Quilt-In-A-Day Ha Ha Ha Ho ho ho

I was just over at Thimbleanna's reading about her first quilt, and I started to write a comment and I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. Then my hand started to hurt from all the strenuous hunting and pecking so I stopped. And when I stopped some pistons started [I have no idea how pistons work or what they are even, but it sounds good and it makes me sound like I know about engines and such, so I'm leaving it in here and it's my blog anyway....] Where was I? Oh yes! Pistons. Firing in my head. Pennies dropping. And God knows, that happens slowly enough around here......

Wait a minute, I said to myself. There's a whole post in this. Why am I writing it here, then wringing my hands over there, without a clue in my head what to write? So I copied and pasted and took it home and told her to come and get it. Cruel, I know, but sometimes a person has to hoard her words. Her quilt, by the way, was beautiful--all complicated baskets with tiny triangular pieces and the accompanying bias edges that strike terror into the hearts of experienced and novice quilters alike. And completely hand quilted! Also faded, but just enough to give it a charming antique look.

That's your first quilt? Go on! You should see mine.





It still lives on the back of the couch in the TV room only because the menfolk have trained El Pussygato to attack the moving hand that stalks him from under the quilt while he snoozes, or tries to, on top of it. I'm not about to put a nice new quilt there so they can rip my loving stitches to shreds with tooth and claw and feline insanity! Meanwhile, it makes me cringe, it's so old and faded, and not in a good way, like Thimbleanna's baskets. Nothing charming or antique about it. Old and ratty, maybe..... If we had a dog I'd give it to him. The way it looks, you'd almost expect it to have a smell of damp dog about it [but it's clean, except for the ever present cat hair!]

Here's a picture of a leftover piece that's been hiding all these years deep in the scrap bag, safe from the ravages of cats and sun.






The pattern is Trip Around the World and it was [excuse me while I writhe on the floor in helpless laughter] a Quilt-In-A-Day! [What a canny business woman she was, even if she does make me crazy tossing things over her shoulder!] My children still chortle about that...........I think it took me three years, all told. We lived in the Peace Garden state at the time. I [hangs head in shame] sent it away to be quilted somewhere in the vast midwest. [In my defense, I didn't know any better in those early years--you mean I have to stitch all over it, by hand? Do I look like a woman who has no children? If I do that, it might be ready to use as a shroud for my withered bones when I die...a very shaky might. So I sent it away.] And was so impressed when it came back, looking like---a quilt----did I make that?? Aren't I the clever girl!

And so the die was cast, the hook baited.

The sun was very bright up there and I wanted something to cover the back of my nice new couch, which sat in front of the big picture window in the living room. The plan worked. The couch survived North Dakota unfaded, but the quilt took it in the shorts.

One of these mornings I'll walk into my sewing room, close the door, pretend my name is Thimbleanna, and not come out 'til I've made a gorgeous new throw for the back of the couch. Then I won't have to be ashamed of the ratty old couch because everyone will be too dazzled by the beautiful quilt thrown, oh so casually, over the back.





That, of course, will be after El Pussygato has a claw job. And the menfolk have their lobotomies.....

Needed: Bigger Buckets.......

My recent visit to England was just long enough for me to realize I'd have liked to stay longer, much longer! The southwestern part of the country has a magical quality. I felt as though I'd stepped back in time to a slower-paced, more contented era, to a rural landscape of farms that have been worked continuously for hundreds of years, to rolling green fields, and wild flowers, and cozy cottages with lovely gardens and blue smoke curling up dreamily from their chimneys.





And what is more timeless than a brand new baby, with the eggshell still on his head, as Isabelle so aptly put it! But almost gone in this recent update......




Too soon, it was time to leave, but consolation came from an unexpected source. From a woman named Mary Webb. It would have been a real pleasure to have met her in person, but since she's been resting under the Shropshire soil since 1927, my new friend and fellow grandma, G, did the next best thing. She gave me a copy of "Precious Bane," one of Mary Webb's best known books.





Mary Webb lived most of her life in Shropshire, several years of it in a house next door but one to where G lives now. I was delighted to have such a memento of my few days there, and thought that, some day, I might even read it.





