but for some reason, I abhor having to leave the page I'm working on to reference a word. I know it's a bit strange, but we all have our idiosyncrasies, right? Right?

Likewise, the computer enables me to reference and date vintage clothing. For that activity, I also need a lot of the sewing supplies listed above, plus my trusty digital camera. Oh, and the camera charger and usb cord!

My whatchamacallit will be equipped with a robot for cooking and cleaning so I won't have to. Paper towels, a glue stick, E6000 and a glue gun, buttons, ribbons, zippers and the all-important polyester batting are also necessities. After all, one never knows when the need for stuffing will arise, does one?

So there you have it. Another strange, yet oddly interesting (for me, anyway) exercise in creativity. I'm sure I've left off some extremely important gadgets from my Swiss Army Super-Tool Thingy, but that's it for now.

Betty 'Boom-Boom' Boop and the Squash On My Counter

You may have noticed that it's been a few days since my promise to post regularly about the 250 exercises in the book, Caffeine for the Creative Mind by Mumaw and Oldfield. I'm only on the second assignment and I've already hit a speed bump. This time, the task is to "take 10 pictures of ten things in your environment that don't belong where they are." And to be honest, my friends, I had to clean my house first!

I no sooner finished vacuuming when my dear little Lucy made the mess you see in this first picture. By the way, that toy she is tearing apart is only a few hours old. I sewed her up a batch of them that morning. She's still in her destructive puppy phase, and I figured better a toy than my furniture. But she could have at least pretended to have some trouble demolishing my offerings!

Moving on to my desk, I found a couple of things that were not where they belong. Okay, more than a few. Notice the close-ups. That's so you can't see the entire messy office space. Yeah, huh? Dumb like a fox.

The first item is a bag full of brooches--some vintage, some not. I have been running a special in my Etsy shop: For every ruana purchased, the customer receives a free brooch. (Pretty good deal, if I do say so--and I do.) However, I have not sold a ruana since Christmas, yet these remain nestled in their resting place below the computer monitor.


The second misplaced item on my desk, is my thesaurus. It should be standing with the other books along the back wall, but I use it so often that I tend to leave it out. In fact, I used it just now to find another word for misplaced. There aren't that many that fit in this context. I haven't "forgotten the whereabouts" of these things that are "scattered" about, I simply "placed them wrongly" because I am a "disorganized," creative soul whose things are often "put in the wrong place."

I have a rather large kitchen with a u-shaped counter-top. When taking these photos, a butternut squash rested on one end of the shelf near the toaster oven. We feasted upon that a couple of days ago, and now the same space holds a sweeter variety of squash--the buttercup. These gourds really are the most visually unique and interesting vegetables, aren't they? You could spend a day at a farm just photographing the various types. Can you say, Fun?

The day I took these pictures the kitchen workspace also sported a lovely black stretchy woolen glove with the word "Spongebob" written across the index finger in red, and a squiggly pattern of blue and gray spread over the remainder of the fingers and palm. This lonely hand covering emerged from the laundry all by itself and it's waiting for us to find its missing partner. Hopefully, the wayward mate turns up before we have to break the news to a certain little someone.

Resting beside the rogue Spongebob glove, is a package of skinny, multi-colored headbands. I removed two of the less-desired colors to use in a special Christmas project for the Littles. I wrapped each with red satin ribbon. On the first, I attached a pretty green flower sewn from vintage, ruffled trim and topped it with a sparkly button.

Unfortunately, before I managed to complete the second one, our mischievous cat absconded with one of the half-finished headbands and it hasn't been seen since--the headband, not the cat. At the last minute, I whipped up another flower in red and sewed it to a shiny green ponytail holder, finishing just before we left for our trip to Lil Rhody. Whew!

The headbands now reside in a drawer in my sewing room until I decide what I'll do with them next--maybe something cute for Valentine's or St. Patrick's Day.

