Sunday, March 16, 2014
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Falling Short
I am not a shopper. I am a yard sale scrounger and a flea market hopper, but actual store shopping... hate it.
Consequently, I am a stocker-upper. When I go to the feed store, I will buy 300 pounds of chicken feed. Toilet paper, 50 rolls. Beef, just buy a side and be done with it.
I feel the same way about studio goods. If I need thread, I order a lot and call it good for the year.
(Plus it looks nice hanging on the studio wall!)
So when I sat down to quilt this quilt, which has a looming deadline (of course)...
...and only had this much white thread....
AARGH!!
Now I have to go to the store AND worry about a looming deadline.
Falling short is such a pain to the patoot.
Consequently, I am a stocker-upper. When I go to the feed store, I will buy 300 pounds of chicken feed. Toilet paper, 50 rolls. Beef, just buy a side and be done with it.
I feel the same way about studio goods. If I need thread, I order a lot and call it good for the year.
(Plus it looks nice hanging on the studio wall!)
So when I sat down to quilt this quilt, which has a looming deadline (of course)...
...and only had this much white thread....
AARGH!!
Now I have to go to the store AND worry about a looming deadline.
Falling short is such a pain to the patoot.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Young at Art
There are so many lovely things about having lived in the same small town for a long time. Predictability is one of them.
At the post office in my town you can predict (with amazing accuracy) long lines and lousy service. A shabby building and shabbier attitudes. It's ridiculous.
BUT, in the town just north of here the story is completely different. The place is small but clean. The employees are not only knowledgeable and helpful but they are actually friendly. They know the names of their patrons and can anticipate what they might be coming in for that day. It's great.
And, if all of that isn't enough, they often have seasonal art displays, like this salute to Abe Lincoln.
A-DOR-ABLE!
I know the last picture is a little blurry, but my favorite Abe is in that collection. He is the block head with one regular eye and one black eye.
Can it get any finer?
At the post office in my town you can predict (with amazing accuracy) long lines and lousy service. A shabby building and shabbier attitudes. It's ridiculous.
BUT, in the town just north of here the story is completely different. The place is small but clean. The employees are not only knowledgeable and helpful but they are actually friendly. They know the names of their patrons and can anticipate what they might be coming in for that day. It's great.
And, if all of that isn't enough, they often have seasonal art displays, like this salute to Abe Lincoln.
A-DOR-ABLE!
I know the last picture is a little blurry, but my favorite Abe is in that collection. He is the block head with one regular eye and one black eye.
Can it get any finer?
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Young Love
Yesterday we had the joy of attending the wedding of a sweet young couple we know.
The groom is the son of our very dear friends and his new wife is actually our pastor's niece.
Small world. And when you live in the same small-ish town for decades...well it is even smaller. (Which is precisely WHY living in a small-ish town for decades makes life beautiful.)
This wedding has been much anticipated.
The dreaming, the planning, the merging of two lives and two families, the hope for a future filled with love and beauty and blessing. Yes, it was a wonderful celebration.
And, as weddings are known to be, it was also a tearful celebration. A true Kleenex affair. The bride, the groom, the best man and maid of honor, they all cried. So did the bride's parents and the groom's parents and the aunties and...well, a lot of the other the guests! (Except for my guy. He did exactly zero crying, and he wants to make sure that this fact is made known.)
I had several tearful moments. But it was when I was watching my friend dance with her son, dance her special dance, dance and cry...well, that was a tender moment. It was one of those times that causes you to reflect on the whole of a life. That here she was dancing with her boy. This little boy that she birthed not so long ago. The baby she nursed and walked the floors with at night. The boy whose hand she held and whose shoes she tied. The first one to call her mom. The first one to move right into her heart and set up camp, forever. Here she was dancing with that same boy. Except that boy had somehow become a grown up man. A grown up, married man. And it all happened so fast....
Hence the tears. And the hope of endless love for this sweet young couple.
Hugs from us to you.
The groom is the son of our very dear friends and his new wife is actually our pastor's niece.
