tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25082357419766939892024-03-14T04:42:58.758-04:00Chasing Lightning Bugs Studio Blogchasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.comBlogger652125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-18569049826949663452018-07-18T17:50:00.004-04:002018-07-18T17:51:39.407-04:00<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Cochin; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"> A Family Affair</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Within our little Island hamlet, there was much mingling amongst the citizenry. Most everyone had known one another since birth, and their parents the same. Privacy had a muddled definition in such a slight world. For there was a tangle of friendship and family and romance and work, neighbours and cousins, and the young with the old, that had spread through these farms for generations. Most often marriage was slid into through convenience, and the romance of the deal was mostly a lucky afterthought. The family names shifting around with marriages, intertwined with a complicated intricacy, the layers of family becoming a language of their own. It was known early on which of the youngsters would be suitable for one another and slight motherly manipulations would steer those with closer kin away from one another. A rather delicate, and sometimes awkward, undulation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Sally Green was seventeen when she married Lloyd MacNeil. She couldn't really remember that there was ever much of a romance between them. There was excitement at the start of it, the thrill of feeling his eyes on her, and the curiosity of his touch. She had always thought Lloyd a kind and easy sort of fellow, so it wasn’t difficult to spend time with him, to feel his arm around her waist, and to eventually think of him becoming her husband. And there was a certain allure at the thought of a pretty summer wedding. But that was almost ten years ago now. Their’s was a little shingled farmhouse that sat at the end of a long red lane and the work of a farm and babies who had grown into young children, a boy and a girl. The marriage wasn't unhappy, but there was little wonder in it either, no delight. They didn't share their desires or find things to laugh about or dream about. They worked hard, as was the only way to get by, side by side, but without glances and smiles and intimacies that would make the humdrum moments gladden and sing. Their home was safe and solid and dreary. They worked hard and loved their children. And although theirs was not a marriage that fed Sally’s heart, there had never been a thought that anything should be different. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Sally was petite and very close to pretty, with a happy and sparkling spirit. She was very unlike the other married women around her. She had a youthful, daring way about her. She wore her hair loose and falling to her shoulders like a young girl, and often chose trousers and a button up shirt instead of the standard housedress and apron. She was full of stories and laughter and could easily have a fit of giggles shaking the table and spilling the tea with her spell of silliness, laughing until tears poured from her eyes. Her laughter could fill a room and bring everyone into the joke. The children always knew there were fun times on the horizon when their cousin Sally walked through the door. And she visited often. She’d swing in with a bottle of preserves or a bundle of flowers from her flower bed or a bit of pretty fabric she thought might be nice for a collar to freshen up a dress or come just to tell some gossip she’d heard at the corner. She would drop around after the dinner dishes were washed up and before supper was begun, to have a bit of tea and share a few stories from up the road. She’d give the little ones a tickle and then be on her way. Even with her own work to be done, she always found a little escape whenever she could. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It was an afternoon in midsummer, with the crackling sort of heat that can’t be escaped, a heat that only a long string of hot sunny July days can bake into a day. The sort of heat that changes one. Lloyd had taken the truck into town to sell the eggs. And Sally had decided to walk down to the store hoping to chase away her restlessness and find cornflower blue silk thread for a dress she was working on. The clay of the roads was powdered and dry from the heat, so that the dust would lift in smoky little puffs around her ankles with each step. It was the sort of heat that silenced the birds and scorched the grasses and the flowers that tangled together in the ditches and the fields, so there was a green, baked honey scent that rose into the air. The only sound to brush against her steps was the buzz of insects in the grass that followed her down the road. And when she reached the corner, there was a thin glistening on her face and arms, and damp curls around her face and neck. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The store was surprisingly cool when she walked in, shaded and still, with the familiar scent of flour and tobacco mixed with the metallic tinny flavour that hung within the walls all year round. Creaky floors and the bell on the door brought the storekeeper in from the back. Arnold Yeo was chatty and jolly, and he always had the stub of a cigar alight, surrounding him in a little cloud of pungent smoke. She found her thread, chatted with Arnold, asked after Reta his wife, and was turning to leave, when Myron Green walked in, after a bag of nails and a tin of snuff. Myron was a compact, muscley man, quiet, with a bright sense of humour. He didn't often have much to say, but when he did, you were sorry if you missed it. He was Sally’s favourite of her cousins. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Sally waited to walk out with him, asking if he was entering any livestock in the exhibition coming up in a few weeks. They chatted about their farms and the weather and he offered her a drive home to escape the heat. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">When Sally climbed into the old Ford truck, Myron told her he was driving over to Rocky Point on an errand and stopping in at Meadowbank to pick up a piece of equipment from his uncle. He’d drop her at home first, or, if she’d like, she could come along for the ride to the shore. And a drive to the shore on a day as hot as this one, was not to be turned down. Sally’s mother was at her place for the afternoon with her children, so she happily took this opportunity. There was something frisky and fun and a little exciting about this impromptu, and even secret, little drive that no-one at home knew anything about. