26 August Bared Room Re-dux

Marc, my very own Personal Space Designer, says he's coming this weekend, so I might have some new pics to put up next week. He's always so helpful, because he won't let me get away with excuses such as, "But I might use it someday", or "It seemed like a good buy at the time".
He's also trying to psych me into selling unused stuff on E-Bay. He sings a siren song that goes, "It'll be fun, you'll make money, and then you can buy other stuff, or save up for a trip, a new dress..."
We also have conversations that go;
Marc: "Mom, do you really, really, reeeally need this?"
Me: "Need is relative."
Marc: "But mom, you need more space. If you have no space, you can't get new things."
Me: "I'll figure something out."
Marc: "Mom, you have to have a rule; one thing in, one thing out."
Me: "Why?"
Is it beginning to sound as if we're at that stage of life where he's parenting me? Good grief! Adolescence Revisited! Wait'll he finds out I have a few doubles because I forgot I already had one.

25 August 2009--Baring my...room

It’s not quite that dramatic, but since I couldn’t post these photos on the Inkstainers site, here they are for God and everyone who happens by to see. The pictures are views of my Reading/Computer/Stamping room, which used to have so many piles of books, stamp sets and Only-God-Knows-What-Else, that there was access to the computer at the back of the room by a narrow path through the mess.

Enter Marc, my DS2, who cleared half of the room for me by getting all the books on shelves, and shoving the rest to the other (stamping) side of the room. He’s currently working on designing me a crafting cornor, with room for all my stamps and accessories.

The first picture, you probably have guessed, is the cleared side of the room.

The others are the Cluttered Truth photos of the soon-to-be Stamping Nook. Soon-to-be sounds so much more positive then “present look”.

There, I hope I’ve made a lot of people feel virtuous and better about themselves. :)

11 August 2009--More Sonshine!

Today is a day of celebration! I’m celebrating the birth of my younger son, 43 today. Here he is at one, with an uncle of mine who was more brother and father than uncle to me. The contrast between this little one’s serious face and the smiling one of his brother in the previous post is indicative of their greatly different but amazing personalities.

Second Sonshine is an architect. In fact, he lives, breathes and, no doubt, dreams architecture. He’s also had a solo exhibit of his paintings, and another of his collage art (If you read this, son, it’s a mother’s prerogative to boast, so don’t groan). He’s decided to put all that expertise into drawing up plans for a crafting centre in my spare bedroom. I can’t wait to see the plans put into reality.

That serious look belies the kooky sense of humour we share. We love the cartoons in which Bugs Bunny meets a vampire, the one in which he meets up with a witch, and the one in which he does a “squarry dance” to thwart a couple of hillbillies determined to shorten his lifespan. We can recite the dialogue of each cartoon by heart.

I give thanks today for being blessed not once, but twice with exceptional sons, and also for the daughter-in-law and granddaughters, which Firstborn has brought into my life. My only concern is not being able to express how much I love them. If my hero-husband were alive, I know he’d agree with me.

Happy Birthday, Sonshine!

23 July 2009--Birthday Boy

Today, my First Born is 45. Still has the same big smile, albeit he has pearly white teeth to show now. The barely-visible, silky hair on his 3-month-old head in the above picture is white. As he grew, the white hair became blonde and visible. When he was born, however, everyone made me furious by saying, “Il est chauve!” (He’s bald!) They’d be almost right today. He’s got that classic Male Pattern Balding going for him, and definitely has more than a few white hairs, too.
I have no brothers or sisters, had never babysat for children under the age of three, so First Born was, to say the least, an entirely new experience. He was also the source of some frightening learning experiences. Like the time I gave him his first bath.
The Canadian Mother’s Handbook said not to give a baby a tub bath until the remains of the umbilical cord had fallen off.
“Spread a large towel on your lap," said the CMH authoritatively. "Place the baby on the towel and carefully sponge him down, avoiding the naval area and being careful not to allow soap to get in his eyes.”
My husband was the oldest of three. His sister was four years younger and his brother almost seven years younger than he. Figuring the whole sponge bath thing would be a piece of cake for him, I stationed him by my side, relying on his (Hah!) superior knowledge to fill in if anything went wrong, I began the ritual. (I learned later that he was never interested in such proceedings being performed on his siblings.)
I undressed our precious FB, placed him on my towelled lap and touched him with the warm, soapy, wash-cloth the CMH had prescribed. Instantly, FB let out a bone-jarring scream. My husband, who could field-dress a moose with only a little assistance, screamed even louder, “Tu lui fais mal!” (You’re hurting him!). FB started sliding off my lap. “Help me hold him!” I screamed back. “Je n’en peux plus!” (I can’t stand it!) my Intrepid Man of the Great North Woods cried as he ran out of the bathroom. I started crying, wrapped FB back up securely and decided the First Bath could wait.
My mother died when I was 5½, and the grandmother who took over raising me had died two weeks before I was married. I called my mother-in-law for help the next day. She calmed me down and had her FB drive her over to our apartment the next day.
She made the whole operation look easy, and gave me the confidence that I could bath FB just as proficiently as she did. I threw away the Canadian Mother’s Handbook, because DML had totally ignored its instructions, and obviously knew better than any handbook I could've turned to.
As for Intrepid Man of the Great North Woods, he developed confidence too, although he never gave baths to either of his sons. He preferred doing the dishes while I did the baths.

