Drunkard's Path

                You may wonder what I’m blogging about with a title like “Drunkard’s Path.” But quilters know.

            Drunkard’s Path is the name of one of hundreds of quilt blocks and in case you’re not a quilter, here are some basics. Think of a quilt as fabric art composed of a designed top layer, inner batting and back layer. “Pictorial” quilts create pictures when all the little pieces are sewn together. The small quilt in the photo is a “crazy quilt” hosting all sorts of shapes and do- dads (thoughtfully) tossed together in a kind of freewheeling symphony of fabric. I did this one as a quilt challenge to use just three colors and was given black, red and white to work with.

            More “traditional” quilts use large square segments called “blocks,” like Drunkard’s Path, and a pattern emerges when the blocks are sewn together. Just change the direction of the blocks as they are placed in the quilt or switch out the lighter and darker hues, and a totally different quilt would appear! Mix and match more than one block and another quilt is born. Add sashing (1 to 2 inch strips of different fabric) between the blocks and…well, you get the idea.

Even if you’re not interested in quilting and have an allergy to sewing needles, I invite you to follow this link to Marcia Hohn’s Quilter’s Cache (www.quilterscache.com) and on the drop down menu click on “quilt blocks galore –free quilt block patterns.” Scroll down and each time you click on a page number, more blocks appear with a different old American tune. Click on any block you fancy to get the sewing directions for it. Sometimes I just admire and listen as I go from page to page. If the quilting bug just bit you, Marcia’s site also offers a lesson section.

The quilting bug took a chunk out of me when I went to a quilt show and found myself surrounded by the most beautiful, inventive, art gallery I could ever have imagined. I just have to do this, I decided and then, wonder of wonders! I discovered quilting is NOT that difficult. It only looks that way.

Not able to draw to save my life, but in love with color and design, I wander through fabric stores and see soft art rather than cloth. Creating or following a pattern, matching and selecting fabrics is so absorbing I have actually forgotten to stop for lunch. (I was born underweight and am hard wired to continue to correct the problem that is long gone.) At first, I created the entire quilt by hand and found it to be just as relaxing as if I were in the lotus position murmuring “uhmmmmmmmm.” Since then, I usually use my sewing machine, or as my daughter-in-law-the -purist says, I’ve “gone to the dark side.” Still, I occasionally lose myself in hand piecing and quilting.

Quilts are versatile. They keep you warm; they are also wall art, table runners, placemats, lap rugs.  (I made my first dog his own quilt.)  In fact, their value increases as families pass then down through the generations. Best quilts are made of 100% cotton and please don’t wash them unless absolutely necessary and then, very carefully. They can be literally constructed with the fabric of your life. You could use cloth from your children’s or grandmother’s wardrobe. Some people make quilts from assorted tee-shirts that have meaning to them.

True quilters grow a “stash” of assorted fabrics.  This way we quilters are always armed with sufficient fabric to sew at the drop of a rotary cutter!

            Quilts don’t need to be perfect. There’s a tradition that every quilt should have a mistake in it.  Some of my neatest work is the result of a blooper that forced me to add a creative “correction.”

            Oh, go on, try it. What do you have to lose?

AARP and Company

        

It was my mother’s birthday and I was about twelve, when my grandmother said, “Haven’t you noticed you mother’s been celebrating her 39^th birthday for the last five years?” When I later mentioned to the same grandmother that she was old, her response surprised me. She was walking through the side door when she turned and smiled at her impertinent granddaughter and answered, “But I don’t feel old inside.” 

She died at age 93 and I can honestly say she never did grow old. She aged, of course, but she never got “old.” Every day this woman rose at 6 a.m. and had her home gleaming by 11 a.m. I once overheard her telling my mother, “I had such trouble getting down the stairs today, but felt better after scrubbing the kitchen floor.”

As for my mother, let’s just say it was worth your life to offer her a “senior discount.”

My heritage may account for the difficulty I have with the word “retire.” (Nor can I bring myself to join the American Association of Retired Persons, as honorable and helpful as that organization may be. They have enough members anyway.)

According to my handy dandy dictionary, the word  “retire” means: 1) withdrawn from business or public life (what? As in holed up in a room somewhere and never more interacting with society?)  2) withdrawn; secluded (well I guess that’s what is meant by “ retire”!)

“Withdrawn” means retiring (seems to come full circle, doesn’t it); shy; emotionally unresponsive. “Withdraw” means 1) to take back or away; remove 2) to recall or retract 3) to remove oneself from active participation.

Based on those definitions when a new acquaintance asks me what I “do” I sure as heck am not going to say that I’m retired! I’ve merely changed my focus. I’m moving on. There’s a world of experiences waiting for me.