Home, unpacking, and moping because it all flew by so fast, I picked up "Precious Bane", and as I thumbed through it, Mary Webb cast a spell on me and lured me into the world of Prue Sarn.


"Shropshire is a country where the dignity and beauty of ancient things lingers on," writes Webb in the foreword, "and I have been fortunate.....in being born and brought up in its magical atmosphere....."





I feel that way about the place where I grew up.........

As I read, it occurred to me that, even though the world and our daily routines have changed drastically since those days, the things that are really important and give meaning to our lives have hardly changed at all. Something to believe in: Prue has her faith in God. Something to do: She has plenty to do, helping her brother, Gideon, with all the work on their farm. Someone to love: Aha! Very few people can see beyond the birth defect Prue was born with, so they write her off as someone not deserving of love. Even Gideon, her brother says

"Being as how things are, you'll never marry, Prue." At which Prue's heart

"beat soft and sad. It seemed such a terrible thing never to marry. All girls got married..........even Miller's Polly, that always had a rash or a hoost or the ringworm or summat, would get married. And when girls got married, they had a cottage, and a lamp, maybe, to light when their man came home, or if it was only candles it was all one, for they could put them in the window, and he'd think "There's my missus now, lit the candles!" And then one day they'd make a cot of rushes, "and one day there'd be a babe in it, grand and solemn, and bidding letters sent round for the christening, and the neighbours coming round the babe's mother like bees round the queen."

Mary Webb,[and through her, Prue Sarn,] is so in tune with human nature, and the natural world around her, that she draws you into that world of Shropshire a hundred years ago, to Prue's life and her thoughts, to all the subtle signs of the changing seasons, to her everyday worries and occasional joys, to her strength and how she deals with the cruel handicap life has dealt her, and to the cozy little attic where she writes it all down.

"For you canna write a word, even, but you show yourself - in the word you choose, and the shape of the letters, and whether you write tall or short, plain or flourished....."





You hardly realize she's doing it, but while she captivates you with the twists and turns of the story, she takes you there, to the cornfields and cottages and lane ways of rural Shropshire, to the air humming with the "murmuration" of bees and birdsong, so that when winter creeps over the fields around Sarn Mere, you shiver in your armchair and draw your imaginary shawl closer around you against the cold, damp fog rising off the water. As I read, and the landscape came alive in my mind, I couldn't help thinking again and again of Constable's beautiful paintings of the English countryside......

......and thinking in the Shropshire dialect between bouts of reading! It too has a comfortable, cozy "murmuration" to it!

Reflecting on the characters' vain attempts to quench a blazing fire, by passing buckets and pails of water, one to another, Prue writes

"And I've thought since then that when folk grumble about this and that and be not happy, it is not the fault of creation that is like a vast mere [sea] full of good, but it is the fault of their buckets' smallness."

I liked Prue, her way of thinking and her way of writing. Or was it Mary Webb, and her thinking and her writing that I liked so much? To what extent can you separate the writer from the characters she creates? Can you invent such a beautiful character and mind without being so, and having such yourself? To me the mind of Prue Sarn and the mind of Mary Webb are one and the same.

And now I'm "afeerd" you'll all think I've lost my marbles. I'm not advocating that we go back to the way things were in that time, milking our own cows, spinning our own yarn, sending our daughters off to neighbouring villages to be apprentice milkmaids....... But it was somehow comforting to feel such a connection with Prue. Almost like reading something my great grandmother might have written, like getting a glimpse into how her everyday life might have been, and into the things that might have occupied her thoughts and made her world go around. And finding that, despite the intervening years, we are still more alike than different.

Go read a "tuthree" pages of "Precious Bane", if you can find it, and let me know what you think.

