For the Love of Pete

The Bracelet

2012-02-13T06:42:00.001-08:00

Last year, my friend Courtney from The Musings of Miss 1941 found this bracelet in a second hand store. It was the inspiration for this story-and is an early Valentine for all of you.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Late that summer, she often sat for hours by the sitting room window, lost in thought. Seemingly unaware of what her fingers were doing, she would trace the smooth curves of the two hearts on the top of the bracelet that banded her wrist. The bracelet he’d made for her. “Souvenir Okinawa” inscribed on one side of the hearts, and “1945 Helen” on the other. Inside, against her skin, “From John.”

John. A casualty of war. But not in the conventional sense.

She’d read somewhere, that behind the tally of those killed and wounded lay another number, the tally of those whose lives were shattered by brutalities experienced in such far away places as Normandy, Sicily, and Okinawa.

Okinawa. Typhoon of Steel. Where the battle, with its kamikaze attacks and fierce fighting, had lasted 82 days, from early April until mid June, 1945. The cost, in the end, for the bloodiest U.S. conflict in the Pacific? 62,000 American boys killed or wounded, and another 48% percent casualties of combat stress reaction-the highest ever rate for the entire war. Additionally, 14,000 soldiers would go on to suffer nervous breakdowns.

John, hit by shrapnel on day 71, had been sent back to the States. His war was over, or so he’d been told.

A week after he arrived home, he had visited her, bringing the bracelet. For his sake, she pretended not to notice the scar that ran from his chin to the curve of his neck, or the tremble in his hands as he tried carefully to put the bracelet on her wrist. She sensed he was afraid to touch her for fear of hurting her, the bitterness and hardness of who he had become in the war making it next to impossible for him to believe there was any gentleness left in him. Clumsily, he scratched her, and a welt rose up. Recoiling in horror, and choking back his own tears, he murmured an apology and fled. He had inflicted pain yet again, and he simply could not bear it.

A month had passed since that day, and nothing more from John.

During the war, the distance between them was one of geography. Letters, cookies-even a knitted scarf (he’d used it for his pillow) had helped to span the miles. Now, a new distance had come between them. A distance she did not know how to bridge. The blue star she had displayed in her window during the 2 years he had been away had now turned into a gold star, at least in her heart. He seemed to be as lost to her as if he were dead.

In the fall, not knowing what else to do with her sorrow, she carved two hearts in the craggy bark of the old Maple tree that stood in her front yard. “Menominee MI ,1945” “ John From Helen” “Please Come Back To Me”

That December, a violent winter storm swept through Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and knocked the Maple over. Helen wept, as her fallen tree, reduced to nothing more than firewood, was cut into pieces and stacked along side the garage.

Up in her bedroom, Helen took off her bracelet, and put it away in her jewelry box.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

In the summer of 1946, nearly a year after John came home from the war, Helen was once again rooted by the sitting room window. This time, there was no trace of absent mindedness in her gaze, but instead a look of eager anticipation she found herself unable to suppress, try as she might.

She was watching for John. He had telephoned and asked to see her.

Helen never was very good at acting. She could not carry off the look of indifference she sternly counseled herself to present when she came face to face with him. Casting that mask aside, her expression became one of complete joy, and impulsively, as he came through her front door, she threw her arms around his neck. Her reward? His barely audible, “I’m back.”

He told her then, that for a time after he returned home, he had considered himself to be a lost cause-the war seeming to have extinguished any spark of hope he had ever held for the future. But at his parents suggestion, he started writing in an attempt to silence the demons that tortured him. They were right, too. The several hours a day spent sitting at his typewriter, converting the nightmares inside his mind into concrete sentences on pieces of paper, had brought about the healing he had sought.

Because of his new found love for writing, he’d made the decision to attend Michigan State Normal College and pursue a degree in English. Would she write to him while he was away, just as she had during the war?

Helen excused herself, and left the room.

Up in her bedroom, Helen flipped open the clasp on her jewelry box, retrieved her bracelet, and returned downstairs.

This time as John put it on her wrist, his hands did not shake.

Pet Smarts

2012-02-10T07:23:00.001-08:00

Kona, our Border Collie and Australian Shepherd mix, is one clever cookie. Not too surprising, since both breeds are known for their intelligence. But still, she amazes us. Last fall we walked her over to the high school to play Frisbee, and an errant toss-probably by me-sent her beloved rubber saucer over the fence into the baseball field. She could see her Frisbee, inside the fence, about 4 feet from where she stood, but she knew she could not retrieve it.