Sitting at the opposite end of the counter on the dining room side, is a vintage yellow and blue Czechoslovakian candy dish. That object is in its rightful spot, but the opened bag of chocolate-only Tootsie Roll Pops propped up against the dish are not. The truth is I didn't really want to share this bag of delectable delights so I didn't put them into the dish. Funny, lots of little fingers get into that bowl full of bounty, but they never seem to look beyond, at what to my taste buds, is the greater treat. But now that I'm exposing myself, I feel a bit ashamed that I haven't shared and that I've left them out where they don't belong. I guess I'll put them away--later.

Although Christmas and New Year's Day have passed, on picture day my bedecked tree still stood in my living room. And beaming out from underneath, a gorgeous gift from my daughter begged to be hung in a special spot somewhere in my house. We took the tree down yesterday, but the beautiful mirror still waits for a permanent home to send out its wise message of reflection. (Get it?)


On the table where the mirror now rests while I write this, is a neat wooden box with old-time games inside. The words "Authentic American Pastimes Collection" sprawl across the clear acrylic cover and it's easy to see the games: Jacks, Pickup Sticks, and Marbles. The set belongs on a shelf on the porch, but it contains lots of little pieces and had to be rescued from visiting two-year-old hands. When she grows enough to reach the top of the sideboard, I figure she'll be old enough to play with--rather than eat--the game parts.

And that brings us back to the aforementioned mischievous cat. We adopted Betty 'Boom-Boom' Boop the day before her third birthday after falling in love with all of her gorgeous black beauty. Boom-Boom Betty is big-boned, for sure, but there aren't any bones in the stomach, right? Hers--stomach, not bones--waddles freely whenever she walks to her food dish. And she walks there often, checking to see whether we've come to our senses and decided to feed her more than twice daily. We haven't.

When the search for food and interfering with my belongings bores her, the Boopster loves to lounge. She has claimed the bed in the sewing/guest room as her own and though she'd deny it, the truth is she sheds. And yes, she's the queen and all that, but I still don't want to have to wash the embroidered linen duvet cover any more than necessary. So we've come to a compromise, I keep an old woolen blanket on the bed and she...well, she doesn't do anything. I guess the only give here was really on my part.

So there you have it, folks. The second creative exercise is finally completed and reported to you. Stay tuned for number three. Here's a hint: It has something to do with a Swiss Army knife!              

New Year Wishes and a Pimped Out Red Flyer?

First of all, Happy New Year! Of course I wish the usual health and happiness, but most of all, I wish for all of us to have more Joy in our lives. It's something I strive for, and I hope you will too. It isn't that difficult to choose joy over the alternatives, you just have be conscious of the choice. After a while, it will become a habit. Really!

And now that I've caused some of you to gag on my sugary-sweet message, I'll tell you my plan for the next 250 days or so. Have any of you seen the movie Julie and Julia--or Julia and Julie--whichever! In the film, Julie vows to write a daily blog entry on recipe reviews from Julia Childs' cookbook. There's more to the plot of course, but that doesn't matter here. Read on . . .

My lovely sister, Pam (secret santa for me this year), gave me an intriguing book called Caffeine for the Creative Mind by Stefan Mumaw and Wendy Lee Oldfield. The tome boasts of offering "250 exercises to wake up your brain." Pam said she wanted me to post the results of each task on Facebook, but I think I'd rather share them here.

So, I'm going to make a vow--promise--no, strong suggestion that I will--probably--report on the results of each of these assignments on a daily--or weekly--or generally regular basis right here on this blog. I'll disregard any embarrassment that may come my way (I have no pride!) and tell you about each and every task--no matter how silly or dumb it may be. And silly and dumb are right up my alley, so consider yourselves forewarned. ;)

The first assignment is called: "Pimp my Red Flyer" and yes, it's as simple as it sounds. They want the reader to take a few minutes to pimp their wagon or "take an ordinary red wagon and . . . 'pimp it out' with whatever luxuries and additions you can think of. Create your ultimate urban-inspired, pimped out wagon."