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The air grew saltier and softer as they approached the south shore of the Island. They drove with the windows turned down low and the heavy salty air breezed through the truck. Myron made his stops and then wondered if she’d like to find a bit of beach before they headed back. A visit to the shore, for these farmer Islanders, would be a rare event. The work was always waiting, so even a short drive to the edge of the Island with it’s cooler salty air and dramatic bright red sandstone was too frivolous to undertake more than once or twice a summer. Which made this little afternoon perfectly decadent. Myron found a little spot where they could walk through the long grass to the sand, that wasn't too far off the road. Sally stripped off her shoes and socks, tucked up her cotton skirt and dug her toes into the hot red sand. She danced across the beach where the movement of the tide had corrugated the sand. And skipped into the cool lapping waves. At first Myron stood watching her, a little bewildered. This was something they were both so very unaccustomed to, but Sally’s daring spirit carried her happily into the joy of the waves. After a minute or two, he slowly decided to roll up his pantlegs and follow suit. He walked along awkwardly, bare feet on sand, until he reached the far line where the tide had taken the little sea waves. The sweet combination of scorching heat and the splashing waves, made children of them both. He threw rocks far into the ocean, skipping them across the surface. Sally laughed and playfully kicked water at him. The splashing was sprightly and mischievious. And she found herself reaching for his arm when she was thrown off balance. After a few times, her hand stayed easily on his arm, feeling the heat of his skin. Easily, perhaps, but not without a tiny delicious terror. And when his hand reached under her hair and found the softest tingly dewy skin on the back of her neck, it was like her heart was choking her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Once they were back in the truck, the space between them was slick with tension as they drove back towards their lives. This sudden turn of emotion and the need it created, was unnerving. The lowered windows and the rush of air did nothing to cool the flush. When a burst of air rippled her skirt and lifted it up her leg, she ignored it. But she felt his eyes glance across and his calloused hand reach over with a boldness that was at once so very timid. They were mostly silent, both lost in their own reverie, both thinking of only one outcome. Yet all was left unspoken. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It was weeks later, on an afternoon, when most of the homes of the village were emptied into the church, with the farmers and their wives and children, cleaned and polished and brushed and ironed. This was a Sunday that Winnie and the children had gone off without Edgar, for he’d stayed at home to keep his eye on an ailing heifer. She was in the front paddock, but he thought he'd take her some grain from the barn. He heard them, before he knew what he was hearing. And when he continued walking into the barn, he saw them. Their own barns would have been much too risky, and assuming everyone would be in church, they thought this would be a spot that they could steal an hour or more of privacy. They were lost in each other, against the back wall. Skin and sweat gleaming through a dusty cloud of chaff mixed in the pleasant herby scent of new hay. A secret and forbidden tryst. They saw nothing in the dim light. And their own rustling covered any sounds Edgar would have made walking in. Their Uncle turned away quickly, his back straight and sure, and walked out of his barn, burdened with a secret only he would ever know they shared. </span></div>
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chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-49647654560947767042018-05-04T17:23:00.000-04:002018-07-29T11:24:17.387-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Alva and Leith</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">To walk up the steep and narrow back stairs behind the kitchen, in the earliest part of summer, was to climb into a crush of air, warmed and scented with spring. At the top of the stairs, a small window, with bubbles and one badly cracked pane, floated even with the trees. The leaves young and tiny, sprightly and uncertain, and still friendly with the sun still felt new and rare, and so she took an extra moment to notice them, watch a little as she moved past, and inhale it all. The air was green scented and new, with just the slightest blossomy sweetness. This was an introduction for her, the first taste of summer in this, her marriage home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She had changed the thicker winter curtains, just a few days before. The curtains that blocked the squeals of wind and the layer of crusty ice that often coated the window panes, and even the miniature drifts of snow that would sneak in and onto the sills. But those curtains had been aired on the line and were found folded on a shelf in the attic. And in their place, thin breezy white curtains now moved at the long narrow windows. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Sun had spread strong across this day, hot enough to warm the little road that lead through the two side meadows to the house. I'm not sure we can rightly call it her house yet for it hadn't even slightly detached from her husband’s parents. But with the passing of nearly six months, Alva had begun to settle in here, learning the chores and routines, and every day she fastened herself to a little more of it. And this day, with her arms full of fresh, sunscented bedding, she noted that this may be the prettiest time of year for these upstairs rooms. The bedrooms seemed to have been built for days like this, situated perfectly to soak up the pure country light. Their sharply sloped ceilings, inclined at an angle so dramatic, that she smiled while she watched the light bend across the painted plank floors. Pink bounced in from the fields, and glowed in it’s own peculiar earthy way as it rippled through those simple white rooms. She tucked sheets onto beds and felt the muslin curtain bulge with little breaths of breeze, brushing against the back of her leg, and then tuck back in against the screening. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Alva had married Leith at Christmas in a simple little snowy service. With winter already in a rage, her parents had not made the frigid trip from Tignish. And, it seemed that the solemn little affair that was her wedding, had locked her away from her family. And from her family’s secrets, secrets she barely knew the outer fold of. Her family was from far up west and they had sent her the summer before to pass the warm months with her mother’s cousin in Crapaud. Her parents had hoped to remove her from a certain situation that was causing whispers and unkind chattering focussed on their family, specifically her brother Harold. Alva, although she knew bits of the scandalous story, didn’t know the entirety of the shame she was being so expertly sheltered from. And so her devoted young husband, along with his somber, hard working parents who’s home she now shared, knew nothing of the disgrace that hovered thinly above their heads. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The story was not an overnight scandal, but had taken time to ripen. Harold had always been a rowdy sort, a bit of a rabble rouser, but never anything but a good natured and kind brother to Alva. However his latest stunt was more than just a spot of trouble. For he’d found himself involved with a married woman who was several years his senior. This woman was beautiful, with a restless, dreamy air surrounding her. And eyes that had a faraway stare in them. They suited one another, Harold and Iris, and they carried on together for some time, in secret. But the horror was made quite public, when it was learned that the pair of them had run off, under cover of night, making their way off the Island and South to the States. And the most odious detail: this exodus was not before a child had been born, a son who Iris tried to pass off to her husband as his own progeny. It wasn't until her disappearance that the man she’d married almost a decade before, realized the deception. When he stood at Alva’s parent’s door early in the morning following the couple’s disappearance, he had the baby bundled in his arms. And when he withdrew a short time later to return to his farm, his arms were empty. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">All of these dark twists of the heart had taken place after Alva had been sent away to summer with cousins, sent away to keep her innocence in tact. And much of it happened after her quiet little wedding to Leith. She only held a suspicion that Harold was keeping company with someone her parents found unseemly. And so it had been just that chaste little particular that she shared with Leith in whispers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This day that was spreading summer, in all it’s flowered loveliness, across the hillside farm she was learning to love, took a grave lurch when she saw the storekeeper Arnold Yeo turn in the lane. It was the middle of the day and an odd time for him to be away from the store. And, instead of walking the short piece from the store, he was in his car. He stepped from the car just as her husband appeared from around the barn. Arnold gave her a long and haunting look as she stood in the kitchen doorway, and he walked off with Leith toward the barnyard. She could see their faces. She saw Leith suddenly lean against a fencepost. After just a few minutes, Arnold walked back to his car, nodded to her with a sad and gentle smile, and drove back up the road. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And so Leith and Alva’s first child, although born to another, settled into her arms that same week. There was a swaddling of tragedy and love, of sadness and scandal in this little bundle. For the news that Arnold Yeo brought from the telephone at the store, was that Alva’s mother had not survived their family ordeal. The layers of shame had pierced so deeply, her heart must have felt the blade, for the baby was left with her but two days when she was found in her bed, grey and lifeless. And Alva’s father, desperate and grieving, buried his wife and the next day brought this grandchild to it’s young aunt to be raised. And although a difficult request for a young couple, married but half a year, they welcomed the baby and loved him and named him Ralphie, and before too many years, gave him a houseful of cousin siblings. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Skies so clear and blue and soft they stretched forever over the green of the hills. A road that cut through the thousand bits of green, sloping and narrow and so very strong and bright with it’s deep red clay. A 6 year old girl running with abandon. Through the side fields until she reached the dusty red road. Skirts flying and knees hitting each other mid air. Long grass tickling ankles and shins. Head bopping from side to side with arms pumping. Hair flying behind, little bits of it getting caught in the corners of her mouth. And suddenly finding herself going downhill, so her own momentum and the sudden additional speed of the sloping trajectory made it feel like she most probably could take off into flight, or tumble in a magnificent roll, tripping over her feet that couldn't possibly maintain such a speed. And her little lungs gasping and burning. Adrenaline and joy in equal parts washing over her. And the pounding of her little feet vibrating in her ears as she threw herself into a stop at the bottom of the hill. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She’d been sent to the store with a fistful of coins and a secret mission. She loved to run down the hill from their farm, lunging as fast as she could, each time hoping for more speed, and landing at the corner where the road flattened out in the little village with it’s circle of store and school, two churches and a cemetery. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This lovely little race would begin when Edgar slipped Elsie coins and whispered to her not to let her mother know. And she knew her job held a special importance. How she loved this secret duty. Running down the hill like a colt to the little country store, buying her father a tin of chewing tobacco, and trudging dreamily back uphill to find him and quietly slide him the contraband little round tin. Or, if he’d been called off to a neighbour’s or had driven into town with the eggs or any other errand away from the farm, they had a little place for her to hide it. There was a gap in the wall of the boot closet, behind the shelf beside the sink, not big enough to be noticed, but certainly big enough for a clandestine little tin of chewing tobacco. And she would stash it silently in the wall. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And although Elsie kept her word, and never ever told her mother, of course Winnie knew. Inevitably she would pinch his cheek and say, shaking her head, but smiling, “aaach Edgar, get rid of that”. And he would return a sly little smile and continue with his work. </span></div>
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chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-58495090917126542062014-07-01T00:29:00.001-04:002014-07-01T00:31:59.417-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">it's summer now. a constant warm sweetness in the air. it's not just a rush of warm heavy air that blows past in a few hours. it's what i expect now. i eat a bowl of blackberries for my dinner, my feet are rough and dirty. the light sits low and warm until almost 9 o clock. the sea gulls fly over while i'm sitting on the porch with a limeade and the white of their underbelly glows orange. the heat sits like a drooly blur above the lake. the yard is fluffed and green around the edges. private and cool. there is always sound. birds and squirrels and water and voices and the rustle of leaves.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">we have hired a painter and his ladders are sitting in the driveway, waiting for the work to start. i mixed up colors tonight, little pots of paint to find the perfect gray for the wood that sits along the edges of the stone i love so much. along the roof. the windows. the eaves. the trim of the little cedar shingled front porch. i have made the color and i love it. like a smudge of weathered wood. i know we need to paint to protect the wood. but i still want the house to look like a crackly, weather beaten little cottage, worn and cozy. so the color is an old and faded color, and i'll leave the crooked little door to the front porch peeling and cracked.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">it's almost 9 pm. it's not quite twilight. but the gloaming has begun. tomorrow we'll wake up in july, that month of freedom and skin. it is completely summer now. </span><br />
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chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-63061065141076137812014-05-20T08:07:00.002-04:002014-05-20T08:07:33.965-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">6.43 this morning. The sun finds a narrow opportunity to reach directly into my face through the porch covered east window in my little library. The sun lights me in the warmest gentlest blinding way for ten minutes. Stella on my lap purring and loving the glare. I enjoyed it fully until it moved past me. I love the early morning day. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We are just starting our week, after a wonderful long weekend, welcoming the ease of summer. We took ezra to the farm for a little hike. We had a campfire with friends. We hung loads of laundry on the line to dry in the sun and wind. We freshened up the house. The luxury of days to putter at home without being torn by the need to be at the studio filling orders and building inventory. There was, however, a wrinkle of worry as my best friend from high school spent the weekend in hospital awaiting a surgical procedure today. I am eager for her to be home and well. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So we're slipping into the week refreshed and looking forward to the goodness it will bring. </span>chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-22778404670338478702014-05-13T22:47:00.000-04:002014-05-13T22:50:07.353-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">All day as I work words float through my head. I think of sentences that I love. And then I forget them. Sometimes a fragment of a story teases me. I rearrange ideas and descriptions. Or I listen to podcasts of literature keeping my mind engaged without stopping the work of my hands and my eyes. Sometimes I wonder if I'd be happier knitting words together in loops of story poetry. It seems like a free and light pursuit. I would need silence. And a computer. And my mind that absorbs and ferments all that it encounters. Certainly when compared to the weightiness of the quilts, it seems so simple. For I am overwhelmed with the accoutrements of what I do, heavy on my chest like a heart attack. I have rooms of fabric, scraps that are endlessly disorganized, heavy sewing machines....one that takes up an entire room, and then more fabric. Tons of fabric. It's how I make quilts. The weight is important. It is the warmth. It is the charm. It is the beauty. But the fantasy of freedom and weightlessness surfaces often. Yet I think I'd float away, too much stillness, waiting for the words. Too much stillness. So I sew. Keeping the work a constant flow of materials and collections and treasures for my eyes to rest on, to sink my hands into, to build and cut and wrap up in. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">And so I'll sleep as the moon smiles in on me, through the branches of my beautiful tree, through the open curtain and the open window. </span>chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-75933083796938990462014-05-12T22:28:00.001-04:002014-05-12T22:28:53.061-04:00<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Tom had all the windows open today. Bringing the summer in. And when I was walking up the stairs in the dark tonight, I was surrounded in it. Warm and sweet, I was breathing it in. The scent of line dried sheets was spilling out of the bedrooms, into the hall as I climbed the stairs. And there was just the gentlest touch of humidity, just enough to announce a summery feeling. A breeze moving the bedroom curtain, an elixir of lake and grass, budding trees and magnolia & tulip blossoms. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I tried to regain a little order in the studio today. Folding mountains of fabric. Washing new fabric. Starting a couple of new quilts. Working with the doors open and light pouring in. The whole while, listening to moby dick. I took a break with ezra to sit in the sun this afternoon, eating goats milk ice cream (organic and delicious). I love when I have worked a long full day, and it feels like a luxury. Aaaah, summer! </span>chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-82342057856014622612014-04-29T20:47:00.001-04:002014-04-29T20:55:22.656-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">it has been one of those perfect gloomy days. rainy and windy and not a bit of brightness in the sky, but the studio was warm and busy and full of the hum of the sewing machine, the steamy rush of the iron. and i turned a mountain of squares into 84 colourful, double-sided and double seamed napkins. they aren't quite finished, but they're well on their way. i could have stayed at the studio longer, but i wanted to come home and make crackers for our dinner. </span></div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">when i was little, my grandmother lived with us. and it seemed like she never stopped bustling around the kitchen. she loved to invent new and oddly healthy dishes from leftovers and her strange health food store ingredients. she baked bread in v8 cans, so the sandwiches i took to school were often round. and she always made delicious crackers. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">lately i've been experimenting with making crackers from organic and/or gluten free flours. and i think of my little gramma's knuckley hands every time i'm pressing the dough into the bottom of the pan. i'm sure i use more oil and salt and flavorful herbs than she did. tonight was brown rice flour and spelt flour, garlic olive oil, sea salt and greek seasoning. topped with dill. and some wonderfully garlic-y fresh guacamole. my version of my little gramma's crackers. </span><br />
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chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-66677917623024703042014-04-28T06:19:00.001-04:002014-04-28T06:19:38.422-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">lately i've been driving out to the farm to take ezra for romps through the spring fields. the farm is my parents farm. and my childhood home. for forty years it's been the background, the soft cushion, to my life. and this spring, the lake isn't pulling me out for walks, like the farm is. ezra loves the endless fields and the ridge of giant evergreen trees. the swampy quarry that is now guarded with overgrown thorny bushes. the 200 year old barns. the apple orchard tucked to the east of the house, where the deer always appear from. the west fields that twist and turn along with tree dividers and ancient rail fences. ezra bounds along after exciting scents and i'm reminded of countless childhood adventures. like driving the family jeep through the fields and the long driveway when i was but 8 years old. choosing just the right time to leap from my galloping horse without being trampled after the saddle loosened and i was dangling under his belly at 11. and the tamer memories of picking wild strawberries and catching snakes and raising a little nest of baby rabbits after their mother was killed. trudging up the long 1/4 mile driveway to catch the school bus on winter mornings. the smell of sweet dusty hay. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">so we tramp through the fields, ezra and i and sometimes tom. the perfect destination walk. </span><br />
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chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-85548067939774989152014-04-23T06:59:00.000-04:002014-04-23T07:56:24.837-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ellsworth snuck through Tom's legs last night as he was taking Ezra outside before bed. Our big clumsy cat, out into the night. I always worry when he's out all night, so this morning, when I faintly heard his cry above the crush of pre-dawn birdsong, I slipped downstairs to find him. He'd pushed his way into the front porch and was peeking in the front door, eager to be let in for breakfast and a soft spot to sleep away the morning. 5.30 a.m. in late April is a dynamic hour. The sounds of birds and squirrels are quite overpowering in the stillness. There is a rush of energy. So I didn't head back up to bed. I never do, really. I love the early hours, looking forward to the flow of the day.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The studio has been a steady pull lately. No shortage of projects to fly between. I like that. Preparing for a couple of spring shows. Working on custom pieces. And in the swirl of work comes new ideas and fresh perspectives on what I do. Always moving forward. I've been making single fabric quilts lately. Two beautiful fabrics, quilted with cotton batting. They are lightweight and simple with an air of ease. Years ago Tom's mother gave us a quilt, hand stitched by his great-great-grandmother. Yet this quilt is not pieces and patches of scraps of cotton stitched into a whole. It is two whole pieces of fabric, hand quilted together early in the last century, to make a blanket. There is an easy simplicity about this quilt that always catches my eye and my heart. And so I've been setting aside my favorite pieces of fabric to make similar blankets. And I love them. I have a few in the shop, and more on the way. </span>chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-35647660505762832562014-04-09T19:29:00.000-04:002014-04-09T19:40:26.217-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">the sun swept through the studio today, whipping up little glittery storms of dust and lint. it was a lovely day. i worked on a quilt top that is full of the sunniness. and it's chock full of gingham which is always steeped in sun for me. gingham means picnics and lemonade. and cool grass creating that tangled little relief sculpture on the palm of your hand from leaning back and gazing at the day. that is what this quilt is full of. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">around lunchtime my parents and my aunt brought me a roll of cotton batting for my quilts. they had been on a little morning trip across the border, across the bridges, across the st. lawrence and back again. all to pick up my cotton quilting batting and deliver it to me. they are just awesome like that. my dad and my aunt settled onto the couch with ezra and my mother curled in a patch of sun like a cat, reading 'tess of the d'urbervilles'. i worked away sewing pieces of my quilt together. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">we had sushi for lunch. a first for my 85 year old aunt. she loved it, although she didn't attempt chopsticks. it was my third time this week having sushi for lunch. (and, yes, it's wednesday. i'm in a bit of a sushi phase right now) </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">a few weeks ago i found an old mini tape recorder, the sort used for dictation back in the day. surprisingly the batteries hadn't corroded and when i pressed 'play' i discovered a 40 minute conversation i'd had with my grandfather when he was 99. (he lived to be a couple months shy of 105). so after our sushi lunch, i dug out the little tape recorder and played the conversation for my parents and my aunt. in the streams of sun. with our full bellies. snuggling with a warm contented dog. we all marvelled at how much my grandfather remembered and what great stories he was telling and how nice to have it all on tape. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">so this is the background for today's quilt. it is soaked in sun and happiness and love and family memories. it's a good quilt. </span>chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-24951891162114703442014-03-13T20:18:00.000-04:002014-03-13T20:50:04.106-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">the sun is a low, west-slung sun. 6 pm. i'm at home. tom is playing guitar. stella is in front of the fire. there is too much snow for march. and too much cold. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">i cleaned the studio last week. changed it around a little and organized fabric and treasures. readying it for the coming season of work, i suppose. it took a couple of days and when i was ready to work again, i just stood and looked around. i had killed the chaos and chewed up a bit of the energy with it. i couldn't find where to begin. there were no tangled piles of fabric. nothing half finished and flung over a chair. for most of the day i was more than a little displaced. eventually i sunk into auto-drive, nothing inspired or even fun, but the blank fog of work found me a direction. and I've had a great week of work since then. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">i've begun to gaze at vintage quilts. absorb them in a new way. they slip into me now and engage parts of me that i had allowed to drop into a darkened and forgotten place. this week a quilt brought the painter to the surface again. i do most things in a painterly way, for that is how i work, what i know, who i am. and the real painter comes up for air now and then too. but this time i found myself lost in the motifs that at one time would drive me to fill wall sized canvas. and from that tickle, the same spot that used to birth paintings, i made a quilt. a quilt of crosses. i often see cross quilts. but the motif, the shape, the idea hit me differently. i had to make a quilt that would dream along beside me as i fashioned it. red and black crosses. strong and knightly. yet soft and grandmotherly. speaking in contrasts. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">so, i've broken through a self imposed barrier. i won't have this type of experience with every quilt i make, but it's worth something to know it's possible. </span>chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-13914612761464506752014-02-18T21:43:00.002-05:002014-02-18T21:59:46.512-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">sitting on the couch with ezra. a little restless. wishing i was at the studio, deep in the work. it's not late. but i have no energy for anything else. the kitchen needs to be cleaned up. laundry needs to be folded. our house has simply found it's way into a winter rut. and i don't really give any thought to it. i only have energy to twist my head around ways to turn fabric into blankets. soft and irresistible blankets. and finding new ways to use the pieces that end up on the floor, one sweep from the garbage. it's all my mind will get enthusiastic about now. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">but i'm not at the studio. the snow and the darkness has become a barrier for me. although it's just a few steps across the yard, it seems difficult. and i can't force myself across it. so i wait until morning and i spend a quiet winter evening with my family. a little restless. and a little tired. a bit like a bear awakening to spring. </span></div>
chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-67305461832291081252014-02-16T22:01:00.000-05:002014-02-16T22:08:53.783-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HXKBRe5--9w/UwF7-dt1Q5I/AAAAAAAAEN8/-zWtcIaftkA/s1600/winter+harbor.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HXKBRe5--9w/UwF7-dt1Q5I/AAAAAAAAEN8/-zWtcIaftkA/s1600/winter+harbor.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">this photo is our empty icy harbour yesterday. ezra and i walked all along it's edges, and at some spots the snow was past my knees. yet i can feel spring sifting it's way through the layers of cold. i can feel the air beginning to shift. the light is changing. and there is a little restlessness in my fingers. i am busy again. a constant roll of making quilt tops, filling the shop with new quilts. sorting through new ideas. and preparing for a small show that is happening march 1st right here in our little u-shaped village. i don't like to leave my little circle of house and studio. so the fact that this little show called 'she creates' takes place in the harbour, three doors down from me, makes it almost too perfect. so, i work away, building new quilts, folding them in fat towers of colour, ready to send out into this new spring and their new homes. </span>chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-34904612781358375592014-02-11T07:46:00.001-05:002014-02-11T07:57:59.058-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UxMbEwdNKwg/UvoeRaxQcoI/AAAAAAAAENs/qPd6FscBUCk/s1600/finger+salad.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UxMbEwdNKwg/UvoeRaxQcoI/AAAAAAAAENs/qPd6FscBUCk/s1600/finger+salad.