Of Mattresses and Applique

rug in bedroom
Originally uploaded by ooh_food

Applique. How I do love thee, Applique! I used to look forward to "Bunty," on Mondays when I was a girl. "Bunty" was a schoolgirls' magazine/comic book. It was within those pages that I was first introduced to "Uncle Tom's Cabin," "Pocahontas" and other worthwhile reading material, as well as to the likes of "Uggy Muggy From Mars," which is, inexplicably, burned into my memory. Bunny Hill Designs Block of the Month inspires the same excited anticipation in me as "Bunty" did. I wait eagerly for the fifth of every month, and hold my breath to see what Anne S. has decided I'll be stitching, on and off for the rest of the month. I am her slave. Which is not like me. I like to blaze my own trail. I don't like to make quilts that anyone else can make. What's the point? I want what I spend hours doing to be unique. In the same way, I dislike cookie cutter houses. I want mine to be different. Cookie cutter children? Not in this family!

But I digress......

It may be that I like the discipline....I have to finish one block before the next one comes out. I need that. Anything to prevent me from constantly starting new projects, while those already underway languish in quilters' purgatory! [Was it a Freudian slip that I wrote quitters' purgatory there? And hastily corrected it!] Besides, I decide which fabrics and which colours to use, so it really will be unique!

The OC smiles indulgently. Isn't it nice that the little woman has a hobby, although, God knows, a little dusting wouldn't go astray around here. We'll be able to plant tomatoes on the book shelves soon, but it keeps her happy and off my case, so it can't be all bad.

Yes, I read minds too. Another of my fabled talents.....Now, where was I?

Ah yes. He who would like the dusting done is away for the week. My mission, in his absence, is to hunt down a new mattress set. And yes, I have made a start. Yesterday afternoon I visited two mattress stores. Customers were thin on the ground. Salesmen almost fell over themselves in their rush to my side. Not a good sales tactic, as such behaviour tends to make me want to turn and dash right back out. Better to leave me alone for a while, then sidle slyly over, so as to be available when I start to look confused. Available to spout a befuddling barrage of mattress information. More information about mattresses than a person could possibly store in her head, nine and a half percent percent of which actually registers with a brain cell in there. If you haven't been in the market for a mattress lately, let me tell you, it leads to befuddlement!

To my credit, I stood my ground and resisted the impulse to run. I listened, while most of the information washed harmlessly over my head. I even lay down obediently, and nodded sagely, if somewhat self consciously, from a reclining position at the finer points of traditional spring mattresses, and sleep numbers mattresses, and memory foam mattresses, and the dizzying variety of thicknesses and densities, the relative pros and cons of each explained to me in excruciating, mind numbing detail. Mattresses were pointed out to me that had the endorsement of the Chiropractic Association. Then there were the pillow tops, the bases, and of course, the prices. Oh my Lord, the prices!

"I only want to sleep on it!" I almost said, then thought better of it, not wanting to get into a discussion with Mr. Eager Salesman of other bed related activities. And it's true, we spend a large enough percentage of our lives sleeping, that it's probably wise to invest in something of substance and reliability. While being bamboozled with figures and statistics and prices, I made a concerted effort to look intelligent, and give the impression that I found it all fascinating. In spite of the fact that I was beginning to think my brain must be made from exactly the same high density foam about which the salesman was waxing so poetical.

I came home with a handful of business cards and a head swimming with information. The OC was very pleased when informed, last night on the telephone, of the progress made.

And now it's Tuesday, and I should sally forth again to do some further mattressy investigations. But first, I told myself, since I am being so virtuous, and loathe to venture out into the killer heat, I could do a little applique first, to bolster my resolve, as it were.

So, having made a start yesterday, I agonized for a while, today, over which fabric I should use for the flowers. Decision made [with difficulty,] I cut them out. Then I thought

"I really should go. Sooner out, sooner done."

But then I remembered that supper was ready, only to warm it up, so what's the hurry? A person could sew on at least one petal, just to see how it looks. Of course, that was so easily done, and looked so nice that a person thought she might as well sew on another. Then, there being only five petals to a flower, a person thought, if she did one more, she'd be more than half way to a finished flower.......Do you see where a person could go with this?

Exactly! All five petals are sewn on.



A person thinks they look gorgeous. So, sighing with satisfaction, she has now pushed herself away from the sewing table and is bravely heading out the door to go and look [God help us!] at more mattresses. Wish a person luck, please.......

Concerning Flouting....

Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day today was "flout", meaning

#1. To treat with contemptuous disregard; to scorn.

#2. To indulge in scornful behaviour.

