 A do-si-do and nowhere to go We came face to face in a standstill at the end of the aisle across from where the whipped cream in a can sits on the top shelf of the refrigerated section against the wall he shifted to his left I shifted to my right and we were back where we started head to head cart to cart A do-si-do with nowhere to go So he called it ... with a nod of the head he dipped to his right and I did too pushing forward we passed one another shoulder to shoulder a side-stepping sashay that ended with a two-step twist when he said ... thanks for the dance.
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 A month of distractions
In January, when shorter days lead to restless evenings When watching and reading turn to too much ... too much watching too much reading When my mind and hands are hungry for activity even though I'm feeling lazy I need something to do, but just a snack, thank you A little something that's not too much of a commitment, but interesting enough to engage I grab a pen and a notebook and sketch something And it's no good It never is and I wonder why I keep trying Something's off ... always And I never have the patience or interest to do any better So I cover it with what does feel good and better ... collage Leaf after leaf branch after branch it comes together I get lost in the colors, the process, and when I'm done, I rinse my sticky fingers and step away from the table  Butterflies in your stomach? Though The Great British Baking Off and its spinoff, Junior Bake Off, have been broadcast for sometime, only recently have I settled in to watch more than just an episode here and there. I'm hooked. Part of the appeal is how cheerful it is. Some of it comes from the setting ... an open-air tent on a green lawn, the bright colors on the mixers, and generous dash of humor offered by the comedians who banter with the bakers. But there's more to it. There's the grit and determination of the bakers themselves. Especially the junior bakers. When the dough doesn't rise, the caramel burns, or the cake topples, they hang in there. And start over. Again and again. What looks like a looming disaster is somehow salvaged and sometimes, turned into a show-stopping winner. Tomorrow the calendar recognizes Idiom Week and when I searched for idioms, "butterflies in your stomach" caught my eye. The bakers start each competition with butterflies in their stomachs. They're nervous and excited ... each and every time. And they keep going. It's a good reminder to viewers like you and me to hang in there. To keep going ... even when we're not sure how. To try new things. I'm still struggling with the making of my solitaire book and box, but I'm not going to stop ... though I've been tempted. One of the biggest challenges was to find a way to make a box that would hold both the book and a deck of cards ... and I finally figured it out.  A well for the cards to sit in, with the book sitting on top of the well. That had me stumped for a while, too ... until I realized I could measure and make a dummy version to test it.
There have been a lot of heavy sighs and there's still a lot of figuring to be done, but I'm determined. Are you working on a project that's got you frustrated or stumped? A sentence, paragraph, or chapter that won't come together? A dropped stitch in a knitting project? A painting, skiing, or woodworking technique you just can't grasp? Keep trying ... and like the bakers, you'll get there. The jigsaw puzzle has been on the table for five days. Most of the pieces are in place. What's left will be the most difficult ... lots of similar looking patterns and colors. The first day was relatively easy. After finding and fitting all the pieces that made the outside border, I pushed away from table feeling good. The next day, I spent about an hour fitting the pieces together and then my success rate started to dip; I couldn't fit anymore pieces together. Time to stop. When I went back to it the next day, I sat down, looked at one piece and knew just where to put it. The day before I couldn't find a match and then, the following day, with fresh eyes, new matches appeared. Effortlessly. I also found answers to questions I was struggling with on my book project. The Quiet Shuffle of Cards started with the idea of a small accordion book to hold a poem I wrote. I created an early sample, a simple book, and was pleased with it. But then, I did some research and saw other books. Beautiful books housed in beautiful boxes with trinkets and inserts, and my project went from a simple accordion style book with printed pages to a book with hand-lettered pages, illustrations, and a box ... to include a deck of cards and instructions for playing Solitaire ... way more complicated. And, I got stuck.  I've never made a handmade book, let alone a box. The hand lettering was looking good, but still, it needed work.
