Closed Sign

This is an announcement for the people who actually do visit my blog.

Good-bye for a little while.  I will be taking a hiatus from my blog.

A personal leave of absence.

You see… I will be busy.  SO busy.  Bee busy.  Busy in my studio.

With steaming cups of tea.  My trusty little iPod.  And lots of paint.  And ink.  And brushes.  And tools.  And art paper.  And other musings.

I may even get to know my sewing machine.  As we are little more than acquaintances at best.

I’ll leave with the promise of returning one day.

Refreshed.  Renewed.

But for today…  I must hang a “closed” sign on the door.

“Be back when I’m through blooming…”

~ Lynn Ungar

The Bunny & The Ninja

Sometimes life hands you lemons – and you can make lemonade.

Sometimes life hands you lemons – and you need to get a little tequila and salt and call a friend over.

Sometimes the lemons are rotten and worthless. And you can’t make a thing out of them.

Those were my lemons the last two days.

Sick kids. Emergency room visits. Multiple doctor’s appointments. Multiple trips to the pharmacy.

At least for all of the rotten, sour lemons… I have these sweet, sweet punkins to offset the taste.

AND – we were able to make it through Beggar’s Night before said lemons were handed to us.

My girl was a ballerina bunny…

My boy was a Reg Dragon Ninja…

And together – they made quite a pair…

I think I’ll keep them…

Despite all the rotten, worthless lemons.

Candid Carving

Sticking with generations of family tradition, we are among the countless families who carve pumpkins for Halloween.  Each year we choose our pumpkins.  Each year we wield knives and tools.  Each year our creations are photographed for the scrapbook.  And each year they all take their place on the front stoop.  Forged and frozen smiles to greet the treat seeking masses.  Candle flickering where their guts used to be.

Here are a few candid shots of the kids during the creative process.

My adorable boy so carefully drawing a face…

After flipping a spoonful of seeds and goo into the air.  And all over the kitchen.  And all over himself.

Leave it to my sweet girl to be this creative.  A star?  I am smitten.

Of course Charlie must oversee everything.  Carving pumpkins is no exception.

Did she do it right inspector Charlie?

Costumes and Jack-O-Lanterns will be posted tomorrow!!!

Ghost In The Tree

This year my six-year-old son asked if he could unpack the Halloween decorations.  As well as assist in their placement.  I thought it over carefully for about a half second.  And when nothing catastrophic came to mind – I delivered the best news he’d heard all day… “YES”!

I sat back in the recliner and watched as he diligently set about his work.  He unwrapped each treasure.  Unearthed each prize.  Brought each relic to life.  And asked a thousand and seven questions.

All with the widest eyes I’ve ever seen.

Never before had I realized the wonder that tote beheld.  But, my son did.  And he showed me.  And I saw everything with renewed excitement.  And everything found a worthy place.  Most of which he chose on his own.

Finally reaching the bottom, one of my favorite things emerged.  A low-budget, tired excuse of a ghost.  Nonetheless – still a favorite.  And its place was not up for negotiation.

Its place is in our front tree.

And so my son obliged.

He’s good like that.

Whining

I DON’T WANNA DO THE DISHES OR THE LAUNDRY OR COOK DINNER OR VACUUM OR CLEAN UP THE HOUSE OR RUN ERRANDS BECAUSE I AM JUST ALREADY WAY TOO COLD ALREADY!!!!!!!!

And it’s not even November…

Something Wicked

It’s late October.  It’s fifty-four degrees.  It’s unreasonably windy.

Again.

A Xerox of yesterday.  Gusts of up to sixty miles an hour.  Shingles are blowing off house-tops.  Leaves and branches are stripped from trees.  Fall decorations are transplanted from one yard to another.

And the sound of it all.

An insurgence of bitterness.  A malicious threat.  I can feel it deep within my marrow.  A resounding alarm.  This wind is bringing the winter.

Go away wind.  You are making my house and my bones and my soul creak.

“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes…”

Shakespeare, Dear sir…

Winter is my Macbeth.

Hanna J

I am one day late.  And I apologize.

Something about dishes.  Laundry.  Cleaning.  And grieving.

Something about eighteen hours at work.  Sandwiched between Saturday morning.  And Sunday night.  And grieving.

Something about losing track of time in my studio.  For hours.  And hours.  And grieving.

Something about physical therapy.  And ice.  And heat.  And grieving.

Monday simply got lost in there.

So about my sewing chair.  No longer nameless.  She is ~ Hanna J.  Hanna for my great-great-grandmother.  J for Julia.  The middle name of my husband’s late grandmother.

And when I went upstairs to my studio this morning to capture an image for today’s post.  This is exactly what I found…

Charlie.  The afghan.  And Hanna J.

And for the first time in a week.  Things felt right again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Much gratitude to everyone who had ideas for naming my sewing chair.

And shared them.

Grandma’s Afghan

Last week I posted about my sewing chair.  I posted that I don’t know its history.  I posted that it now permanently lives in my studio.  I posted that Charlie has recently taken to sleeping there.

I also posted that an afghan made by a very special person is always draped across the back.

The very day after my post – we lost this very special person.

My husband’s beloved grandmother passed away on October 19th.

She was 97.

She will be deeply missed.

Farewell sweet Grandma Gwendy. . .

You were so very loved.

Daily Chai

This… is the stuff of heaven.

This… is pure bliss in a cup.

This… is creamy deliciousness at its best.

This… is my favorite daily indulgence.

THIS… is Oregon Chai Tea Latte.

Made with hot milk and served in a favorite mug.

This… is the cure for a thousand ills.

Name My Sewing Chair Please

I have this chair.  This old wooden chair.  Which presently inhabits my studio.

I can’t remember how it was acquired.  So there is no story.  No nostalgia attached to the piece.  No history I can share.  I just know I’ve owned it for a lot of years.  More than I can remember.  And I also know that it was stored in my mother-in-law’s basement for a good lot of them.  Until recently, when I made the decision to resurrect.

My re-purposed sewing table needed a companion.  Because it just didn’t feel right to use my cushioned, black, more contemporary chair when I sat there.  So like I’d done with the table from the barn – I dragged it out into the daylight.  Scrubbed it down with hot suds.  And let the sun bake it dry.

Most given days its home is in front of my sewing table.  Handmade afghan from my husband’s grandmother tossed over the back.  Several creativity inspiring books or magazines on the seat.

This week is different.

This week, Charlie discovered that it makes an excellent place to nap.  Just under the wide open window, of course.

Now that the chair has a permanent home in my studio, I thought it would be sort of nice to give it a name.  Yes, I realize that this is customarily something people (generally males) do with their cars.  But I want to name my chair.

Correction.

I want YOU to name my chair.  I’m attached to it.  It will be staying.  So I’ll be taking ideas and suggestions for one week.  And next Monday I will post the chosen name.

Be creative.  Have fun.  Enjoy.

I know I will.