            Some people work all their lives and never develop an interest or hobby. Life is busy enough working eight or more hours five days a week, caring for home, children and various friends. Then suddenly those eight hours are gone; the kids are grown; there’s only so much the house needs and many friends have moved or sadly passed on. Time hangs heavy and television becomes a lonely wasteland. How to fill those long hours from sunrise to sunset becomes a challenge.

            Instead, now is the time to: learn to do woodworking, garden your heart out, take up quilting, photography, music lessons, join a book club, volunteer your services, join Toastmasters and master the art of public speaking even if there is no public to speak to. Embarrass your kids more than ever before!  It’s time to research that esoteric subject you never had time for and feed your inner nerd.

 You don’t have to excel at any of this. Excelling was for the dog- eat- dog work place. You’re free of that. Now, “good enough” is just fine and “just because “is reason aplenty.  There’s a well earned freedom now. Set the alarm early; you’re on YOUR time finally. Fill the day with new work, new people, new causes, and new ways to find and create beauty. Follow your heart, your soul, your whimsy. But for the love of heaven, don’t retire!

Sizzle and Pop

                Now that Mother Nature apparently hit menopause, her hot flashes force me to water my flowers and bushes daily.  Those who know me know that is not my first choice task. I prefer writing, reading, quilting, heck- even dusting – to gardening.  Yet, amazingly, the tomato plant my daughter-in-law brought me is still alive and growing.  No doubt Mr. Squirrel will dine on my efforts when they come to fruition and that’s another reason why gardening tasks my spirit.

                I have discovered my garden hose has invisible hands and grasping little fingers.  As I trudge along, nozzle in hand, from one spot to another that hose gets caught on everything.  It’s as if it doesn’t want to go with me and resists by clinging to every rock edge, bush, and flower stem it can get its phantom fingers around. And no amount of yanking frees the darn thing. No, I have to trace my way back to the hang-up and manually disengage the plastic snake from whatever it’s clutching for dear life.

                So how is it that my son – bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh – grew up to be, of all things, a farmer?  Maybe it’s the ultimate rebellion. There must be an agricultural gene somewhere in my husband’s and my combined DNA. Maybe our ancestors were European peasants who tilled the soil from sun up to sun down and were grateful!

                He and his wife own Bluebird Acres Farm where they produce Certified Naturally Grown (http://www.naturallygrown.org/) veggies and herbs in raised beds rather than plowed earth.  Their property is dotted with long enclosed rectangular raised mini-fields that sprout whatever crop is in the rotation cycle for that area. While I am pulling a reluctant snake of a hose around my suburban lot, my son uses the various hoses running from the pumps he configured  to bring water from their well and pond to his crops. It takes him about four hours to water his entire farm. And he loves it!

                Go figure. Meanwhile, I’ll settle in my lawn chair with a glass of lemonade. As the sun sizzles I will marvel at how uniquely our children forge their lives when left to follow their dreams.

               

Kiddies' Fun Day

                Combine lazy days of summer, little kids, an amusement park and anything can happen.

 I recall back when you could still find a few cars with running boards along the sides, my town’s police department hosted “Kiddies Fun Day” at the local amusement park.  Somehow, amid the crowds and rides, I lost track of my mother and, ever the obedient child, found one of the many policemen who were there that day and explained my plight.

            He asked me to describe my mother. Without hesitation I declared she was “fat, grey and wearing a pink skirt and red blouse.” Now Mom was not fat and the only grey in her hair was a deliberate stunning streak of white; the pink and red outfit was one of her many stylish “ensembles.” After the police announced my name, a woman came forward to fetch me. She was my mom’s cousin Barb, but because I rarely saw her, when the policeman asked me if I knew her, I said “no.” – and he gave me to her!

            As soon as I spied my mother coming towards us, I let go of Barb’s hand and ran to hug her. Unfortunately, the sharp end of the barrette in my hair scraped open her cheek while we embraced. Later, as we were leaving, a policeman standing near the exit started to laugh.

            “I don’t think it’s funny!” my now totally aggravated mother exclaimed.

            “It’s not that, lady.” He shook his head as he continued to chuckle and muttered “fat, grey, pink and red.”

            Right then, my mother accidently turned the wheel just enough to lodge the running board on a rock. The narrow platform then sheared off while she drove forward. As she pulled into our driveway fifteen minutes later, congealed blood on her cheek and her hand grasping the  running board as it knocked against the side of the car, my father ran forward, asking “What happened?”

            With a bit of a growl, she said three words “Kiddies’…..Fun……Day.”

Fifty Pianos on the Run

            Last week, I stood in the room where I once played in piano recitals. Although time has altered the room’s purpose, its unchanged appearance brought a flood of memories.