My initial thoughts ranged from wondering whether we still had a leftover wagon in the basement, to basing my model on a Red Cardinal--you know, the bird. It flies--never-mind. But the more I thought about it--which was WAY longer than the 15 or 20 minutes the authors estimate for each exercise--the more I came back to using the Radio Flyer, or a photo of it, anyway. Here's my first foray:

So far, I've got a bed under a canopy, and I've tried to show how I'd widen the larger tires to take care of disturbing bumps while traveling. I stopped this sad attempt at visually creating my dream ride because those tires were starting to look an awful lot like my eyes after a long, sleepless night. Obviously, I am not and never was good at using that crazy Paint program. Go figure!

Rather than humiliate myself any further, I've decided to simply tell you about my personal pimped out wagon. It would still have four wheels, but they'd be under a luxurious recreational vehicle. The color red would stay, but I'd also like an option to change the exterior whenever the mood struck. So, depending on the day my ride would be red, purple, blue or green (it brings out my eyes). I'd need a plain black or white surface for the rare occasions that call for seriousness, and just for fun I'd have a Hippie Dippie Tye-Dye option, where the outside is covered in bright splashes of color in shapes like peace signs, hearts, flowers, and of course, the smiley face! The Hippie Dippie ride would also have fringe around the beaded-curtain windows, colorful patches on the tires, and macrame-trimmed headlights and doors.

I'd like my 'wagon' to convert from large (for hanging out) to small-ish (for ease of driving). And I either want robots to drive, clean and cook, or have a separate room for the live-in help. Speaking of converting, this ride also needs to transform into a helicopter for quick, short trips, or whenever traffic is annoying, and into an airplane for when I want to visit my peeps in Hawaii, England, and Virginia--or go on an adventure in Ireland or Australia.

I could go on and on, but I won't. ;) This exercise is over. I'd love to hear about YOUR pimped out wagon. Leave me some comments!

Another Confession

I've got a confession to make: I am having a love affair.

My husband has known about it for some time. He roles his eyes whenever he sees me meet the object of my affection. Of course, my squeals of delight probably embarrass him. And he frowns, giving me a reproaching look whenever I bring my love home. And I always give in and bring my obsession home. I can't help it.

I am addicted. To fabric. But especially to wool.

I love the way it feels and smells. When I first see a new piece or bolt of this luxurious material, my heart beats faster and my breath draws in with wonder. I touch it gingerly, then pet it as I examine every inch and marvel at the quality or color. I love it all--from the cheap stuff to the softest cashmere.
 
A few days ago, while discussing The Pillars of the Earth--a book we're both reading, I told my sister-in-law that I was really upset when the house full of wool burned. She laughed, but I was serious. I pictured all that fuzzy fleece just waiting to be molded into some form of fabulosity, transforming into hot ash. Ugh! I shudder when I think of it. Of course, the protagonist was devastated because she was financially ruined, but I was appalled at the waste of such beauty and potential. I know, I know. It's a little crazy, but I don't care. It's one of my passions!

I adore steam pressing it and breathing in the aroma while I shape it into a fiber masterpiece. It's warm and soft, and I get such a thrill when I see it in any shape or size! I love to wrap a length of it around my shoulders, revering and treasuring its beauty. I hug it to me, spin around and marvel at its magnificence in the mirror. I will never, ever tire of this exquisite textile.

So there it is. I've exposed my soul to you all and I'm not sorry. My love will wrap me in security and warmth for as long as I want. Now, if only my human true love would build me another shelf . . .

Perspective

Many people might consider us unlucky.

The other morning, my husband called to tell me he had been in an accident. A thin layer of ice and snow unexpectedly blanketed the ground in Freeport and as he slowly approached his job site, he lost control and veered off the the road. As he coasted onto the shoulder, he held his breath while his carpool buddy turned his head and closed his eyes. When they finally stopped--inches away from a telephone pole, a tire had blown out on its bent rim and the right front fender was crushed. Poor guy spent his morning looking for a junkyard that had his rims in stock.

Later in the afternoon, I corraled the dogs into the back of the car and headed off on dry roads to get my hair done. As I sat in my hairdresser's chair, I noticed large, wet flakes begin to fall. By the time I left, the white stuff started sticking to the grass in the surrounding yards, but nothing covered the roads.

