New and Old

 Don't you just love when school supplies show up in the stores?  I do. I always thought the first day of school was so exciting (the next most exciting was the last day.)  For us, everything was new - pencils were sharp, crayons were too, pens yet untried, packs of paper, too. Shoes still stiff,  even our underwear was new.  Don't you just love the smell of a box of new crayons? Crack the small seal, open the lid and inhale.  I always hated using the first new crayon because it meant they weren't new anymore but I did appreciate the possibilities in them. 

This morning in the store the center aisle was filled with bright mechanical pencils, packages of yellow no.2 pencils, markers, crayons, unopened bottles of glue and glue sticks, post-it notes, construction paper in packs of a thousand, pencil cases, locker mirrors, technical calculators, I just stood smiling and took it all in, loving it all and remembering the excitement when I had an excuse to buy some of all of it.  

 

I couldn't resist.  I had to buy a pack of new mechanical pencils.  They were so pretty. I use them to draw around applique templates so there's the excuse. 

All this new and sharp and shiny reminded me of yesterday when the museum held a day camp of learners experiencing Native American ways and I helped lead a group of campers in pictographs and feather painting. I explained what pictographs were, how they told a story without words because the Native Americans didn't have an alphabet.  The kids thought of a small story to demonstrate with pictographs and then drew it out.  There were examples of pictographs they could use or they could make up their own.

They were both challenged and excited about making their own thoughts come alive in a picture.  One little guy asked, "how do I draw 'was' ?  I said, "you don't."   One little guy was determined to do a story about Sonic the Hedgehog and I could see right away that no amount of explaining was going to change his mind, so we went with it.  It is his story, after all.

Feather painting was fun, too.  We saw examples, photos of quite intricate portraiture and they got to work.  We used acrylic paints and it was fun!  One little boy started to make a raccoon but it turned into a rabbit and then morphed into a rock.  But he was having fun explaining that to the rest of us. 

And this morning as I was standing in the aisle at the store drooling over all of the implements, colors, technology in front of me I couldn't help but think of yesterday.

The Third Mrs. Galway

                                         The Third Mrs. Galway by Deirdre Sinnot

 

      Helen Galway was young, newly married to Augustin Galway, a widower. She was arm candy. Before arriving home from their honeymoon she was outfitted, instructed and expected to keep up his reputation in their home in Utica, New York. He was an important, commanding man and the important and commanding first wife’s portrait is right there at the top of the staircase greeting Helen each time she decends.

     On her first morning in her new home she finds her husband laid out with a severely broken leg from a fall from a horse and the unsavory Dr. McCooke insinuating himself into the home to oversee Augustin’s care and in the shed she finds a woman and her son, runaways and hiding, the woman near giving birth.  This on her first morning.  Helen finds herself at a whole new level of insecurity. 

     Maggie, the free formerly enslaved housekeeper/cook/general runner of the household is an anchor for Helen. Maggie has command of Augustin, takes no stuff from the snarky doctor and guides Helen in the ways of the household and her new husband.

     Utica at the time was a major stop on the Underground Railroad, a stop Harriet Tubman used to get people to Buffalo and Canada. It was the place of the New York Anti-Slavery Society’s first meeting, the home of the minister Orange Scott whose anti-slavery sermons culminated in the forming of an abolitionist group. Tensions were running high on the slavery question in Utica and Helen now finds herself trying to decide whether to help the people hiding in her shed or being a good wife and telling her husband.

     The tensions of the time rank high in this story of choices. Tensions between those running to freedom and those with the power to prevent a person becoming free. Tensions between communities North and South. Tension between those who own and those who don’t. Tensions between knowing what’s right and what isn’t. Very timely, indeed.

Here it is

 

OK, here it is, washed.  It's still in sensitive drying mode. I didn't want to move it around too much so it's not straightened but it's much, much  happier washed.  If it EVER stops raining I think I'll give it and it's sisters another dunk just to, well, give it another dunk.