To access the baseball field, you have to go through a maze of other fields and fences, which we did. And Kona, once inside the baseball field, ran straight over to her Frisbee. We were stunned! How did she remember where to find it, or even remember she had lost it? She did not hesitate or even search. She just knew exactly where her Frisbee was.

So yes, we knew she was bright. But last night Kona proved that she is a genius. Stuart has been helping me build my web page. It is unchartered water for us both. We were simultaneously watching a Photoshop tutorial, and trying to put into practice what the tutorial was demonstrating. Success was one step away, but frustratingly, we could not figure out what “tool” the narrator was selecting to achieve what he was demonstrating.

Kona, playing the part of the uninterested onlooker, lay next to where we were working, probably hoping we would give up and take her for a walk. Suddenly, she jumped up and put a paw on the keyboard. Like magic, the correct tool appeared! “Kona!” we exclaimed. “How did you do that?”

Yes, Kona is one clever cookie. If only we could teach her to talk.

Now it’s your turn to brag. Tell me what makes your own pet exceptional!

Easy to Love

2012-02-08T06:13:00.001-08:00

When it comes to old movies, South Pacific is definitely one of my favorites. I’ve watched it so many times now, that I’ve lost count. Lush with gorgeous tropical scenery, this Rodgers and Hammerstein classic has a musical score that is packed with memorable songs.

I hope you enjoy this little number. There is nothin’ like a bunch of singing sailors, and you know what else? One of these guys even knows how to sew!

What We Need More Of

2012-02-06T09:22:00.001-08:00

For Want of a Nail

For want of a nail the shoe was lost.
For want of a shoe the horse was lost.
For want of a horse the rider was lost.
For want of a rider the message was lost.
For want of a message the battle was lost.
For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

Before last Saturday, if I’d rewritten this little piece of wisdom, I’d have entitled it,

For Want of a Battery

For want of a battery, the cordless phone was lost.

For want of a battery, the digital camera was lost.

And my watch? Well it was just lost.

All changed on Saturday.

We decided to venture over the Cascade mountains-a beautiful drive when the weather is cooperating-which it was, and visit my parents, who live in a more retail rich town than ours. We had not seen them since August, and we missed them. We also planned to go to a big box office supply store while we were there, hoping to find the batteries we needed. Shopping in our town had turned up nothing but blank stares, or well meaning clerks who disappeared mysteriously down “aisle 12” never to be seen again. Even internet searches proved to be fruitless.

The problem seemed to be that in the years since we acquired our phone and camera, time had marched on and left our makes and models in the dust. The exact batteries we needed were no longer made, as new products and new types of batteries came on the scene. We didn’t want to have to buy a new phone and camera. That just seemed wasteful, when the old were still perfectly good.

And then my parents said three little words.

The Battery Store.

Located conveniently at the end of their street, there was indeed a store devoted entirely to batteries. You name it, battery wise, and they had it.

In a matter of minutes, our helpful, and cheerful clerk found the batteries we needed, and also put a new battery in my long lost watch-the battery now dead. (I’d found my watch earlier in the day, in the bottom of the seldom used bag I brought along.) Our wonderful clerk even set my watch to the correct time too-she said she couldn’t send me out of the store wearing a watch that had the wrong time on it. She was courteous, competent, and very knowledgeable about batteries. And she really and truly seemed to enjoy her job.

The idea of selling batteries, and nothing but batteries, day in and day out, might seem about as interesting as watching the proverbial paint dry. It could make a person choose to be less than everything our clerk was, and if that is how our clerk felt, she was a darn good actress.

There is so much of our modern life now that depends on batteries. There is no question we need them, and businesses-and clerks-to sell them to us.

But even more importantly, what we really need, are more people like her.

My shop, by any other name…

2012-02-03T07:04:00.001-08:00

I have an announcement to make! After running a shop on Etsy under the name of For the Love of Pete for almost four years, I’ve decided it’s time for a change. I have a new name!

It was a hard decision. I don’t warm up to most changes very quickly. But I’ve always wanted my own website, with my very own web address. Something I couldn’t do with For the Love of Pete because that domain is taken, and has been for at least 10 years. Soon, my website, SnapshotSailors.com will be up and running! I also have some creative endeavors in mind-and they will be easier to do with my new name. I’ll be showing those off very soon as well!