I stopped for some retail therapy, not concerned about the weather at all. When I emerged from the store an hour later, I tucked my head down to avoid the soggy flakes melting on my face. I was surprised to see that the parked cars had collected about an inch of slush, but felt reassured that the pavement was still clear.

"Let's go home!" I said to my waiting puppies, Jack and Lucy.

And I piled my treasures onto the floor in back of the driver's seat as they danced and whined in agreement. They love coming with me on my errands but coming back home is the best because they get to run around like maniacs for a few minutes when they jump out of the car.

After a few miles, the snow got heavier and I had a hard time seeing. I slowed the old Mitsubishi down, savoring the beauty of the sparkling, slush-covered trees.

Mere moments later, the road changed from dry, black pavement to a white-ladened path with tire tracks running through it. I slowed the vehicle even more, holding the steering wheel tighter and feeling a pang of nerves creep into my awe-inspired peace. Darkness snuffed out the day as I noticed a line of cars in the distance with their brake lights glowing. And I decelerated to just a bit more than a crawl.

Within seconds, the SUV began to drift into the opposite lane. I removed my foot from the accelerator and tried to regain control of the vehicle, but it was no use. As the rear of the Mits started to pull, it felt like we were on an amusement ride--minus all the fun, of course. Feeling a lurch in my stomach I yelled to the pups, "Hang on, guys!" And we spun like the car of a Tilt-a-Whirl.

We went around twice and I think I may have closed my eyes while I braced for impact. I had visions of sailing through the woods, hitting trees on the way, and I wondered if this was it. Would the dogs and I be hurt--or worse? Then I heard and felt an explosive noise and as quickly as it started, it was over. We stopped spinning.

The car landed in a ditch by a telephone pole in someone's front yard. My first thought was that I was alive. Then I looked back and saw that my back window--the one next to my precious canine babies--had smashed to pieces and disappeared. My youngest pup, Lucy, immediately jumped over the seats and into my lap. Six-year-old Jack stayed put. He seemed stunned and I had to coax him to get away from the broken glass and into the safety of the front seats.

Since we were on a highway, I did not feel safe getting the dogs out to see if they were okay. And with high-heeled mules on my feet, I didn't think getting out onto the sloped, icy ground was a good idea either. In the darkness, my hands searched the dogs for injuries. They were dry and didn't cry, so I guessed they were unhurt. Then I looked around from the shelter of my broken automobile and saw that the back of my car had ripped out and rearranged someone's mailbox.

Next, I called my husband. I knew he couldn't help me because he was still on his way home from work. But I needed to hear his voice to feel comforted. A policeman arrived soon after, asking if I was alright and if I was the one who had called. I hadn't, and he quickly figured out that the call was for the accident further up the road. After making sure I was really okay, the officer told me to sit tight until he could return from the more serious mishap a few hundred yards away.

The man whose yard I landed in came out then and tried to help me get my car out of the ditch. But I was such a nervous wreck, I couldn't follow his simple directions. He finally took pity on me and maneuvered my car out of the ditch on his own. He refused to give me his name or phone number, and he said he didn't want my money or insurance information. He smiled and said that by wrecking his mailbox I'd given him something to do that night.

So yes, some people may think we are unlucky, but I disagree. Yes, we smashed our cars on the same day and had to pay for costly repairs out of our ever-dwindling bank account. But neither of us hit the telephone poles we'd headed toward, no one was hurt in either of our accidents, and we both were able to drive our cars home that day.

I say we are fortunate--very fortunate, indeed.

A Little Blast From the Past

Here's a little something I wrote a while ago. Hope you enjoy!

MY FIRST TIME

I had never done anything like this in my life. I admit I felt uncomfortable and skittish. Sensing my anxiety, his hand grazed my arm, leading me over to where he wanted me. When I saw the tub of soapy water, I must have hesitated because he took hold of my shoulders and coaxed me some more.

"Come on. The water is nice and warm. I promise you'll enjoy it."