The book holding the poem is larger than a deck of cards. How do I balance that? I couldn't figure it out. So I stepped away and focused on the jigsaw puzzle. When I sat down again to focus on the book, solutions surfaced and the project moved forward. It was a good reminder. By stepping away and concentrating on other things, we can find answers to pesky problems. Take a break, and the pieces may just fall into place. January is Hobby Month. What are you working on and how's it going? Is it time to take a break? The Festival of Winter Walks encourages us all to get outside when it's cold and the days are short. Last year on a walk through the woods, I took a series of photos, converted them to black and white, and love how they look. Are you ready? Let's go for a walk ... I was glad to see this tree hadn't let go of its leaves, it seemed to welcome us into the woods.  The stream below the bridge is frozen and the boards creak underfoot as we cross. Note the white trail blaze. Do you see it?  Snow blankets the ground like frosting ... all the way to the edge of the stream. When we stand still long enough to calm our breathing, we can hear the water trickle over the rocks.  Heart shaped pockets of snow and deep wells around tree trunks.  Today is a good day for a walk. Tomorrow, too. To make the most of your winter walk, bundle up. Wear layers you can unzip and unbutton as your body warms (and it will). Grab a hat, gloves, and wear proper shoes or boots. You might also tuck a few hard candies into one pocket ... one for you and a few to share. Vary your walks from in-town sidewalks to parks, and wooded trails ... to keep things interesting, create challenges for yourself: - take note (and photos) of seasonal changes - say hello to everyone you pass - count how of many and what type of dogs, cats, or birds you see - take along a snack for an impromptu picnic - exhale and watch your breath to see which way the wind is blowing - and be sure to look around ... and up   When I moved the typewriter poster that was rolled and stored in a bin in the attic for the umpteenth time, I decided it was time to do something with it before it gets torn, crumpled, or ruined. It's never going into a frame to be hung on the wall, but it's too charming to toss, and it seemed there had to be some use for it. There is. Found paper stationery: papers from tin cans, fancy soaps, that paper wrapping around the just-bought bottle of Lea & Perrin's worcestershire sauce, flour bags, hanging number tickets from the auto repair shop, bagel bags ... and repurposed posters. Found paper stationery is worth the effort for two reasons:
The question now ... do I write or type my letter?   ... feeling a bit bookish Do you remember the post, The Quiet Shuffle of Cards? It was about a game of Solitaire played in the wee hours of the morning when sleep was elusive and I was restless. It's just one of many short stories I've written (mostly for this newsletter). For some time I've wanted to do more with the stories. But what? I think I found the answer: handmade books. This is the first ... and I've made so many mistakes. Though I'm pleased with the outcome of the red cover, the paper inside may not be the best choice, the gold and polka-dot tapes are not sticking (I have to pull them up and add glue), and the book needs some sort of clasp (something I should have thought about earlier in the process). It's an accordion or concertina (a new-to-me term) style book with 10 pockets: seven to replicate the layout of a Solitaire deck and three more for the inside title page, the story, and an insert on how to play Solitaire (is that necessary? a good idea? not sure).  The book is still just shell, with lots questions that need answers. Do I use real playing cards, or create my own just for the book? And the story needs work. After I printed and read it on paper rather than just on the computer screen, I see things that need to change. Below you can see some edits in progress.  Writing is so much about rewriting.
Getting started and having the bulk of the writing done is the hard part (for me). Editing my words is where the pleasure of writing begins. Replacing one word with a better, more concise word; adding or eliminating a comma; or splitting a long sentence into two can make such a difference. Once I realized I had to glue the tape that wouldn't stick, it was disappointing, but I knew I had to keep at it, mistakes and all. I was too far along. Starting over won't help much, and I know I'll learn more if I keep going. Despite the rather steep, but (hopefully) not insurmountable, learning curve ahead, I'm feeling a bit bookish. A bit like this is Chapter One and I want to keep reading to see what happens next. Fingers crossed it all sticks together.  How one thing leads to another ... I've been struggling with a project, so I've done some research and reading, and more research and more reading. And I'm starting to feel as though I'm going around in circles. Because I am. I'm not sure who said, "The answers are in the work," but I know it's true. I also know the hard part is starting the work. Though I'm still uncertain, I've decided it's time to start. Anywhere. To grab at that idea that hangs like a loose thread and see where it takes me. When I set out to write today's email, I toyed with the idea of World Jellyfish Day listed for Friday, but aside from seeing one or two floating in the water while swimming in the ocean (eek!), what do I know about jellyfish? So I decided on a nature theme to recognize Saturday's Nat'l Play Outside Day. I gathered leaves, pinecones, pine needles, and dried flowers to make a natural mandala, didn't like what I created, and scrapped that idea. But the leaves I collected did merit a second look, so I created the leaf pattern above. They are all from the same tree, but all so different. Much like all of us. While the pattern of leaves on the black background was striking, I wanted more. And that is when then the pieces (the black paper, the yellow leaves and pine needles) came together to form an idea ... and a jellyfish. A bit abstract, but still, a jellyfish.  Be the jellyfish ...
