like her

This is my mother's annual Christmas Poinsettia.
It is as speckled as a hen.
An occasional cream petal is so unexpected, so unlikely.
Christmas camo.
Last year her Poinsettia had leaves that were dark as soot with flowers like red velvet.
I love plants.
And this plant, my mom's poinsettia, is so unusual and lovely.
Just like her.

better now

I should have taken 'before' pictures but this way you will have to take my word for it. You will have to trust me when I tell you that the embroidered design on this teeny tiny vest was not my baby granddaughter's style at all.
Covering it seemed an easy fix.
I copied the flower motif of the all over quilted design and created a calico flower to match.
I feel better now.

bad sized

The conversation had turned to rodents. Don't conversations take dire turns at times.
"Well, pack rats are a good sized rodent," my mother mused. "Or maybe I should have said, bad sized," she quickly amended. "Can rodents ever be a good size?"

maybe a quilt

I love this photo of my grandmother. The strong light and shadow would make such a wonderful watercolor.

I think the corner post competes for attention so cropping it out makes the figure the sole focal point.

 I love the curving path but I wonder if I would like the picture better without it.

Or maybe the path should stay and the picket fence should go.
First a sketch and then a painting and then........... maybe a quilt.

wishes warm

like flypaper

"If you take a book with you on a journey," Mo had said when he put the first one in her box, "an odd thing happens: The book begins collecting your memories. And forever after you have only to open that book to be back where you first read it. It will all come into your mind with the very first words: the sights you saw in that place, what it smelled like, the ice cream you ate while you were reading it... yes, books are like flypaper—memories cling to the printed page better than anything else"
Cornelia Funke, Inkheart

stories

"Stories never really end...even if the books like to pretend they do. Stories always go on. They don't end on the last page, any more than they begin on the first page.”

Cornelia Funke, Inkspell