21 July 2009--Skywatching

On the long trips made in my childhood with my grandparents from Oklahoma to Nebraska , I sang to make the time pass faster, I sang because my grandparents asked me to, I sang because it was as natural to me as breathing.
When I wasn't singing, I was watching the pictures in passing clouds and making them into stories. The sky and clouds have never lost their fascination for me, and I still sing every chance I get.
Fripon and I love sky watching. At least, I do. Fripon just likes to snooze outdoors, chase and eat passing bugs, and watch maintenance people mowing lawns and tending gardens. He never loses hope that a bird will land within pouncing reach. He also just likes to be close to me, although he would never admit it.

Mare's Tails, a sure sign of rain to come. Again.

Following three photos; More Mare's Tails--the sky can't stop talking about rain. Last; no, not another Mare's Tail-- a contrail!                                        

17 July, 2009--I'm Biased!

That is, my present knitting project is. I found this scarf pattern on The Three Irish Girls yarn site. If you know how to cast on, do the knit stitch and the yarn over, take that leftover ball of yarn from your stash, or--much better--buy a new one, and go to the TIG site. http://www.threeirishgirls.com/
The curve in the scarf comes from being knit on the bias. The pattern mentions that the original use an entire ball of yarn and was 7½ feet long! Now that's enough to wrap around anyone's neck and still have plenty left over. The scarf doesn't have to be that long. Make it the length you prefer. I'm going to use the whole ball, just for fun. Unless I get tired of the scarf and terminate it sooner.

Here's a close-up of the stitch.

Here's a neat video teaching the yarn over and its uses:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Qq__ttEMUo

10 July 2009 POV; Enchanted Backyard

Image by Steve Beger Photography (Beger.com Productions) via Flickr

My backyard wasn't a backyard in the summer. Its southeast cornor was a fairy kingdom. Tucked behind an extension of the enclosed back porch, it was kept safe from the penetrating, curious eye of the sun by a towering elm. A supple emerald-and-gold Honeysuckle vine cascaded over the rigid interlacing of the chain link fence. Its sticky-sweet perfume was a siren call to the bees and me. We drank nectar from the fragile little blossom flutes. The ravenous bees continued to feast as I communed with the warty toad who spent his summers in the oozy, chocolate mud below the vine. Portly, placid, bronzed as a buddah, he sat unblinking, snatching passing flies. What he did at night, I never knew. I did know that he wasn't a toad, but a prince in disguise. I preferred him as a toad.

The whole east side of the fence was profuse with rose bushes of pale pink, blood-red and snowy hues, purple and violet iris, sunny marigolds, zinnias in rainbow colors, and blushing pink peony bushes. This wasn't a garden, but camouflage for the dusty prairie under the foliage, where plastic horses stirred up dust as they ran wild and free.

In the northwest corner of the yard, grown-ups saw a crimson swing-set of steel tubing. I saw a steaming, tropical jungle, heard the cries of monkeys, the snarls of tigers, and the grunts of wild pigs rooting for insects in the damp carpet of leaves on the jungle floor. Their pungent, feral odor pinched my nose. The set of rings suspended by chains were vines on Tarzan trees.

Other times, the swing-set was a circus ring, where I balanced on a tightrope high above the crowd, which gasped and held its breath when I almost fell. As I landed firmly on both feet, arms raised in a triumphant vee, the music of cheers engulfed me.

The swing, its oak seat smoothed colorless by frequent rides, was a sleek, silver jet airplane. I performed loops and dives, defied gravity, soared beyond the clouds. The wind rushed in my ear and tousled my hair as I broke the sound barrier with a boom that rattled every window in the neighborhood.

On summer evenings, after supper and dishes were done, and a reluctant sun had eased down the horizon to bed, we trooped outdoors to feel the cool breeze that arose most every night. We sat in adirondack chairs, and I studied the winking stars while the hushed voices and laughter of the others embraced me. I considered the vast number of people— ancient Greeks and Romans, Cleopatra's Egyptians, neighbors of Copernicus—who had contemplated the same stars.

Eventually, the swing-set was taken apart, the house demolished, the grounds and gardens cemented over as a parking lot for a newly built student nurses' residence. But on soft summer evenings, when the ancient stars are icily smiling, I hear again the rise and fall of laughter, the low murmur of familiar voices, and I'm transported to my enchanted back yard.

Kathleen Chabot, All Rights Reserved