When jellyfish were still an idea, I read a bit about them and was reminded of their bioluminescence ... they light themselves up in the deepest, darkest water. As I discovered with my foraged materials, once we start, one thing leads to another, and then, like the jellyfish, we create our own light. Our own bioluminescence. It can be difficult to get started, but once you do, your light will shine. -------- p.s. After collecting and working with the pinecones and pine needles, my hands were covered in sap. Even if you're not a fan of Wednesday's Nat'l Peanut Butter Lovers Month, you may be interested in knowing it's a handy cleaning agent. Washing up with soap and water doesn't cut through pine sap. But ... peanut butter (or almond butter) does.  Mix well and add a bit of magic I have two copies of the Better Homes and Garden Cookbook ... the one with the red and white checkered cover. One was published in 1968 and the other, 2002. My first copy is a hand-me-down. When I received the updated version as a gift, I was all set to toss the older version. Why keep it? But then there was a twinge; something about tossing the old version didn't seem right. Was there regret in letting go of a book that helped me learn to cook, served me so well? Yes, that was part of it. But I wondered, too, if some of the recipes might have been changed ... or even eliminated. And there were. What happened to the Pfeffernuesse? That 1968 version was my go-to book for Pfeffernuesse, a spice cookie I like, especially around the holidays. When I grabbed the updated version and scanned the index, the recipe was ... gone. Nowhere to be found. Cut from the new edition and replaced with updated recipes and the latest food fads. It was then I knew. I couldn't, wouldn't toss the old book. I'd have to keep both. I've got other cookbooks, and each serves its own purpose. In some there may be just one recipe I like. Others may hold two or three favorites and some I use for only for reference. Of course it's easy to search online for recipes, and I do, but there's something about slipping a cookbook off the shelf and thumbing through the food-stained, dog-earred pages to land on that recipe I know will be there. Ready, as the editor in both books wrote, to "bring joy and good eating." Here's to new and old favorites. October is Cookbook Month. Do you have a favorite?  It's hard to know how long it took
It wasn't until the warm spring air arrived and it was time to exchange our bulky coats, gloves, and hats for lighter jackets and longer days that I had any inkling something had been happening. On my first trip into the attic, my eye caught the bright orange draft snake on the floor just inside the door. Something was different, but I wasn't sure what. Was that a dust bunny on the left end of the draft snake? I wasn't surprised at the sight of it, it had been a long winter and trips to the attic were few. On my second trip, I saw another, right in the center of the long tube. Once again, with arms laden with winter wool, I stepped over it. But something wasn't right. When I came down from the attic the second time, I bent over to take a closer look. It wasn't one dust bunny, or two ... there were holes in the fabric. The finely shredded threads feathering the edge of the holes had tricked me. The tube, still holding its shape, was empty ... of the hundreds (or more likely thousands) of split peas I'd poured into the tube to stop the draft. One, two, or more(?) mice had chewed through one end of the draft snake to get at the peas. Once they reached the middle, they chewed another hole. Less time in the tube, more time for removing the peas. But where to? How long did it take? Did they eat them? Share them? Hoard them? It remains a mystery. There were no split peas to be seen or found. Not one. Anywhere. And no mice. We never saw them, found mouse droppings, or heard them ... quiet as a mouse. Until we set a trap.  Text from infographic:
Out with the old? In a world where credit cards, online ordering, fast fashion, and overnight delivery make it easy to replace the old, torn, and tattered, is there any place for mending or darning? Ask the person whose favorite sweater has a hole in the elbow how she feels about parting with it. Or the one whose sleeping socks sprung a hole in the heel. No others will do when the cold air seeps in under the blankets and grabs at his toes. It can be hard to let go. Maybe you don’t have to. With a few simple tools and stitches, you can mend and darn the treasured clothing you’re not ready to part with. In mending a pair of sleeping socks, the darning mushroom is slipped into the sock, the fabric/hole is stretched over the mushroom cap, and a series of running stitches build a cross-hatch weave, filling the hole. So what’s the difference between mending and darning? Mending is repair: replacing a zipper, restitching a dropped hem, sewing a button back in place, or adding a patch to a cover a hole. Darning weaves thread into the existing fabric to rebuild a hole. There is visible mending where the repair can be seen (like the sock), and invisible mending, where the repair is not seen. Spend some time mending and you may find you’ve stitched together something larger than a tear or hole in a piece of fabric. ©2023 WaystationWhistle • Text and photos by Christine Richards • Stitching sampler from Handicraft for Girls, McGlaufin, Library of Congress  Watch for signs. That's what mystics and people who believe there's another layer of knowing say when they talk to others about finding a way forward. Be still and watch for signs they say.