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">i've always prefered to eat with my hands. i don't really love utensils. although i don't mind chopsticks. they seem to be finger extensions more than a fork or a spoon. it feels like utensils create a disconnect from the food for me. it puts me at a remove from choosing each piece that i take a bite of. utensils turn into little shovels for me. but when i pick a piece of food with my fingers and pop it in my mouth, it seems i'm able to savor it more. i like to sip soup from the bowl. and pick up carrots individually be they raw or cooked. i don't use dressing on my salads anymore because i love eating handfuls of baby greens. last night a huge bowl of baby greens was my meal. i tossed bits of bagel in olive oil and salt, and then fried them in a little more olive oil. that was my dinner. it almost feels like i'm sitting down with a big bowl of popcorn or chips. but it's so much better that it's a salad. it's becoming more and more often that i choose meals that allow me to savor them with my fingers. and i'm eating more and more meals just with my fingers regardless. now i really see the food i'm eating, feel it, and enjoy it!! and i don't have to worry about my mother's scolding anymore. well, not too much, anyway. </span>chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-65827165350314889162014-02-09T08:03:00.001-05:002014-02-09T08:17:14.954-05:00<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DGB2__sWCdo/Uvd_Q0u8O_I/AAAAAAAAENc/cC2Xni-SLGc/s1600/lemongrass.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DGB2__sWCdo/Uvd_Q0u8O_I/AAAAAAAAENc/cC2Xni-SLGc/s1600/lemongrass.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">when i come downstairs these wintry mornings, it's a simple little routine. ezra heads outside first thing. i put water on the stove to boil for tea. and i turn on the fire in the library. this little stove sits in the corner, a constant welcoming smile with stella sprawled in front of it most of the time. i keep two little clay pots that i made in college on the top grate. they are filled with water to give a little moisture to the air. a couple times a day i drop lemongrass essential oil into the water. it freshens the air. and i think it cleans the air too. a little something to chase away the germiness of our closed in winter house. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">so my mornings have been fragrant of late. mint tea and lemongrass. and there has been sun. the days are stretching, finally. by 6 am the night has cracked and gray is spilling into the black night sky. and by 8 am sun is flooding into the kitchen. so i can feel the race into spring gaining speed. but for now, i'll be bundling up to walk ezra through the harbour soon. and coming home to stand beside the fire, warming my legs. </span>chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-77133330423729152692014-02-06T22:10:00.000-05:002014-02-06T22:13:59.600-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TK3Hc-77X4U/UvRPJSps44I/AAAAAAAAENE/0s-ZTU-jaS8/s1600/feb+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TK3Hc-77X4U/UvRPJSps44I/AAAAAAAAENE/0s-ZTU-jaS8/s1600/feb+2.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">trudging across the yard tonight, the snow was past my knees. ezra was eager to romp through the drifts and grab mouthfuls of fresh cold snow like ice cream in his mouth as he ran. he loped along the path that tom shoveled for him on the weekend, although that path is filled in with snow again. it circles to the back of the yard and around the crabapple tree. and ezra shows his appreciation by keeping to it religiously when running around the yard, and stepping off of it to relieve himself. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">we are lazy this winter, like we are weighed down with the heaps of snow we can't escape. we spend our evenings by the fire, watching netflix, reading, tom playing guitar. but we're happy. we giggle alot. and don't seem to have the black cloud that usually hangs low over february. and before we know it, the lake will be groaning itself open again. and the crocuses will be coloring the dregs of the snow. but for now we sleep like bears and drink tea and hot chocolate around the fire. </span><br />
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chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-16753259170990547592014-02-05T22:13:00.000-05:002014-02-05T22:33:01.632-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-esLXTLLmSzs/UvMAh1X6V-I/AAAAAAAAEM0/B5l8WBqZASQ/s1600/ezra+surveying+the+mess.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-esLXTLLmSzs/UvMAh1X6V-I/AAAAAAAAEM0/B5l8WBqZASQ/s1600/ezra+surveying+the+mess.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">i am lost in a muffled fugue while i work. my days are stacked hours of brilliant and magnificent monotony. they are never the sort of disastrous drudgery to me that they may seem to anyone else. and my studio grows more and more chaotic as i work. it begins to bulge through the walls and into the rooms meant for less messy work. but in reality, there is no work that isn't messy. if it is fabric that i'm working with, the entire little house is an explosion of fabric and thread, color and design. and if i'm working with paper there is a flutter of scraps and ink and glue throughout. it just is. every month or so, i try to organize and fold and put the garbage out. but mostly, if i'm in my studio, i am there to work. i walk in the door and i'm crushed with the need to be into it at once. dragged into my own swirl of chaos. and energy. and almost frantic activity. when i apologize to visitors for the mess, it is half hearted at best. and when i come home at night i cuddle with tom and ezra on the couch, weary, but a little jazzed up too. we eat by the fire and find little worlds in our ipads to entertain us. tonight i sat with pinterest and saw dozens and dozens of studios. tidy and organized. clean spaces. or rooms of materials tightly and properly contained. the work seems far away in those rooms. it seems more about the romance of it all then the chaos of work. it made me think of my methods, my work that is almost always on the brink of disaster. and how i have very little say in it. how it takes me by the throat and i love it fully. </span>chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-21388134600396244742014-02-03T19:24:00.001-05:002014-02-03T19:41:09.064-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cd0ImjE42wA/UvA11XRpEsI/AAAAAAAAEMc/oTs4I_JXeEA/s1600/annette+and+susi.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cd0ImjE42wA/UvA11XRpEsI/AAAAAAAAEMc/oTs4I_JXeEA/s1600/annette+and+susi.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">it's been 3 weeks since i last wrote, telling you of my friend susi's new diagnosis with metastatic cancer that her doctor's told her was untreatable. it was a couple of weeks of feeling desperate and scared. and trying to keep the fear away so that the energy could be positive and strong. let me first say what amazing people are here in the little village of blogs we've created. most of you whom i've never met in person, but i hope to one day. i felt the kindness of your souls even before this, but with your generous gifts to susi's indiegogo campaign, i quickly became certain of it. thank you!!!</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">with your help susi was able to get to germany!!! she has been with her daughter and her grandchildren and is now seeking the help of alternative sources of medical care, which is covered under the german health care system. although she was dealing with terrible pain, and was worried about the prospect of the long flight, she was and is full of the most powerful positive belief that she may still be able to fight this. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">and so, she is home, in germany, surrounded with her family's love and prayers and support. and i wanted to thank you and update you on what you helped make possible. </span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rxdVlUIZjVQ/UvA1_DVs8MI/AAAAAAAAEMk/MuXejoUGdvc/s1600/susi.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rxdVlUIZjVQ/UvA1_DVs8MI/AAAAAAAAEMk/MuXejoUGdvc/s1600/susi.