I've never been a Flouter. I've been called names in my life, "'Fraidy Cat" for instance. That one was to goad me into a little flouting; "Goody Two Shoes," to explain to me, as to the particularly dimwitted, as if I didn't know and wish I could change it, that I was too un-daring for my own good; "Pollyanna," by persons exasperated with my persistent belief in the possibility of everyone getting along and peacefully co-existing, on a global as well as a more personal scale. Possible, yes. Probable? Hmmm. I've been called other names, not all of them flattering. These few, however, will suffice for now, but let the record show that no-one ever called me a Flouter.

I do not flout the rules of the road [well maybe a teeny, tiny little bit...]

I do not flout the laws of the land [since I am a registered "Alien" I have to watch my Ps and Qs, otherwise they might send me packing.]

I do not flout the rules of civilized behaviour.

I do not even flout the laws of fashion, erring mostly on the side of conservative dress, and the laws of decency have a loyal follower in me. [Now that I've listed the many ways in which I am a non-flouter, I begin to wonder if I am, perhaps, a candidate for sainthood.......Hmmm.]

All this may be about to change. I am not getting any younger.

"The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly-and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing."

I'm finding more and more with each passing birthday, that I am less and less inclined to smile when I would really like to growl. I think I feel a serious bout of flouting coming on. I might even go so far as to start wearing purple.

Travels with Molly. Pull up A Chair.....

So I went to England. I'm very allergic to it, but I'm afraid if I get started I just might end up gushing. The other danger is that, in trying to convert the teeming impressions in my head to something articulate, the motor in my brain will burn out! Don't say you weren't warned! So, what would you like to hear? Tower of London? Westminster Abbey? Madame Tussauds? The Tate Museum? Cathedrals? Shakespeare? Tea with the queen? Oops. Sorry. You'll have to go somewhere else!

While I was muddling through the mysteries of English change at Gatwick, having landed fifteen minutes early, and cursing the phone company back home because, in spite of their assurances, I couldn't make my cell phone work, a handsome fellow in a rasta hat found me, hugged me, and whisked me westwards, and back in time, it almost seemed, to meet his Beloved and their Precious Bundle.



I fell in love with her myself. The boy has exquisite taste! I marveled at the Precious Bundle and the fact, at which I have marveled many times before, that such magic is possible in this sometimes gloomy old world. The sweet, pure innocence of a little babe restores hope. Does the world start anew with each new birth?



I rocked him, danced with him, jiggled him, and bounced him. I sang to him and talked silly nonsense to him, and he looked back at me with wide, attentive eyes as though giving it all very serious consideration. Babies make me foolish, maybe because they look so wise?





The soundtrack to my time there was birdsong, bleating lambs, and the wondering murmurs of a new babe. Oh, and reggae, which he has already made it clear, is his favourite kind of lullaby!

If I had to describe my trip in colour, I'd choose spring green, with yellow for daffodils and blazing gorse bushes, and blue for blue skies and woods full of bluebells, and white for hedgerows snowy with blossoming hawthorn.



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The Precious Bundle is truly a citizen of the world. One grandfather is from South Africa, the other is from the Ukraine; one grandmother is from England, the other from Ireland. What will he say when asked where he's from? I think he will say he's from a place called "Love." He has certainly been exposed to a lot of it in his short time here. The first weekend was a baptism of fire, for me and the PB too. We met crowds of the little fellow's maternal relatives at a "working weekend" at a cottage in Wales. I was smitten with Wales and the southwest of England. Which doesn't make me a traitor to my first love, surely? There's room in my heart for both! I'm pretty sure the PB was passed around, and hugged and cooed at by everyone there. Even one teenager, R, known for not being much into babies, was caught sneaking a snuggle! They didn't hug and coo at me quite as much, but everyone was really friendly and welcoming!

The weekend is an annual event, where the Beloved's clan gathers to ready the cottage for summer, optimistically trusting that there will be a summer!