Hurricane Lee passed through yesterday and in the days leading up to its arrival, we noticed a lot of bird activity. Dozens of small birds swarmed the side yard—a herd of wrens? And fishing boats all along the East Coast reported small birds—hundreds of them—flitting about their boats. Like nothing they'd ever seen, they said. Maybe was the storm pushing them northward, maybe they're migrating. For the past few weeks I've been looking for something to make. A hands-on project. Something that doesn't require a lot of new tools and isn't too difficult to learn or master. Something I can pick up when I need a distraction and easily set aside when I'm busy. And above all, something that won't add inches to my waistline. I'd been considering paper mache and got excited about cardboard sculpture, but couldn't (wouldn't) commit. Until this week, when I decided to go with paper mache. For two reasons. 1. We've been walking early in the morning and have stopped to talk with the man delivering newspapers. We've seen him delivering papers ... for years. Even had the paper delivered for a while. Last week when we stopped to talk, he gave us a copy of the Sunday paper. The following Tuesday he dropped a newspaper on our porch. I'm sure it's a soft-sell sales push to encourage us to sign up for delivery, but nonetheless, I was thinking about paper mache and had no newsprint (a crucial ingredient). Now I do. 2. And, then, once I had the newsprint, the birds appeared. They're everywhere. Are these signs? Who knows, but when I decided to jump in with a small project, I decided to make a bird. Entirely freestyle. I'm not even sure what kind of bird it is, but I'm leaning toward a crow. It's taken days to get this far: build the shape, add strips of newsprint soaked in paste, let it dry overnight. Add another layer. Wait. Repeat. It's a slow process, but it's rewarding to see the bird come together. Once he's got his feet on the ground, I may commit to more ... unless, of course, there's a sign pointing me in a different direction. What do you think? A coincidence or a sign? I'm not sure, but it's definitely more compelling to think of it as a sign. If you're interested in paper mache, this is a good starting point. I'm using the glue/water mix. Seems easier and less fussy that the flour mixture ... and it doesn't spoil. To see the paper mache process, paper artist Diana Parkhouse posts videos and offers advice. Her small-scale animals are a delight.  Work for trade. When I was about 15, I worked on a horse farm, trading labor for lessons ... English style. By the end of my first summer, I had soap defying dirt stains under my fingernails, calloused hands, was agile with a wheelbarrow, and comfortable leading and working around horses. There was a small crew of us and though we worked throughout the barn, we were assigned one horse to tend to. My horse was a beautiful white horse. I cleaned his stall, brushed him, fussed over his long mane, and when it was time for the riding lessons earned in trade, he was my horse. We trotted and cantered, jumped, and I learned to ride bareback. Oh, we listed to the left, listed to the right, and found ourselves in a paddock bouncing with laughter. Aside from riding, brushing, and filling water buckets, hoof care was essential. I learned how to scrape the accumulated mud and muck from the underside of the hoof and brush it clean. Standing by the horse's side with my rear end facing his front end, and starting just above the knee, I'd run my hand down the leg to the ankle, gently cueing him to lift his hoof so I could scrape it clean. I can't imagine doing that today. The last time I got close to a horse was at the end of the Memorial Day parade route where horse and rider stood to greet the crowd. I was astounded at its massive presence. Thursday is National Farrier's Week. I remember watching the farriers when they came to the barn on their scheduled visits. They did the back-bending work of clipping, trimming, and filing each hoof, hammering and fitting the shoe. After each hoof and each session, there was a flick of the tail and toss of the head. Got some new shoes on.  The reprimand was swift. It was the beginning of class—Typing 101. I slipped a piece of paper into the typewriter, set my fingers in position on the keyboard and started typing.