I got the photo off the camera by taking the sim card out and putting it in the computer.  I tried inserting it into a different camera but that didn't work.  Even in the computer I get an error  refusal to cooperate message if I take too long so something's not working and I'm thinking it's the camera. 

assorted stuff

 

We've spent a lot of mornings picking strawberries these last two weeks.  And we've been eating  a steady diet of  and giving away pies. We've had an enormous amount of rain these past few days and more to come so I'm not sure when we can go again, but we NEED to go for Tuesday evening's dinner with friends who I promised a pie to.  I can't believe the inches of rain we've been seeing is going to be good for berries.

Something is wrong with my camera or the ability of the computer to take the photos from my camera and put them in my computer file.  I don't know yet which way to turn - the computer or the camera but something needs to be done.  I get much, much nicer shots with the camera than I do the phone. 

 

                                                           Like this for instance

 

I had a step-great grandma who lived in Kentucky.  She was born in 1865 and died just about a month short of her 101st birthday.  She was a quilter.  I have her Grandmother's Flower Garden quilt and after she died my brother and sister-in-law were given four others.  They used to be smokers and the quilts hung on a quilt rack for a lot of years.  A week or so ago they gave the quilts to me.  I was, obviously, thrilled to get them.  But the smoke took its toll.  You can see how they were folded for years and smoke stained, and to be honest I couldn't have them in a room because of the stale odor. 

This really old one was particularly badly stained and the binding was just a turn over edging. 

You can see along the crease the yellowing on this one

And this one is particularly bad, too.  Well, I couldn't store them, show them or keep them folded unless I cleaned them.  Now, I'm going to tell you what I did to one of them and I am saying right now it's probably going to make you cringe but it's what I did and it worked.  No critics, please.

I took the quilt in the middle picture and worked that one first because it was smaller. I put a sheet in the bathtub.  I put the quilt on the sheet and put lukewarm water in the tub.  You could see the smoke stain leeching out like I was brewing tea.  I lifted it by the sheet's four corners, thus not putting pressure on the stitches or the fabric of the quilt with the weight of the water.  I lifted the quilt, watched the absolutely dark yellow run out.  Emptied the tub, refilled it with clean water, put the quilt back down, and it took six changes of water before the water appeared clean.  Then PH and I picked up the sheet with quilt in it, put it in a blue IKEA bag and took it outside.  I laid the sheet on the ground, straightened the quilt and let it drain.  After a few hours I took the sheet away and let the quilt stay on the grass in the shade awhile longer.  I brought it in for the night when it was barely damp and put it folded on a drying rack, laying flat.  It looks SO much better but I can't show you because I took the photos with the camera and I can't get them off the camera and onto the computer. And I can't retake a photo with the phone because it won't stop raining.  Because it hasn't stopped raining or we haven't been home long enough to work with the other quilts, I haven't taken them on yet but I will soon.  

Now, really, if this procedure made you cringe I don't want to hear it.  I did what I did the way that I did it and that's what I did.  And the quilt is much happier.
 

 

 

 

 

Gift week

 Walking through our mega grocery /stuff store one day I saw a really cute dish towel that featured an embroidered Michigan on it.  Immediately I thought it would make a cute pillow.  Never could I use it for an actual dish towel because I am very not nice to dish towels. It would be stained and burned very soon.  But a pillow, now that was another story.  So, I bought one.  When I got home I thought daughter and daughter-in-law might like one, too and sent PH back to the store to get two more.

After days and days and days procrastinating because I just knew I'd ruin it with my mismeasuring skill less math I finally tip toed up to them during one of these hot, hot, hot indoor air conditioning days. I have a hard time seeing math.  Once I can SEE it, I can do it but until then I'm a wreck.  Finally, after much, much, much measuring (you know that adage for carpenters: measure twice, cut once?  Well, for me it's measure for DAYS, cut once and still ruin it)  and a final consultation with PH and even then not getting it into my head finally, finally the lightbulb went on.  After that it took about 45 minutes to make the backs of the three pillows.   You laugh but it's all true.