Honoring my Uncle Pete is still very important to me, and remains my most important shop mission. Recently though, one of Pete’s photos was used in a way I wasn't too happy about. The internet can be, as my friend Melissa so aptly put “a vile place that showcases the underbelly of the world.” And so I feel the need to protect Pete too.

In the next few days, the Snapshot Sailors and I have some work to do-like designing that web page, and coming up with some new business cards too. But I can’t wait!

Happy Friday everybody, and have a great weekend! See you on Monday:)

Take a Seat

2012-02-01T08:21:00.001-08:00

I was going to do some blog posts this week about my amazing, incredible, vintage finds. You see, last Saturday we took a road trip to the mother of all antique malls- about an hour’s drive from our home. Shockingly, after browsing for more than that same amount of time, I came up empty handed. That never happens to me. I always find something. Not this time. Let me just say that the use of the word “antique” in this case was a little misleading. Actually, the word “vintage” would have been misleading too. What I mostly saw was a lot of used stuff. Not old stuff, just used stuff.

So as those best laid blog post plans went out the window, I found myself shopping for a little inspiration instead. I was thinking about all of the choices we have to make in life. Paper or plastic? Cat or dog? Scrambled or fried? And I thought about flying, and the strong preference some people have over the seat they are assigned. Window, or aisle.

For me, it doesn’t really matter. There are pros and cons to each. Window seats are nice if you like to look out at the clouds, or observe take offs and landings. Once, on a flight to Denver, there were already two people in my row by the time I boarded the plane. I had the window seat, but I told the two-seated on the aisle and in the middle-that they could just scoot over. I didn’t mind. But they sure did. No way, I was told, were either of them sitting by the window. They were both terrified of flying and did not want to have to look out and see how high off the ground we would soon be.

The aisle is convenient. You don’t have to climb over anyone else if you need to get up and out of your seat, which I always do. But on a flight to Honolulu, as I sat in my aisle seat, a woman needed something in her suitcase, which was in the overhead bin-over my head, and I was showered with trail mix. I spent the entire flight picking peanuts and raisins out of my hair.

So window or aisle?

Do you have a preference?

Seaworthy Seams

2012-01-30T07:16:00.001-08:00

What do a sailor and a sewing machine have in common?

A lot more than I imagined.

When I wrote up my profile for my Etsy shop, I posed that question, the answer being that I sewed in memory of a sailor.

What I didn’t realize was that sailors actually sewed sometimes!

Sailors of the Steel Navy had a constant need for someone to sew. Men with a sewing machine and skill could make money creating fancy variations of standard uniforms, proudly worn by sailors on liberty. These custom made uniforms adhered to Navy regulations, but featured higher quality material and embroidering. Sewing was also an essential skill in the maintenance of the ship. Repair work on hammocks, canvas awnings, and even the sails of early steel ships required a nimble hand.

(From A Sailor’s Life in the New Steel Navy, www.steelnavy.org)

It’s always been easy to love a man in uniform. But a man in uniform who also knows his way around a sewing machine?

I’m on board with that!

1922

2012-01-27T06:59:00.001-08:00

Cold scissors.

They brush the nape of my neck, and I flinch.

“Hold still!”

Jane’s voice attempts to reprimand me, but the giddiness in her tone gives her away, and we are both barely able to keep our giggles contained. I still can’t believe I have talked her into doing this. Our secret. For now.

She smoothes her chemise, takes a deep breath and pushes my head forward. My chin touches the hollow of my throat.

“If you don’t hold still, I can’t cut straight.”

At the word cut, second thoughts take shape. A bit too late, though. Already, wet, brown curls litter the floor.

“I’m almost finished, Bernice. Sit up straight, and I’ll check to see if the two sides are even. Oh, it looks keen!”

I imagine I hear admiration in her voice-colored with a touch of envy, too. For me. The reckless sister. And what I’ve done.

She rakes a comb through the length of my hair. A much shorter distance than before.

The scissors are still cold. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the blades. They touch my chin. Snip. More combing. Snip, snip.

“Did you shingle it in the back?” I ask.

“I don’t know how. You need to go to a barber to have that done. Maybe after mother and father get over their initial shock, mother will let you go.”

“Jane, what about you?” I am teasing her now. “Do you want me to bob your hair too?” I know what she’ll say.

She answers with an impish grin as she steps around to face me, pulling off the wide brimmed hat I assumed was keeping her long hair in check. She reveals golden strands that end at her jaw line.

Jane. The quiet one. Never reckless.

For once, I am at a loss for words. I feel like a mountain climber, drunk on victory, only to be told that someone else has reached the summit first.