It wasn't long before I hit the wrong key too many times and allowed frustration to get the better of me. I grabbed the sheet of paper and yanked it out of the typewriter, crumpled it in my hands, and threw it down on my desk. Before it landed, I heard my name. The instructor was not pleased. She directed me to retrieve the paper, flatten it out, and roll it back into the typewriter. She admonished me for treating the typewriter poorly and took offense at the wasted paper. Any satisfaction I felt with the zip of the roller and crumpling the paper was gone. Lesson learned. Since then, I've learned to love typing ... and respect my machine. Friday is National Typewriter Day. How's your typing? Manual typewriters may be relics, but learning to type is a skill worth mastering. Do you hunt and peck at the keys, or are you able to type with all ten fingers ... without looking? Occasionally, I test my typing proficiency at TypingTest.com. Speed is important, but accuracy matters, too. This morning I topped out in the "Fast" level, "Professional" continues to elude. If you're looking to learn to type with all ten fingers or improve your typing skills, TypingTest.com is a good place to start.  I was restless and it was late ... far too late to be making noise, so my options were limited when I grabbed the deck of cards that sits on the bookshelf for someday or sometime it was a surprising move because really, they don't get much use, but I thought ... Solitaire, I'll play, Solitaire the cards, still like new, were stiff and slippery, hard to shuffle, and I couldn't remember all the rules so I faked it and won and thought, that was easy too easy so I searched for instructions and found it wasn't so easy after all game after game I lost until I was no longer restless, but tired, and went to bed and played again the next day, and the next and lost again and again and again until yesterday after days and weeks of following the rules ... I aced it on a quiet evening with a full house ----------- While I didn't have a lot to say about playing Solitaire, I wanted to write a short piece about how calming it was to shuffle the cards and how sticking with it (finally) gave me the reward of winning. Solitaire is a good game when you're not sure what to do. Playing with playing cards vs. online adds a physical dimension and allows for less screen time. Here's how to play.  The day was cloudy, damp, and difficult, and I never expected it to end on a colorful note.
Though threatening, it hadn't rained all day ... until it did. It was early evening when the clouds broke, the sun blazed through ... and finally, it rained. When it stopped, the rainbow came. There were clouds to the left of us, sun to the right, and there it was, a rainbow. We opened the front door and stepped outside to get a better look. The longer we looked, the brighter it became. It started low in the sky to the left, reached higher and higher until it crested, and dipped lower, lower, and lower still, until we could see through the still-bare trees where it touched the horizon. Might there be a pot of gold at the end? Seemed like it. And then it started sprinkling. I ran inside to grab an umbrella so we could stay outside and keep looking, but when I went to open the big black umbrella, I couldn't do it. How could I open and stand under a big black umbrella when the rainbow above filled the air with light and color ... and something that seemed like a promise at the end of a gray day. I couldn't.  Steeped and stirred
We were young twenty-somethings, just settled in a new apartment when a large, unexpected, box arrived—a gift from my now-husband’s grandparents. They had recently visited Ireland, the country they emigrated from years before. While there, they purchased and shipped the gift—an Irish tea set with a delicate shamrock pattern. To say we were delighted and surprised would be an understatement. We were, at the time, living together, unmarried, with no nuptials planned any time soon. It was, it seemed, a blessing of sorts. Was it a sign they had faith in our union? Perhaps—though its first service would be steeped in panic. It was soon after receiving the box that we received word that “Big Nan” was coming from Queens, New York, to visit my husband’s parents. Barely 5'3", Nan was a petite woman, her Irish brogue as sweet as the tea we would sip from the cups they sent. Upon hearing the news they were visiting, I suggested we invite Nan for tea. Yes, my husband agreed, promising to call his mother to arrange a date. But there was no rush, he said, Nan would be visiting for at least a week—there was plenty of time to make plans. But was there? Just a day into her visit, late in the afternoon, the phone rang. “Nan and I want to stop by for a visit,” my mother-in-law said. I was nearly speechless. Ten minutes earlier their heir jumped into the passenger seat of his buddy’s blue and white 1970s AMC Javelin and took