Small world. And when you live in the same small-ish town for decades...well it is even smaller. (Which is precisely WHY living in a small-ish town for decades makes life beautiful.)
This wedding has been much anticipated.
The dreaming, the planning, the merging of two lives and two families, the hope for a future filled with love and beauty and blessing. Yes, it was a wonderful celebration.
And, as weddings are known to be, it was also a tearful celebration. A true Kleenex affair. The bride, the groom, the best man and maid of honor, they all cried. So did the bride's parents and the groom's parents and the aunties and...well, a lot of the other the guests! (Except for my guy. He did exactly zero crying, and he wants to make sure that this fact is made known.)
I had several tearful moments. But it was when I was watching my friend dance with her son, dance her special dance, dance and cry...well, that was a tender moment. It was one of those times that causes you to reflect on the whole of a life. That here she was dancing with her boy. This little boy that she birthed not so long ago. The baby she nursed and walked the floors with at night. The boy whose hand she held and whose shoes she tied. The first one to call her mom. The first one to move right into her heart and set up camp, forever. Here she was dancing with that same boy. Except that boy had somehow become a grown up man. A grown up, married man. And it all happened so fast....
Hence the tears. And the hope of endless love for this sweet young couple.
Hugs from us to you.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Friday, February 21, 2014
His and Her Mornings
Me and my guy...we are different. We have been married for more than a quarter of a century, and it seems like that would bring some oneness, but it hasn't.
Mornings. That is where our differences really shine.
He is up at 5 a.m. Yes, 5 a.m.
Me? I do not like getting up before 6:30. Ever.
He likes his coffee strong and black and bitter.
I like my coffee cup to be filled with 1/3 coffee and 2/3 milk.
He likes his eggs scrambled, right out of the shell.
Me? I like them scrambled with a little milk and cheese. Light and fluffy, please.
Oh, and he likes to put butter in his eggs "so they don't stick to the pan".
I say better stuck to the pan than stuck to the hips.
He likes his oranges sliced into wedges.
I like mine cut into wagon wheels.
Toast?
He wants his barely heated with a big pile of butter right in the middle.
I like mine with actual toast marks and lightly buttered from edge to edge.
Every day.
And after another quarter of a century?
I suspect that it will be more of the same, with a side of wrinkles.
Mornings. That is where our differences really shine.
He is up at 5 a.m. Yes, 5 a.m.
Me? I do not like getting up before 6:30. Ever.
He likes his coffee strong and black and bitter.
I like my coffee cup to be filled with 1/3 coffee and 2/3 milk.
He likes his eggs scrambled, right out of the shell.
Me? I like them scrambled with a little milk and cheese. Light and fluffy, please.
Oh, and he likes to put butter in his eggs "so they don't stick to the pan".
I say better stuck to the pan than stuck to the hips.
He likes his oranges sliced into wedges.
I like mine cut into wagon wheels.
Toast?
He wants his barely heated with a big pile of butter right in the middle.
I like mine with actual toast marks and lightly buttered from edge to edge.
Every day.
And after another quarter of a century?
I suspect that it will be more of the same, with a side of wrinkles.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
It's the commercials stupid
Can I say "stupid" on my blog?
How about if it is a reference to the Clinton campaign of 1992 (yeah, it was that long ago!).
So anyway...........
I am not a football fan. Don't watch it. Don't pay attention to my guy when he blithers on and on about it. Don't have a favorite team. Don't go to football parties. And I certainly DO NOT watch the Superbowl. Not even for the commercials. But, I will hop onto You Tube and check out the commercials after all the hoopla dies down.
This Chevy commercial was a good one.
How about if it is a reference to the Clinton campaign of 1992 (yeah, it was that long ago!).
So anyway...........
I am not a football fan. Don't watch it. Don't pay attention to my guy when he blithers on and on about it. Don't have a favorite team. Don't go to football parties. And I certainly DO NOT watch the Superbowl. Not even for the commercials. But, I will hop onto You Tube and check out the commercials after all the hoopla dies down.
This Chevy commercial was a good one.
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