Not a given in recent years by all accounts...... Everyone comes ready to work. Walls are built, firewood is chopped, ponds are expanded, flowers are planted, rocks are hauled, gravel is spread, birthdays are celebrated, hills are climbed, photos



are taken, connections are re-established, ashes of loved ones are scattered, stories are told, gallons of tea are swallowed, mountains of delicious food are prepared and relished, campfires are built, songs are sung---it was truly amazing! The oldest relative there was a spry and lovely lady of ninety two. The Precious Bundle was the youngest, and in between there were teens and twenties, moms and dads, grannies and granddads.




And everyone got along. And everyone worked together. And everyone had fun. And no punches were thrown. And so much was accomplished and such lovely memories made. There is room for Pollyanna in the world after all.

I'll leave it at that until another day.........

"Waterlogged and Saintly"

I've been back home now for about two weeks and I know that one or two of you are getting impatient with the silence......I will write about it! It just needs time to percolate. I had a lovely time with the new parents and the Precious Bundle; made some lovely new friends; saw some beautiful places, and suddenly it was time to come home, just when I was hitting my stride. I spent ten days with Rise. Is it churlish to say it wasn't enough? I was delighted to see her, but, it wasn't enough! She keeps looking for new posts on my blog. I keep looking for new posts on hers. We're both feeling uninspired!

Meanwhile, The Bean noticed that there were six hundred and thirty messages in my in box.

Six hundred and thirty.

Stretching all the way back to October 2003.

Oh dear.

"Don't you ever delete anything Mom?" he asked incredulously.

"of course I do!" I said. "I just keep the ones I want to reread."

That sounded lame, even to me. In what lifetime do I plan to have time to reread six hundred and thirty old e-mails? So I've been on a mission to delete, and give my in box a lean and hungry look.

These things cannot be accomplished overnight. I have to be careful not to delete any gems such as the following, until they have been properly savoured. One incautious click and it would be gone forever. Phft! And look what you'd have missed! This is part of an e-mail titled "Waterlogged and Saintly" that I got from Rise last August. She even mentioned that she planned to blog about it. Did you see a blog post about Lough Derg over there? Uhuh. Me neither. So what I'm doing here could be thought of as a public service....if you stretch your mind a little! Go on, stretch it!

Hi Molly,

Sorry for the silence from this end. Myself and the black dog took ourselves away for a couple of days to Lough Derg!

Do you remember Lough Derg? The place of pilgrimage for all God fearing, holy Catholic, slightly deranged Irish folk?? What was I doing there you might ask ... Not being a believer in coincidences, when a leaflet about Lough Derg fell into my lap out of a magazine, while the black dog was nosing around, and the world was looking particularly gray, I thought to myself, "Why not?" Over the last couple of years, I had often mentioned that I'd like to do it, some day, soooo....Off I went to Donegal.

The pilgrimage involved three days of fasting, going barefoot over the rocky, stony beds, and praying. The website was at pains to say that one didn't need to be a practicing Catholic to do the pilgrimage, but, in true Catholic Church tradition, that was a load of horse-[expletive deleted, tsk, tsk!]. Quelle surprise.

Lough Derg itself is in Donegal, at the back end of nowhere. Long drive. The pilgrimage takes place on an island in Lough Derg reached by a ferry. I had hoped it would be a silent time, but the world and his mother were there, with their corns and bunions on full display, praying fervently. I think I was the only non-Catholic present, but I'm glad I did it. It was very tough. The weather was, as usual,[expletive deleted, potty mouth!] Not to mention cold, wet and windy. Going without food and staying awake for thirty six hours does funny things to your brain! What brain, you say?

I came home just in time for the Leaving Cert results. He[youngestsonofrise] did very well ... surprised everyone, including himself! I told him it was all due to Lough Derg, and me spending three days on my knees, starving, freezing, and battling the demons in the rarefied atmosphere of saints and sinners!

"You didn't get where you are today, sonny boy, without your mammy at your back pushing your arse up the hill!"

He had the grace to be slightly amused.

I feel a post coming on about the Lough Derg experience ...

L [oldestsonofrise] is off to Sicily tomorrow for a scuba diving course. Wish I were going too! Not with him of course ... just to go somewhere its not raining ... it hasn't stopped [expletive deleted, again! The shame of it all!]-ing rain here for the last 2 weeks....

