We Are Who We Are

When one walks into our home, one could guess that we just moved in and lived in perpetual scattered messes. Well, it is not as bad as all that, but I look at it with dismayed eyes. We are messy, in a community where it seems that other people live organized lives.  

Oddly enough, my house was very tidy when my children were little.  Maybe it was that a toddler or crawler was wandering around, or that I was a stay-at home mom. But things morphed when they grew to be teenagers who left a trails or heaps of stuff.  Then they moved out. (see below what they became as adults) 
Now all the messes around are our own.

We both are eclectic people with our own talents and interests.

He is all math and science, a huge bridge fanatic. Around his recliner, one will find books on bridge, astronomy, science fiction, and investing. 

I am all color and art, with writing as my joy. Around my chair, there is no mess. But on the table, my computer is surrounded  by printouts, post-its, rough drafts being edited, and photos.

When one combines those two, there is and will always be a mess.

So if and when someone visits, we will close doors to our "creative" rooms, hoping that visitors will focus on art around and on the walls. Will go "ahhhh" at quilts commanding parts of their own walls.   Will smile at our collection of family photos. Will nod with appreciation at my laptop on the dining table, knowing that I am a writer, one who writes everyday.

Being as we are, I believe our messes will be understood and maybe even admired.

Well, not admired, but at least understood.

A quilt for my daughter

My sister made this for me.  She is so precious.

Anatole Krasnyansky

Are we alone in this?  Do you have a flare of your own, resulting in a mess? Oh, please say yes.

Wilma Kindling

One of the quilts I made for my grandson

Wilma Kindling stabbed at the new quilt she was making for her grand-niece Jessica.  Wilma was steaming as muttered with each stitch.

“This is her eighth child in nine years!  What does that jerk Jimmy think…” she grew silent as she quilted.  Jessica was having babies at a frenetic pace and Wilma simply had put an end to this.

Wilma was momentarily stunned as a cunning plot came to her. The solution was clearly visible.  “Jimmy needs to have a vasectomy!”  It would not be difficult to arrange.  Not difficult at all.

Source: julos

Wilma and her friendly veterinarian Dr. Fred met every Thursday night for some wine, cheese, and wild sex.  He hated Jimmy as much as she did, as Jimmy always showed up every Thursday night just as the wine was being polished off.

Dr. Fred could bring some anesthesia and supplies he uses to neuter pets, only they would give Jimmy the “Ol’ Snip Snip”* instead. 

Wilma would help with the stitching (she was good at that) and be clapping after the surgery was complete.  She and Dr. Fred would then drive the drugged Jimmy home and drop him off at his doorstep.

Such a simple plan!  Wilma was eager for Thursday.  She picked up the phone to call Dr. Fred.

*My farmer father called the human sterilization process "the ol' snip-snip".  Removing animal testicles was simply called castration.  Just so you know.

Many thanks to Delores at "Under the Porch Light".  She is the word smith!

The List

Me on a lovely bright beach day

It is a dark room day.

In a dark room house.

Not a creature is stirring,

Not even a m…

Wait!  Wait…I didn’t mean to write that.  Just slipped out of a brain that is on automatic mode.

What does one write when it is a dark room day, when light hurts and sounds skewer the head?

I read Delores at thefeatherednest and Cro at Magnon's Meanderings who created lists of good things, events, memories that remind them of the goodness of living.  Their lists were excellent, as they themselves are excellent.

My list on this dark room day is as follows:

                        Finding the perfect pillow

            Smell of movie theater popcorn

                                    Scent of lavender oil

                        Thunderstorms

            A crescent moon in a clear sky

                                    Seeing a baby

                                    Holding a baby

            Memories of Christmas with our children

                                                My husband’s laughter

                        Freshly baked bread

            Real butter

Our granddaughters giggling in the backseat of our car

                                    Reading Little Women for the first time

                        Buying packets of seeds in the spring

                                    SKYPE

            Having a phone

                        Indescribable joy of God’s love and presence

                                    Knowing how to pray

            Picking strawberries with my mother and talking with her, alone

                        Making strawberry jam

                                    Songbirds in the spring

                        Singing and not caring who hears me

                                                Talking with strangers in a line at the market

Watching a returning Marine sweep up his child at the airport

            Knowing that I am loved

                                    An hour without pain

                                                Redwood trees

                        Crème’ Brulee

                                      Holding a quilt made by a great-grandmother

                        Moments of silence

                                    Being able to weep, cry, mourn, laugh, giggle, etc.

                        Possessing empathy

                                                Rhythmic beating of a heart

What would be on your list?

List of Gotta Do

I have a whole list of ‘gotta do’ going in my head.  It is a long list, and it is crowding out every thought circling around inside my skull.

My mess is not this bad!

Gotta:  Finish the baby quilts.  Almost done, these quilts are so precious.  I thought of my grandson with each piece and hoped that someday he would know how much he is loved on this side of the Atlantic.

My quilt mess is much worse than this!

Gotta:  Clean up my sewing mess.  Oh, my.  The mess of threads, scraps of trimmings, strips of batting, and folded up fabric pieces that will find their way into another quilt—they are scattered around my television room.  

...and my room isn't as bad as this one, either!

 Why not in the sewing room?  It is too small and has no table large enough to lay fabrics side by side to see how they balance each other.  So my TV room looks like an exploded quilt.

A quilt stash is a personal thing...

Gotta:  Dust.  Dust—it is layering up on every surface in this house.  Soon it will be thick enough to put into a quilt as its own batting.  I am allergic to dust.  Allergic to pollen.  Allergic to tiny fibers from fabric, those tiny fibers that float in the house after a season of cutting on cotton.

Dust, cat hair, pollen, just about anything...

Gotta:  Find a person (besides myself and my husband) willing to enter this den of dust and clean it out. 

I will pay good money for this.  And, I will make that person a lovely quilt.