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> these photos were taken during our last visit. she had come by the studio a couple days before she left. her pain had begun to ease and we had a wonderful visit. </span>chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-70901909420823081862014-01-14T01:29:00.002-05:002014-01-14T02:18:26.117-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/susi-s-last-wish" target="_blank"><img alt="http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/susi-s-last-wish" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--5E7VGsYFmQ/UtTbCQc_GeI/AAAAAAAAEMM/XHiwKSt8lcE/s320/susi+and+ezra.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">i have a friend named susi. we met this fall, on a rainy november day. she had been at anwyn wool, the beautiful new wool studio on the corner. and when she heard of my studio up the street, she came to see the quilts. let me explain, that she had had a very bad experience with a large dog about a year before. when she came to the door, ezra leapt from the couch and ran barking to the door. and despite her fear, she trusted me when i told her he just sounded mean and would be fine as soon as she was in the door. she trusted me. and the two of them were quickly friends. and so were we. there are times when you meet someone and talk for hours without even realizing it. that's what we had. when she left it was almost dark on a rainy cold november night. and she had 15 kilometres to cycle to get home. she insisted it was fine. and emailed me when she got home. (thankfully her husband picked her up halfway home).</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">susi came back to the studio a few days later and bought a baby quilt to send to her new grandson in germany. susi moved to canada 9 or 10 years ago. and her oldest daughter had stayed in germany and had two young children that susi had never met. the next time she came to the studio, her husband had been laid off from his job. but he had a passion and talent for working with wood. and he was making wooden knitting needles (the ones i wrote about a few posts ago). i took a bundle of the needles to sell for her. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">things became more and more busy with christmas sales. we saw each other a few more times. and stayed in touch with texts. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">this weekend i was cleaning the house. i took a break to zone out on the computer, checking out facebook. and i saw a randomly shared link called 'susi's last wish'. the spelling of her name was so distinct that i immediately was afraid. the first line referred to her as a 49 year old woman. we had spoken of our ages. i knew she was 49. and then i opened the link and saw her photo. and i started weeping. it was her. and january 5th she had found out that the cervical cancer she had had in 2012 had metasticized to her lymph nodes, liver and spleen. and there was no further treatment for her. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">we spent the afternoon together yesterday. she is in a lot of pain. and finds it very difficult to see people devestated by her illness. so she has kept it to herself as long as she can. she is cheerful and strong and thankful. she is such a remarkable woman. she wants to see her grandshildren and her daughter in germany. and her doctor's say that if she's going to travel she has to do so in the next few weeks. with her husband laid off, it's very difficult to come up with the money, especially when they have to go so quickly. <a href="http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/susi-s-last-wish" target="_blank">the link i saw on facebook is an indiegogo link which i'm linking here.</a></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">if you're interested in donating and don't want to do it online, i am happy to collect checks for her....we have a card with checks that i'm going to give them on friday. if you can give, any amount will help. </span>chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-29788652769188385732014-01-09T14:35:00.000-05:002014-01-09T14:35:02.985-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/1200x/96/19/b3/9619b3028f1141e06734f8bf2e8a2886.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/1200x/96/19/b3/9619b3028f1141e06734f8bf2e8a2886.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">it's been a quite a holiday. resting. and reconnecting. and togetherness. a lot of togetherness. i'm still not back to the stucio. i'm working. but just doing the sewing that i can do from home. ezra and stella on the couch with me. the fire adding warmth and pure coziness. bbc period dramas on netflix. i've needed this. and the crazy weather sort of forced it upon us. first there was ice. then snow. and then temperatures that with the wind chill factored in, hovered between -30 and -40 degrees. icy sidewalks. streets that people were actually skating on. the house banging and shaking in the night from the 'frostquakes' triggered by the drastic changes in temperature. so we cozied into the library (my favorite room) and had a little winter holiday. ezra had a few 'bambi' moments on the ice, but he really did well. ellsworth is going a little stircrazy from being inside all the time. but we've all found a great rhythm. i started sewing again around New Years. and i have the bones of 5 large throw quilt tops almost ready to move to the studio. working at a luxurious pace and spending time with the ones i love. it's been a marvelous start to the year. </span><br />
<br />chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-53917172983992107892013-12-20T21:10:00.000-05:002013-12-20T21:14:55.327-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sl4_ORe8UIA/UrT5grl4FhI/AAAAAAAAEL8/gt2bB_u6PIY/s1600/tom+one.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sl4_ORe8UIA/UrT5grl4FhI/AAAAAAAAEL8/gt2bB_u6PIY/s320/tom+one.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">if it wasn't so ominous, the sound of the freezing rain falling when i step outside the kitchen door, would be beautiful. it's whispery and soft. tinkly and misty. but the predictions of it's destructive results are dire. they are talking about freezing rain for days and widespread power outages. so my kitchen is abuzz now. the windows steamed over. all the elements on the stove fired up. three pots of pasta. all the salmon from the freezer in the oven, perogies frying, eggs boiling. things we can eat cold. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">i always have a tickle of excitement during these quasi-emergencies....when life as we know it shifts to something a little more basic. more human really. tom tells me not to cook everything we have in the house. it's hard for me not to. but i didn't boil the whole dozen, just 6 of them. and only one bag of perogies. i am a person that goes all in. with pretty much everything i love, i love it all the way. so, tom is sometimes that necessary voice of moderation. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">so the house is warm and sweet with the smells of food. and the world i know is covered in a coat of ice and it keeps falling from the sky in it's own pretty way, pretending it's a song instead of a storm. </span></span>chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-31055608219320848762013-12-13T23:00:00.002-05:002013-12-13T23:00:13.462-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/172884052/paris-quilted-with-script-the-famous?ref=shop_home_active" target="_blank"><img alt="https://www.etsy.com/listing/172884052/paris-quilted-with-script-the-famous?ref=shop_home_active" border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mXsRQ7dxsPQ/UqvQRJlL7AI/AAAAAAAAELQ/FQEM6cTfl6o/s320/quilty+christmas+day+3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">this is the third day of a quilty christmas. and although i love every quilt, i have a special connection to this one. this quilt is an elegant, tone on tone patchwork of solid white and cream, cotton and linen. it's the perfect backdrop for gray, shadowy colored thread to sew words into. and the back is a linen colored cotton printed with an illustrated map of paris.