Biting my bottom lip, I caught my breath as the soothing liquid covered my bare skin. I felt so vulnerable.

"Oh, this is nice." I giggled. "It's just what I needed, so relaxing."

"Yes. Settle back and let me take care of you."

I closed my eyes, enjoying the warmth and sweet scent of the water. This being my first time, I began to wonder what else he intended to do to me. So far, I had no complaints.

He awakened me from my daydream when he wrapped my damp, pink skin in a fluffy, white towel. Taking great pains to dry every part of my nakedness, he gazed into my eyes.

"You're going to love what comes next," he said, reaching for a dark container. He poured some creamy, yellow liquid into his hands and rubbed them together. "I'm warming it for you," he explained in his husky voice.

Rubbing the lotion into my skin, he spoke again. "Isn't this nice?"

I rolled my head back, still not believing I had summoned the courage to come here. "Oh yes. It's lovely." I meant it. How could I ever go back to my normal life after this? I wished my husband would do this for me, but I didn't hold out much hope.

Leaning back, I felt completely relaxed and at his mercy. I'd decided to trust him to do what he must. With eyes closed, my mind wandered as he performed all sorts of rituals I had never encountered before. His fingers caressed and stroked my skin, and I thought that I might ask him to never stop.

After awhile he showed me a list of titles and asked me to choose. Blushing, I read the names. "Sin in the Afternoon, She Devil, Purple Passion." My face reddened as I blurted out, "Oh my gosh!" Feeling timid and embarrassed, and with no idea which to choose, I panicked and looked to him for guidance.

“What do you think?” I whispered.

He smiled a knowing smile. "Why don't we try She Devil. It's sexy, but not as risque as the others. I think you'll be comfortable with it."

With nervous anticipation, I looked on as his expert fingers grasped the shiny container. Watching him, butterflies frolicked in my stomach. Before I knew it, he finished the job. I examined his performance and laughed at myself for taking so long to give it a try.

Satisfied, I slid my feet back into my sandals and admired my soft, beautiful, sexy feet. My toenails looked so feminine and pretty with the glossy red polish.

Drive By

I haven't had much time for posting here in the past couple of weeks because I've been busy working at my daughter's new house. She closed on it April 17th and we've been renovating ever since.

The house sat empty for about a year before she bought it, and prior to that an eighteen-year-old lived in it alone for several months because his parents divorced. So, you can imagine the state the house is/was in. It's got good bones, though, and it's going to be beautiful when she's finished with repairs and updates. Here are some before pics:

The living room ceiling being scraped:

The dining room wall being knocked out and prepared for a French Door:





The staircase is pretty and it's in really good shape. Not much to do here, but polish and paint the walls.

Here's a view of the hallway, and one of the family room:


So far we have scraped popcorn ceiling off two rooms--the dining room and living room; removed wallpaper from four rooms; pulled up two rooms of carpeting (Tthe carpet guys pulled up the other room.); sanded, scrubbed, and fixed holes in walls; primed and painted the bedrooms; scrubbed the downstairs bathroom and made it usable; and I'm sure I've forgotten other chores.

She's moving in on Sunday! Wish us luck. We still have most of the downstairs to do. The kitchen needs a full remodel, but that will happen well after she's moved in.

I'll try to take some pics of upstairs and outside, and then give you the Grand Reveal!

New Design!

Whenever I'm feeling bored--which is often, I need to do something new. Break the routine, you know? If I've been on a writing jaunt, it's time to switch to sewing, or take some pictures and play with them, or make some jewelry. Yesterday, I had the urge to sew something new, so I designed a cropped cardigan--or bolero--or shrug. Does anyone know the difference? I looked them up in the dictionary and they all seem to describe the same thing: a short women's jacket worn open in the front!