off down the road. There were no cell phones—he was gone and there was no way to bring him back. My in-laws were coming and I was going to have to serve tea. With a 20-minute window to tidy the apartment and pull things together, I gathered scattered clothes and books and tucked, dusted, and wiped what I could—all the while wondering, what will I serve with tea? After scanning the cupboard, desperate for an idea, I settled on apple crisp. I turned on the oven, peeled half a dozen apples, spread them in a baking dish, and topped them with a mixture of butter, flour, sugar, oats, and a dash of cinnamon. By the time they arrived, the table was set, the crisp was crisping, and I’d nearly caught my breath. We sat at the table and I poured tea, served the apple crisp, took a deep breath—and let out a gasp. Sweet, petite Nan was eating her apple crisp with one of the small-scale souvenir spoons I had laid out for stirring our tea. In my haste, I forgot to set out forks and they were far too polite to say so. Oh, I blushed and apologized and fumbled for the missing utensils—and felt as though I’d faint. But then we laughed, and they gushed over the crisp, the tea, the apartment, and how nice it was to visit. And it was. It was a visit steeped in humor, stirred with kindness. ------------------ This is just one story of guests, dinners, and cooking mishaps I've had. How about you?  Is it an antique ... that letter opener with a bell that sits on the top shelf of my bookcase? If my search on eBay is any indication, no, it is not. I think I paid $12 ... it's listed at $16.95. It's clearly not an antique and it's not worth much, but I'll keep it. It comes in handy when I get a letter tucked in an envelope that's stitched closed or sealed edge to edge with washi tape. And when I receive a hand-painted floral envelope that's just too precious to tear open, like the one that arrived yesterday, it's the first thing I reach for. There's value in the letter opener's utility, but more than that, I like it. It's part of a collection of letter writing paraphernalia: stationery, books, typewriters, postage stamps, and yes, more letter openers (but none with bells). Would I sell it if it were worth more? Probably not. The television show Antiques Roadshow has a clever take on reruns. They broadcast the original program, but amend it with updated values. In the reruns, when an item's value is displayed, they sound a tone. A cheerful chime sounds when an item's increased value is displayed alongside the original value. When the value of a once-hot collectible has gone cold, viewers learn to recognize the dreaded tone that drops notes like the digits in front of the decimal point. So how do we know if something is valuable? Experts on Antiques Roadshow, and elsewhere, recommend we buy what we like ... that's what makes it valuable. So, yes, I'll keep my letter opener with the bell. It may not be worth much, but when the mail comes ... I ring it with gusto. What treasures are on your shelf? Write about it. Pick one item and write about where it came from, or what it means to you. Tell your reader why you keep it, why it's important. Letter openers, figurines, and old books are just objects ... until there is a story attached to them. Tell us what it means to you, and chances are we, too, will see its value.  We were steps into our walk on the low-tide beach when I spotted a large clam. A clam as big as a softball, left high and dry when the tide went out. Clamming up When I picked up the clam for a closer look, I marveled at its response ... a slow-motion closing of the gap between its two halves. What was an already narrow gap closed and the clam pulled itself together. It was alive. I walked to the water's edge and tossed it into the ocean withthe gratification of having done a good deed ... little did I know it was not the only clam left behind. A wicked storm The day before we'd had a wicked storm. High winds and crashing waves. Farther down the beach we saw another, then a few more. They were tossed and tumbled by the surf, spit from the ocean, forming a line as far as we could see. There were hundreds of them. Atlantic surf clams sometimes known as bar clams, hen clams, skimmers, and sea clams.  I'd tossed one back into the ocean, but there so many ... too many to toss into the sea. Would it be the right thing to do, anyway? How long would they survive out of water? We didn't have answers to the questions we were asking ourselves. But the questions kept coming Without the storm surge, would the returning tide come in far enough to pull them back into the sea? We weren't sure. Nature's way So we did what we knew best ... let nature do what it does. Tumble, toss, and confound us with its power, destruction ... and beauty. Just as it did on that blue-sky day after the storm when it offered an all-day clam buffet ... to the seagulls.  |
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