Jane is grinning, waiting for me to say something. Scissors held indifferently in her hand.

Cold, I imagine.

*******************

This week Write on Edge asked us to write a piece where we make ourselves use the “weakest tool” in our “toolbox.” Mine is dialog. Word limit was 400 words.

For the Love of Dot Dash Dash Dot…

2012-01-25T09:12:00.001-08:00

I’ve always been fascinated by Morse Code-the series of dots and dashes (or dits and dahs) that represent the letters of the alphabet in coded form. It was formulated by Samuel F. B. Morse in 1836.

Every time I’ve listened to a message being transmitted in Morse code, I’m amazed. It seems like it would be difficult not only to memorize all of the various combinations for letters-and numbers and punctuation marks as well-but then be able to both send, and understand a message too. At a high rate of speed no less.

I learned that during World War II some of the Morse Code receivers were so skilled that they could tell who a sender was just by the small variations in how the dots and dashes were transmitted! Now did Pete have to learn Morse Code? I have his report cards from his early days of training in the Navy, and while I didn’t see any grades for a Morse Code course, he did receive pretty low marks in penmanship. Perhaps he would have benefitted from learning Morse Code after all!

Below is a chart of the Morse Code representations for the alphabet, numbers, and punctuation.

I thought it might be fun to make a Morse Code necklace out of the odds and ends of vintage beads I’ve collected over the years.

Using the chart above, I’ve spelled out “Pete”.

.—. . - .

I used a textured bead as my “spacer” both before and after the “Pete”, and between each letter, too. The small jade colored beads are the dots, and the long black beads are the dashes. The rest of the length of the necklace is made up in small aqua and black beads. I think it turned out to be a very unusual and pretty piece of jewelry.

Here’s a link to a site where you can type in your name and listen to the way it sounds when transmitted in Morse Code.

http://www.philtulga.com/morse.html

Have fun!

Snow Day

2012-01-23T09:06:00.001-08:00

This is our backyard this morning, only I took this picture before a dense fog rolled in. It’s about 11 degrees outside. Cold, snowy, and a perfect day for a day off from school for Amy. Only the school district here does not believe in snow days.

It’s sad, because as a kid, I remember the excitement of listening to the radio and waiting for the much anticipated announcement that school would be closed for the day due to snow. I think every kid deserves that experience. Only once, since Amy started kindergarten 11 years ago, have the schools here been closed because of snow. And even then, the announcement did not come by way of the radio, but as a posting on her school’s webpage. Hardly the same thing.

Do you remember snow days when you were a kid?

Friday, I went thrifting with my friend Paula, and I found these bookends. I thought they were so fun, and they are perfect for making me feel like I’m on a sunny beach somewhere. Maybe I’ll use them to organize my travel books on Hawaii.

And then I found this little guy. I went back and forth over whether to get him or not. I found him both cute, but not cute at the same time. I’d pick him up, and then put him down. Finally I decided against him, and Paula actually said she was proud of me. At the last minute though, I went back for him. If I wasn’t going to rescue him, who would, I wondered? I have to admit as I carried him to the checkout stand I put his little face towards me so as to avoid any stares of dismay from other shoppers over my decision.

And now I’m so glad he is mine. If you turn him upside down there is a name-Doris Thompson-and the year 1975. I Googled the name for fun, and as it turns out there was a Doris Thompson, from Maryland. I found her obituary, and learned that one of her hobbies was ceramics. Her husband died in 1975. I wonder if he was a sailor? Doris had many, many grandchildren and great grand children. It’s possible, I suppose, that one of them ended up with this little guy and he somehow ended up in another part of the United States. Pure speculation on my part, but it’s fun to imagine…

Now the question is-if he’s to be my mascot, he needs a suitable name. Any ideas?

Happy Monday-and I hope all of you have a great week!

Salt and Water

2012-01-20T05:56:00.001-08:00

She is in the life boat, as small and insignificant as herself in the face of the monstrous black sea that churns up the night. Against her wishes, she is forced into a role she does not wish to play-that of unwitting witness. She watches the turbulent water as it bucks the great ship like a rag doll before taking it under, and all the while she struggles to preserve her own life. With a sharp stab of memory, another terrible scene replays itself: a smaller hand in hers, slipping from her grasp. In the midst of this unmerciful dream, as in in real life, she cries out.