I used an old top to get the neckline and shoulder shape, made dolman-style sleeves in a three-quarter inch length, cropped and curved the front pieces, added a buttonhole and a vintage 1 1/2" button, and this is what I came up with:
















Isn't it cute? It's constructed from a black, open-weave knit with sage and cocoa-colored threads forming the crochet-look pattern. It's lightweight, but not as sheer as that last picture makes it look! I'm going to make a couple more in different fabrics today. Maybe I'll put a ruffle on the sleeves, or a collar or something to make it interesting. What do you think?

Here's a picture of it with the button fastened. It's a little snug on Marie Antoinette (that's my headless mannequin's name) but you get the idea.















Here are some pics of the side and back, and I took another inside just to get a different view of the fabric. The slight sheerness didn't show up outside, but with the flash it looks more see-through than it is. Geesh!





















I just love this!!

Let me know what you think.

Easter Musings

Another holiday passes like the wind.









I started the day with twenty minutes on the treadmill--not enough, I know, but at least I did it! Our daughter and her family arrived around noon-ish with food to prepare. She made a scrumptious ham with pineapple, and cherries,basted in a yummy sauce of maple syrup and brown sugar, some potatoes, carrots and onions, and sweet potatoes. (I may be leaving something out.) I made a green bean casserole and some brownies. While the feast simmered on the stove, we had an Easter egg hunt for The Littles. Here are some pics:


That isn't our house, by the way. It's a playhouse my husband won from the State Fair last summer. Isn't it cute? And the girls had to wear boots outside because we still have a little snow and aLOT of mud!!

The kids used my market bags for their hunt--much nicer than plastic bags!

I made stuffed bunnies for the girls, and a bear pillow from a vintage panel I've had forever for my grandson. More pics:




Okay, I've got to say it. Aren't these some of the cutest Littles you've ever seen? (I'm talking about the children.) ;D

Anyway, we played lots of music: the Wonder Boys soundtrack (if you haven't heard that you should. Great Bob Dylan songs!), Neil Young, Grateful Dead, Michael Franti and Spearhead. And we danced a lot! Four-year-old R especially loved the way the skirt of her new Easter dress twirled. She challenged me to a few moves she learned in ballet class and I did them, but then I hurt my ankle! (Those of you who know me are not surprised, are you?)

Speaking of those dresses, what a sewing nightmare! I cut the tops out of some old rib-knit I've had for ages. I'm really trying to reduce my stash. But this fabric had some stains on it and I thought I'd worked around them. After sewing the bodices together and finishing off the neckline with fold-over elastic, I noticed a very slight stain in one. Then I checked, and a similar stain peeked out from the back bodice piece on the other. Grrr . . . !

Well, I washed and bleached the faulty fabric, but had no luck. And since I didn't discover the spots until Thursday evening, I began to panic. I had to meet my daughter Friday afternoon and give her the dresses so the girls could get dressed on Sunday! (We live about an hour away from her.) Oh, what to do? I didn't have any more coordinating rib-knit in my stash, and there was no time to get to the fabric store for more material.

Bingo! I'd purchased some t-shirts a few weeks ago. I measured them and found that the white one was too big for R, but the blue was just right for little R. I cut the white top apart and re-worked it to R's measurements, adding some gathering to make slightly puffed sleeves. Then I chopped the bottoms off of both shirts, sewed some tiers together and attached them.

Voila! Here they are:


The only thing missing to make the day perfect, was my son and daughter-in-law, who currently live in Hawaii, and the rest of our extended family. It's always better when we're all together. Which is why I'm looking forward to summer!!

Relics: An Alternative Obituary

Harold J. Crompton died at five a.m. on Friday, April 3rd. His obituary says he is survived by his wife, Lorraine, and their children and grandchildren. What the announcement does not say is that Harold had another family. Before his second marriage thirty-eight years ago, he had eight children with his first wife. Those children, Sandy, Kathy, Mike, Gail, Bonnie, Brenda, John and Pam have twenty-six children of their own, and three grandchildren. They never harmed Harold or his new family in any way, but for some reason, Harold and Lorraine hurt this first family over and over again.

Through physical violence, overlooked birthdays and Christmases, lack of child support, missed weekend visits, and his prolonged and permanent absence from their lives, these children survived. They each grew into intelligent, compassionate, and productive adults, no thanks to their father.