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">20 years ago i lived in paris. i'm not alone in my love for this city. i love the smell of diesel that seeps through it's streets. i love it's serpentine underground metro tunnels. i love the language. the parcs. i love the architecture and the churches. i love the books and the narrow streets. the gray and rainy days. the climb out of a metro station to a square patch of sky. i love the people. the markets. the street food. i love the smells.....so many many smells. i love the fabric stores in narrow hilly streets leading up to sacre coeur. and let me say again, i love the metro. it connects the city, making it so much less massive. and when i would head home at the end of a day of wandering with my heavy bag of cameras and film, books and all the treasures i'd collect along the way, i would ultimately be on line 1. this line cuts a swath east to west through the city. it was the first metro line to open. and it's stations are historic and memorable. i would embark at the chatelet station and the second last station on the line would drop me a 5 minute walk from my apartment in saint mande. other stations on this line are bastille, le louvre, tuileries, champs elysees and hotel de ville to name a few. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">so this quilt has the names of these historic stations, quilting the layers of cotton together, written in a smooth flowy script. you can feel the energy. it's like a little journey across the city, with your eye settling on many of the high points. oh i love this quilt. and now you know why. you can find more info on this beauty if you visit the<a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/172884052/paris-quilted-with-script-the-famous?ref=shop_home_active" target="_blank"> listing on etsy.</a> </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/172884052/paris-quilted-with-script-the-famous?ref=shop_home_active" target="_blank"><img alt="https://www.etsy.com/listing/172884052/paris-quilted-with-script-the-famous?ref=shop_home_active" border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hy3BV0Rbo7M/UqvXc9gmepI/AAAAAAAAELg/RsABbSB41N0/s320/paris+quilt.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br />chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-55023372793990329122013-12-12T23:47:00.000-05:002013-12-12T23:47:14.324-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/118049517/abominable-snowman-with-real-lights-ugly?ref=shop_home_active" target="_blank"><img alt="https://www.etsy.com/listing/118049517/abominable-snowman-with-real-lights-ugly?ref=shop_home_active" border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qP9soR-cqU0/UqqJ3B8y2FI/AAAAAAAAEK0/MnlMWs64cLQ/s320/the+abominable.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">so, this fabulous creature arrived at the door today. tom's abominable sweater. complete with lights and a battery pack. we found it a few weeks ago on etsy and he is beyond tickled with it. he came bursting in the back door of the studio, strutting, with the lights glowing. and the biggest smile on his face. it is easily his new favorite thing. there is no mystery what he'll wear to christmas dinner. or to our christmas movie watching night with our friends this weekend. or until the sweater just gets too stinky to wear anymore......it's not washable of course. it's electric!!!</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">in other news......today is the second day of our quilty christmas. and the star of the day is a large throw that i quite love. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/169422952/beautiful-vintage-styled-farmhouse-quilt?ref=shop_home_feat" target="_blank"><img alt="https://www.etsy.com/listing/169422952/beautiful-vintage-styled-farmhouse-quilt?ref=shop_home_feat" border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IsxKaS54VJU/UqqNdmq2i9I/AAAAAAAAELA/EJpub5mYgO4/s320/quilty+christmas+day+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">it has a bit of a story..... before i'd moved to making my farmhouse patchwork, i made almost all my quilte from 7 inch squares (and before that it was 12 inch squares). i had a king sized quilt top in the studio, made from 7 inch squares. and i didn't really love it. and couldn't imagine myself ever finishing it. so, i started to cut. i cut it and sewed it back together. and then cut it again. and sewed it again. this went on a few times until i'd turned a king sized top into a cozy and soft throw, with tiny, uneven and randomly colored squares. and this is today's featured quilt. it adds interest and warmth on a bed. or waits on the back of the sofa to get pulled around you while watching tv. it's perfect to snuggle under alone, or with someone else too. it measures 73 by 50 inches. and for more info, you can <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/169422952/beautiful-vintage-styled-farmhouse-quilt?ref=shop_home_feat" target="_blank">check out the etsy listing</a>. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">i hope you find ways to keep the holiday stress down and have wonderful fun times with family and friends. </span></span> chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508235741976693989.post-51558722168056767352013-12-11T22:36:00.001-05:002013-12-11T22:36:45.980-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/171051002/beautiful-vintage-styled-farmhouse-lap?ref=shop_home_active" target="_blank"><img alt="https://www.etsy.com/listing/171051002/beautiful-vintage-styled-farmhouse-lap?ref=shop_home_active" border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gT4WmClnxjs/Uqkp_XFJ0_I/AAAAAAAAEKU/0kI4oi7KoZ4/s320/first+day+of+quilty+christmas.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">we have managed to pull out the cartons of tucked away christmas treasures. and we've found a most perfect tree to stand grandly, modelling all our memory filled little baubles that we swoon over every year. tom's grandmother's ceramic tree sparkles in the window. our stockings dangle beside the fireplace. and christmas specials are beginning to fill our dvr. so christmas is charging right along. and in that spirit, i thought i'd have a little celebration of sorts in the studio as well. the 12 days of a quilty christmas. and with each day, one quilt be the star. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">today is the first day of our quilty little christmas. and our star today is a cheerful and charming little lap quilt. she has some of the beautiful vintage fabrics that i told you about a couple of months ago.....the fabrics an elderly gentleman brought me from his mother's fabric collection. those are interspersed with other fabrics, chosen to create a dreamy vintage look, to remind us of an era when simple moments in life were noticed and appreciated. this little beauty is a lap quilt and measures 38 by 51 inches. she tucks smoothly around like a tight little hug. and for more info, this little beauty is <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/171051002/beautiful-vintage-styled-farmhouse-lap?ref=shop_home_active" target="_blank">listed in my etsy shop. </a></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LoCOQWrkrNw/UqkuyioTAxI/AAAAAAAAEKk/C3HLeUx0yIU/s1600/christmas+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LoCOQWrkrNw/UqkuyioTAxI/AAAAAAAAEKk/C3HLeUx0yIU/s320/christmas+tree.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">so as the holidays burst merrily upon us, i hope we all find the joy!</span></span>chasing lightning bugshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09827256072196695717noreply@blogger.com4