This one is front and back of daughter-in-law's.  They have a nice summer porch and it will be cute there.

This is daughter's.  They have a sweet little cottage up north very near Lake Michigan where light houses and boats are on the horizon. It will be cute up there.

This one is ours where picking summer fruits is my summer.  A much better use of a cute dish towel.

 Friend Paul called and asked if I would like his mother's quilt rack.  I said yes!

My day

 I wait for this day every year.  It's MY day.  I don't wait for Christmas with this kind of anticipation.  I don't.  This is strawberry day.  This was the first day of first picking and PH and I were out at the field by 8:30 a.m. During strawberry season I am out there every other day picking just enough berries for THE pie.  Today we picked 9.75 pounds of berries in about 20 minutes.  This particular variety was huge, extremely sweet and juicy and three filled your palm.  I don't make jam.  PH doesn't eat it and it would take me a whole year to go through one jar of jam so I don't bother.  Sometimes I freeze a few for making strawberry ice cream, sometimes for morning yogurt but not usually.  Mostly, it's all pie.

 We were flattered this morning.  The girl who works the field station knows me from years past. As she said, "you're here every day" and told us that she keeps the recipe for this pie in her safe.  She said, "I have five things in my safe and your recipe is one of them."

 I made three of these pies with those 9.75 pounds.  Now, this pie, as you've heard me say many times, is the reason God made strawberries.  It can only be made with fresh picked Michigan berries.  Store berries are not even considered.  Not possible. Never. When a strawberry is cut the action should not make a sound and certainly not sound like you're cutting an apple.  A silent slice through ripe juiciness fresh off the plant, that's what it should sound like.  One pie went to PH's brother who is recuperating from a knee replacement and is still after three weeks in shock over the intensity of the thing.  One went to daughter and family down the street but I had to wait till daughter got home because by the time the adults got home Elizabeth would have had all the strawberries eaten out of it and presented the adults with an empty pie shell.  And the last one was for us.

This is our supper.  Every pie day this is our supper.  Just this. I wait all year for this day. It's enough.

 

the Missing Treasures of Amy Ashton

The Missing Treasures of Amy Ashton 

Everybody always looks at me askance when I tell them I watch Hoarders on television. Really, I do watch it.  I can't look away.  I started watching when we were planning to move from a large house to another city and a smaller house.  I had to make way too many decisions, purge, pack up and we had a lot of stuff.  Books.  Hoo-boy, do we have books.  Quilt supplies and fabric, a whole wall, a long wall, of dishes, two living rooms, two kitchens, two dining rooms, too many decisions.  I happened on an episode of Hoarders on television, watched it and thought nothing I had to do could top that.  Watching put me in the mood to tackle the purging and packing and periodically, when I felt overwhelmed with the work, I'd sit down and watch another episode. But you can't watch without wondering how someone could end up that way.

Well, in The Missing Treasures of Amy Ashton, we get a glimpse of what can push a person in the direction of an unhealthy obsession with things. Amy looks normal from the outside but there is a reason she won't let you in her home.  Once she thought she would become an artist, and she is very good, but like it is with hoarders, something happened to the people in her past, people who were the most important things in her life, and she discovered you can lose people but things won't leave.  

She has a preference for ceramic birds, pots, anything that sparks her artistic eye.  A coffee mug? Sure. More coffee mugs? Why not.  She talks to her ceramic birds, she covets her pots and fixes things that break. She can't let go.  

One day a new family moves in next door and included in that family are two little boys.  There is nothing like a curious little boy to bring you out of yourself.  One day Amy discovers a piece of information about her past important people and she admits, finally, the need to know what happened.  Her sleuthing takes her back layer by layer and when she pulls back into the safety of her seclusion well, enter those little boys again.  One of whom shows hints of obsessions of his own, except his are bulldozers, not birds.  

As with all hoarders, Amy has to make a decision, her things or people?  The little guy next door, some answers about her past losses and some broken mugs and pots help Amy to realize what's important to save and what isn't. And she learns that in letting go she is actually letting in.