Now Harold is gone. The chapter is finished. And although Lorraine spoke to Sandy on more than one occasion in these recent weeks, she didn’t think to include Harold’s first children in his obituary. When approached by his son, John, Lorraine coldly and cruelly refused to allow a corrected obituary to be printed–even when John made it clear that he and his siblings would finance the new announcement.

And there it is, a fitting finale. One last blow for eight human beings who did nothing to this woman but exist. We do exist Lorraine, no matter how you try to forget. Shame on you.

I Am Woman, Watch Me Tow

Forgot to mention this.

Remember I said I couldn't sleep Sunday night because I worried that my husband might start his day kicking out a window in his car to escape the quicksand sucking his vehicle down into middle earth? Well, he made it out that morning, but Monday afternoon after even more rain, he drove about halfway into our driveway and--thwuck! The mud grabbed hold of his little Hyandai Accent and pulled it in up to the bottom of the car's frame. (Told him!)

After a brief moment of "I told you so's," I kicked off my moccasins and shoved my feet into my Muck Boots--the ones with the studded bottoms. "What do you want me to do?" I ask.

"Okay, you're gonna pull it with the ATV," he tells me.

"Me? I get to tow?" I am stunned. I've never been the tower before, only the towee. I hop on the four-wheeler, drive to the car, and wait as he hooks up the tow-chain.

"Okay, keep the chain taut and give it the gas slowly."

I'm nervous but I follow his instructions. The machine's tires spin at first and I think it's not going to work. But all of a sudden they grab hold, and as they dance side-to-side flinging mud in their wake, I pull that sucker all the way back to the beginning of the driveway. What a feeling!

While hubby wraps up the chain and cleans the mud from his windshield, I take the four-wheeler on two victory laps up and down the road. With windblown hair and a smile on my face, I pull up and let my love climb on the back of the machine. We head back to the house and I sing: "I am woman, watch me tow!"

Another Rainy Day = More Mud!

As I'm new to this blogging thing, I feel a certain amount of pressure to dazzle you all with brilliant tidbits of writing. But alas, since my fingers are ready to type and my brain hasn't quite caught up, I'll just have to talk about what's on my mind. Since it's raining again and we've still got about eight inches of snow left to melt, I can't help thinking about our muddy driveway and road.

But wait, I think to myself, I've already talked about that in my first post. Does anyone really care that I had trouble sleeping because I worried all night that my husband might start his day kicking out a window in his car to escape the quicksand sucking in his vehicle down into middle earth? (Why won't that stubborn man park away from this nasty mire?!)

My mind drifts to the time my 78 year-old mother-in-law visited during our lovely mud season and when she left, she climbed (or was heaved) into a bucket on the back of our ATV, scrunched down next to a basket of clean, folded laundry, and waved as my son drove her through the brown slush. I watched her bounce away as the four-wheeler dodged washed-out holes in the road and headed to the getaway car at the bottom of the hill. I don't think I could have been more embarrassed--oh wait, a vague memory of leaving a bathroom and stepping into a rockin' party with toilet paper trailing from the back of my waistband comes to mind. ;-) All my troubling was for nothing though. A few weeks later, my sister-in-law told me Mom loved the adventure.

Nah! I'm not going to go on about the mud again today. I'll go finish my skirt-to-bag reconstruction and talk to you later!

Mucking Around

It’s coming.

I’m not speaking about spring or summer, or even Christmas. I am referring to something much more sinister and tormenting. I speak of the dreaded event about to strike any day now. Here in Maine, we call it (insert drum roll here) . . . Mud Season.

We live on the side of a big hill or little mountain, depending on how you look at it, away from any large cities. Our house sits halfway up a dirt road, at the end of our long, dirt driveway. It is breathtaking and serene most–er–a great deal of the time.

Our first year here we’d heard the vague term "mud season," but it had little meaning to us at the time. I remember thinking: So it gets a little muddy, how bad can it be? That first spring, we still thought of mudslinging as something only politicians do, but when the UPS driver came to deliver my new laptop, reality literally set in.

