passions

A hundred years ago, my great grandmother and great grandfather were working their farm and raising a bumper crop of children. Minerva and R.C. Ray. 
They listened to the radio in the dim light of evening and she would do her hand work almost by touch. Resourcefully and artistically, she created her quilts and clothing, using pieces as small as postage stamps. 
My mother visited her grandparents in June 1943. It was war time and Minerva was sewing quilts for the Red Cross. Using the log cabin pattern, she took strips of dark and light fabric from her scrap bag and sewed them to fabric foundations. Patterns slowly emerged.
Passions have a great power to influence, and to inspire. My mother, finding herself surrounded by the  kaleidoscope of her grandmother's calicoes and cottons, succumbed to the charm of quilting.
Time rolled along and my mother's own grandchildren, an even dozen, grew up. As they married, she presented each with a log cabin quilt. Passion, passed from generation to generation.
A few years ago, she instructed and encouraged me, as I sewed a lap sized version of her foundation pieced log cabin "quilt as you go" pattern. Patiently, proudly.
I'm thankful that my mother instilled in me a love of fabric, with its endlessly varied color and pattern, and for giving value to time spent creating. It has brought such joy to my life.

Light

I have always loved the feeling of crawling into bed at night, and putting my mind on scan and seek. Sometimes though, my thoughts left unchecked are like a pinball machine. Lights flash and sirens sound. Or perhaps, like a minefield. Danger lurking just below the surface. I have found that confronting these nameless dreads is the best strategy. They are often shadows anyway, and can't hold up to the Light.

baker boy

My husband has learned how to bake bread.
He had casually asked if I had plans for the day.
"You want me to teach you how to bake bread, don't  you." I had responded, a light dawning.
Soon we were leaning together over a cookbook, spatula and yeast in hand.
I've baked bread for years, and do it by "feel" now. Still, seeing the ratios of dry to liquid, and the instructions to stir and knead, in black and white, seemed a wise starting point.
My husband, a rather careful and precise man, took to bread making like a duck to water. His first batch of bread rose, and baked into golden, crusty loaves. He baked again today. The house was filled with the fragrance of contentment.
Give a man a loaf of bread and you feed him for a day. Teach him to bake, and can pastry be far behind.

sweet solace

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, oh oh.
Do you remember frantically looking for a place to hide, while "it" counted ruthlessly down?
Ready or not, here I come!

My week felt like a countdown.
I wasn't ready.
I was tagged so hard, I fell to my knees.

While looking back over my day, I had become more and more discouraged.
I turned to the computer for distraction.
Before I knew what was happening, I had entered a labyrinth of blogs.
As I crept along, gazing to the left and right at creative wonders unnumbered, I found my spirits rising.
Winsome, charming, creative people abound.
Sweet solace.
The world IS a wonderful place.

double trouble

Troubles shared, are troubles halved.
I don't know who did the math on that one, but sometimes, troubles shared are troubles doubled. This was the profound insight my husband and I laughingly stumbled upon while out for an evening wander.
What's yours is mine, and what's mine is yours is a truism of marriage, for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. And when we signed on the dotted line, it was to spend the rest of our lives "helping." Helping with our prayers, our patience and our presence.

landed immigrants

Californians are in our midst.
Tall and stately giants.
A detour this morning, led me down 88th ave., past a stand of twenty three towering trees.
California Redwoods.
There is something truly magnificent about very old trees. These would be considered Heritage for sure. What a wonderful title for a tree, Heritage. Something passed down through the generations, a birthright, an inheritance.
The Antiques Road Show always talks about provenance. I wish I knew the story behind these trees. In fact, a Heritage Road Show would be fascinating. The stories behind old landmark buildings, great old barns, mansions, and gardens.
Long ago, twenty three little trees travelled north, and were transplanted into the moist, cool Canadian soil. Landed immigrants.

plaid dad

Plaid makes me think of my Dad. His own father hailed from Scotland and he is rightfully very proud of his Celtic heritage. I grew up listening to every Scottish ballad imaginable and Pipes and Drums were the background music of my childhood. A lone piper, a wild and rocky northern seacoast, these are things that stir my heart, and the first notes of Danny Boy can send me scrambling for a Kleenex.
I think there is such a thing as deflected love. I love my Dad, therefore, I love what he loves, and more than that, I love what reminds me of him.
I was amazed to discover plaid dinner napkins at IKEA this afternoon. And they were only 2.99 for a package of 50. Priced to delight a Scottish heart.