The Met office are issuing weather alerts regularly about the possibility of severe flooding;

The farmers are whinging;

The slugs are about to take over the landscape;

The government is on holidays;

The country is beginning to go down the tubes economically, and the experts tell us it's time to tighten our belts.

Bet if the sun came out, the entire population would down tools, grab their buckets and spades and head to the seaside ....



So there you have it. A blog post from Rise, just not on Rise's blog. I'm feeling kind of saintly myself. A big sister's got to do what a big sister's got to do. Now that I've moved those words over here, I can delete one message from my inbox. Which leaves only six hundred and twenty nine.

Bold* Girls On Bikes

* "Bold," as used in 1958, in that place and that time, did not mean "brave" but rather "naughty" or "troublesome."



Walking recently along the Shannon banks, enjoying the sparkle of sunshine on the water, my mind slipped back to 1958. The summer I was ten.

Mary Grant had led me astray----again.

Against all parental taboos about riding our bikes through town and across the river to a certain forbidden swimming hole,





we were trundling said bikes down these steps:





Then jumping on again and peddling like the wind along this narrow riverbank path





so as to have as much swimming time as possible before going home for our tea.

"They'll never know!" she had said, tossing her silky mane.

"Come on 'fraidy cat!! Don't be such a baby!"

I was the timid one, the goody-goody. Mary Grant was bold and brave and a year and a half older than me. She was also blessed with a big brother. I felt that having a big brother gave one advantages, made one more courageous, more daring. I thought it a terrible oversight on God's part not to have given me one.

For my part, if my parents said I was not allowed to go somewhere, it didn't occur to me to argue or disobey. I just didn't go. Mary Grant, on the other hand, saw rules as parents' attempts to keep us from enjoying life to the fullest. Her thirst for adventure far outweighed her fear of consequences. The day was lovely. The sun was shining. The river was calling. If I didn't manage to summon a little courage, there were plenty of others who'd be delighted to join Mary Grant and leave me at home, sucking my thumb, wishing I had some guts.

So off we went.

We had a delightful time, jumping and splashing about. We didn't drown, though I was not much of a swimmer, while Mary Grant swam like a fish. We were not attacked by marauding bands of hooligan boys. And we negotiated our bikes expertly through the busy part of town. But time is always on the wing when you're having fun, and it was soon time to gather ourselves up and start peddling homeward in time for tea.

After parting company with Mary Grant, I let myself quietly into our garage and put my bike away, then summoned my courage for the unavoidable dash through the kitchen, hoping the Sacred Heart of Jesus, whose picture hung on the kitchen wall, would show some mercy, and not let my mother's eagle eyes detect the towel-and-swimsuit shaped bulge under my shirt. Everyone was already seated at the table, and my mother was serving up the food.

Not being an experienced strategist, my plan was to simply hurry through, doubled over, mumbling about a desperate need to "go!" Then fly upstairs and shove the evidence under my bed. It didn't occur to me that when I had left the house several hours earlier, ostensibly to go play with Mary Grant, I'd looked like a skinny string bean. Now, barely three hours later, I looked like Billy Bunter.....

I almost made it. But the Sacred Heart let me down.

"Where have you been all afternoon?" mum asked sharply, her eyes sweeping over me, taking in every detail.

"Just out playing," I mumbled, trying unsuccessfully not to turn beet red.



Moving out of the way of a man on a bike, wobbling towards me on the narrow path along the river bank, brought me back to the present. The gleeful thrill of forbidden fruit, the joyous shouts, the splashing and the laughter from that far-off day faded away, and I was once again enveloped in the quiet sights and sounds of a sunny May day on the river. The water slapped gently in the rushes;





birds sang in the trees;





buttercups the size of saucers poked their sunny faces out of the ditch;




a pair of ducks led their tremulous ducklings out from the shelter of the bank;





a domestic dispute broke out between a couple of swans;





an airplane droned overhead.

I turned contentedly towards Rise's house. I was glad I'd broken the rules that day. Living safely can get awfully boring. Sometimes you have to fly in the face of well meaning authority, stretch your wings, take a leap and a splash into unknown waters.....and damn the consequences.