With my husband working out of town, and me staying home due to illness, I didn’t even know the mud had arrived. Well, not the kind that sucks large delivery trucks into the core of the earth, anyway. When I answered the door, the deliveryman handed me my package and then asked if there were any men at home. I tilted my head and squinted my eyes, thankful–for once–that my dogs refused to listen to my pleas for them to be quiet, then asked him why he wanted to know.

"I may need some help getting out of here," he said. "It’s a little muddy."

Is that all? Whew! Well, talk about your understatements. Ha! After listening to him rev his engine for about ten minutes and watching muddy sections of my front yard fly off into the surrounding woods, I put on my rubber boots and went out to see what I could do to help.

I walked over to the van to ask if he thought putting some planks under his sinking tires might help. As I neared the vehicle, I noticed the ground became soft and mushy. The closer I got, the more I sank into the earth. The driver agreed to try the boards, so I ran to the basement to retrieve the ones I had passed on my way out.

As I made my way back to the truck, an unpleasant sucking noise resounded with each step. All of a sudden, the mud held fast to one of my boots, and before I could react, my foot slid out. My sock remained safe inside the rubber, and I struggled for balance while my rogue appendage sought refuge.

Seconds passed in slow motion. Realizing the ground had claimed my other foot, too, I dropped the wood and swayed from side to side trying to maintain my equilibrium. As I lost the battle, my foot smashed into the mucky dregs. Tumbling forward, my hand jutted out to break my fall, and I think I yelled out, "Oh shit!" While I didn’t see any doggie droppings nearby, the brown stuff I now had all over me came close enough.

Turns out, boards are no help when you embed your vehicle in a foot of soupy ground. Neither are chains, or the heavy rope I brought out as a last resort. About a half-hour into the spinning of tires in sludge, my eyes widened and I got his attention by pointing to the bottom of his van. I wonder if he noticed the problem as soon as he got out, because he didn’t have as far to step down. The base of the truck now kissed the very terrain the driver tried to escape.

I handed him my cordless phone–we don’t get good cell reception here. (I know, I know!) And while he made his call for help, I went over and sat on the deck stairs. He turned his back to me, but I could still hear certain words. "What? Kidding me!" and "NOW!" dominated his side of the conversation.

His face reddened, and he leaned forward into the phone as he spoke. On a hunch–or maybe it’s when I heard the first curse word fly, I decided to go make a pot of coffee. As I washed the muck off my hands, I tried not to think of the crud I’d tracked in. My foot felt uncomfortable encased in the dirty, scrunched-up sock inside my boot, but I put it out of my mind and headed back outside.

When I rejoined my new friend, he stood in the sea of muck, staring at his incapacitated chariot. He looked at me with a confused, lost expression.

"They said it’s going to be awhile."

"Why don’t we get out of this mud and go up on the deck?" Although our deck furniture still lay in its winter home, I figured we could at least lean on the railing while our boots dried.

I got us some coffee, and we talked as we drank. As I refilled our cups, I decided to invite him in. He seemed nice enough, and besides, watching the dogs slobber all over the sliding glass door unnerved me. We discussed our families and pets, society’s ills, politics (am I being redundant?), our job histories, and our theories on how to make the world a better place.

Three hours later, a huge tow truck barreled up the muddy road and backed all the way into my narrow, soggy driveway. Although we had made the best of this forced bonding, we both jumped up, mid-sentence, and bounded out the back door.

I felt like a band should play while we waved our hands and danced the jig. Instead, we smiled and watched the big machine pluck the van out of the quicksand. Then, my adventure ended and I watched both trucks drive away. For a moment, I stood alone, feeling a little bogged down (Sorry–couldn’t resist), but the sentiment passed as I kicked off my boots and headed for the shower.

Every year at this time, I reflect on our mucky experiences. (Yes, there have been others.) I sometimes wonder if that UPS driver ever has fond thoughts of his time spent mired in the woods of Maine. If not, he’s just an old stick-in-the-mud!