             Long before two world wars marred the twentieth century, my then teen-aged Grandfather learned to play the French horn in Kaiser Wilhelm’s army. At the beginning of the twentieth century, my grandparents emigrated from Germany to America where Grandpa found work in the tool and die industry. Still, he never lost his love of music and was determined his daughter would become the professional musician he never could. To that end, he purchased a baby grand piano made by Aeolian Company in East Rochester (if you’re into makes and models of pianos) and made my mother practice three hours a day. Mom, a pretty terrific pianist by the time she graduated high school, couldn’t wait to find a job and finally have some fun. Grandpa, disappointed she did continue her musical education, declared she would never take possession of the baby grand UNLESS she had a child who played piano.

             My fate was sealed before my father even met my mother.

            The year I turned seven and could count up to six (kids progressed slower in the mid 20^th century), she had my dad knock out a wall in our small post war bungalow, so she could nestle the piano between the dining and living rooms. It was there I practiced “only” an hour each day for the next ten years while Mom became the neighborhood piano teacher and joined the National Piano Teachers Guild.

            One year the Guild joined forces with a music store to present a huge concert in the city arena. The store supplied fifty pianos and the Guild provided one hundred students. Mom paired me with one of her students and the two of us joined the other forty nine duos as we practiced our piece for weeks. We were all jammed in a room that was crowded with pianos on the second floor of the music store. Again and again, one hundred kids sweated through that piece while the conductor waved his baton and counted out loud. I can’t recall the name of the composition but I do remember that performance.

             We all began together, on the right note and the right beat. Things progressed well until somehow the tempo quickened. We started to go faster. I knew we were ignoring the conductor, but if I slowed, I would have tripped up the others. Instead, 100 kids played faster and faster and faster, like a runaway train, until we all finally crashed onto the last note.

            Many years later, when I resumed piano lessons, my teacher suggested I play in a recital. I smiled sweetly and said, “I’m an adult now and can say…..absolutely not.”

             

Dandelion Revisited



            I cannot tell a lie. I don’t like gardening. The only plants I purchase are perennials because I want to plant only once. I dig a hole, stick the plant in the ground, add water and pronounce: “Good luck. Live or die, you’re on your own – bona  fortuna.” And that’s that. You could describe my landscaping as “the Darwinian Style.” In other words, it’s the survival of the fittest in my yard.

            That explains my effort to upgrade the lowly dandelion from weed to flower. You will notice that  flowers need coaxing to thrive. Weeds just bloom where they’re planted and where their seeds wander or fall from the claws of birds.  I think their heartiness rates applause. They’re low maintenance.

            Of all the so called weeds, only the dandelion looks pretty with its bright yellow flower. Given half a chance, these hearty blossoms will spread a golden carpet over lush green grass from one end of your yard to another. Low maintenance.

            But that’s not all! One can make wine out of the dandelion, which I am told is quite tasty. Not only that, the dandelion greens added to a bit of olive oil and garlic can be savored alone or made  to grace a salad. If you are still not convinced the dandelion rates an upgrade, consider that the University of Rochester – a leader in science, medicine and fine arts - adopted the dandelion as its official flower. Yes indeed! The University even celebrates “Dandelion Day.”

            Now really, what more evidence do you need to protect these hearty flowers from becoming an endangered species? Why attack them like Enemy #1?

            I mentioned my philosophy to Good Neighbor Dave who lives next door. He agreed a dandelion salad is just delicious and kindly invited me to help myself to all his dandelions. Hmmmmmm. I wonder if that conversation went in the direction I planned.

           

Always a Crime Fighter

            When we were dating, my future husband wrote me unique letters. The best part was his hand drawn cartoon about the adventures of “Chicken-man, the Crime Fighter.” Chicken-man was a plucky forensic chicken who experienced many adventures.

            My real life crime fighter certainly had his adventures but he was no chicken.

            One afternoon he stopped at a popular watering hole in the city for lunch. The place drew saints and sinners alike. There were representatives of the legal professional as well as their customers who were not currently in “public residence,” so to speak.

            Gene was sipping his after lunch coffee when the waiter wiped a nearby table and held up a small clear plastic bag, about the size of a large postage stamp. He waved the thing in the air for all to see the white powdery contents. No one looked up at what was clearly a street drug.

            “Does this belong to anybody?”  he asked. Without hesitation Gene approached the waiter.

            “I’ll take it.”

            He left the restaurant and drove to the lab, all the while checking his rear view mirror. He tested the little white goodie and sure enough, heroin.

            Someone’s “tip for the waiter” ended up in the right place! Chicken man indeed!