Pre dawn light settles over the ward, and she shifts in her narrow hospital bed. From somewhere down the corridor, a child fusses, while in her own fevered dreaming, the anguished moments in the life boat have slipped the moorings of her mind, and she is taken nine years back in time. The maternity ward in a different hospital, and a different kind of anguish. After a long and difficult labor, she has become a mother, and she cradles her new baby in her arms.

She awakens, drenched in sweat, and as the veil of her dreaming slips away, reality pushes in and her present circumstances come cruelly back to her. The sinking. The panic and terror. The loss. The ache in her heart is unbearable. She wishes for her own merciful death, and a release from the pain she has been sentenced to suffer for the rest of her life. Seeking refuge in the softness of her pillow, her poorly muffled sobs almost mask the softest of footsteps near her bed. Quiet whispers.

Go ahead, Nora.

She is wide awake now, and her sentence is lifted.

Mama!

***********************

The cure for anything is salt water….sweat, tears or the sea.”
~ Isak Dinesen, pseudonym of Baroness Karen von Blixen-Finecke

I did a loose interpretation of the prompt, (because I didn’t read it carefully before I wrote!) which was to have a character solve a problem using sweat, tears or the sea. I used all three as elements in my story instead:)

Seeing Double, Seeing Red

2012-01-18T06:50:00.001-08:00

As I was browsing Google for pictures a couple weeks ago, I stumbled across this one. Not only is it a great vintage illustration, but the sailor looks an awful lot like my dad in his sailor days. I know it isn’t of course. This picture dates back to WWII and my dad would have been to young to be out with a woman like that, but still…it sure looks like him! Is it true, as they say, that everyone has a double-even if it’s only on paper?

And last week I found a really cute vintage picture frame online. From the listing pictures of it, and the description, it struck me as a really cool frame. I’d been looking for one so that I could display Amy’s school picture in the sewing room. I’m in there a lot, and I wanted to be able to gaze at her sweet face while I’m sewing.

The frame arrived yesterday-in a thin plastic mailing envelope, no less. As I feared, the glass was broken. But that wasn’t what disappointed me most. It was the presentation, or lack of it. A bit of tissue paper and bubble wrap, and the frame itself was dirty.

Now I’m not bringing this up here to criticize anyone. But what I want to know from you, my readers, is this-does presentation matter to you? I know careful packing is the most important element, but in my eyes, the frame would have seemed more special-more like an object of value, if it had been treated as such.

When I ship out my bags, I try to make it an event for the customer when they open the box. Nice tissue paper, a thank you card, and a little extra token of my gratitude. Because I can still hear the voice of one of my apparel design professors from my college days.

“Presentation is everything!”

I like to think my double would agree. Wherever she is.

In a Perfect World

2012-01-16T06:48:00.000-08:00

A Taste of the World

2012-01-13T08:42:00.001-08:00

Another package! He cradled the brown paper and string bound box in his arms, nodded his appreciation to the delivery man, and quickly closed his front door. Glancing at the tiny rainbow colored squares of paper affixed to the upper right hand corner of the newly arrived parcel, he was inspired to exclaim to no one other than himself, “My goodness! Just look at all those stamps!”

He carried the box over to his brown horsehair sofa, which waited for him within the protective seclusion of his living room, and took a seat on the end nearest a bookcase carefully cluttered with a collection of objects from a host of foreign countries. The entire scene was framed against walls covered with black and white photographs. Ocean liners, pagodas, the Eiffel Tower, startling white cliffs, the Golden Gate Bridge, the China Clipper.

Anticipation flowed from his fingertips as he carefully cut the string and tore away the paper. Lifting the flaps of tan cardboard, and peering inside, he felt a rush of excitement as the secrets of the box were revealed. A photograph of the Great Pyramids. A small stone sphinx. A jar of sand.

“Egypt!” he exclaimed, like a school boy responding to a teacher’s question.

He stood up, creating a flutter of paper and string, and carried the box over to the large world globe near his front window. A smaller, more manageable model of the world beyond his own insulated world. “Now let’s see, where exactly is Egypt?” he queried himself, spinning the green and blue orb on it’s axis.

“Hats off to you, Michael!” He praised his twin, the sender of the parcel. “What a splendid journey it must have been!” Michael. The adventurer. Off traveling the world, while his own fingertips traveled from Cairo to Giza, Giza to Alexandria, right here in his living room.

Lifting the jar of sand as he set the box down, he carefully removed the lid, and poured a few grains into his palm, and imagined how hot the desert must be this time of day.

********************************************

This weeks prompt for TRDC was to write a piece inspired by one of the definitions of the word flavor.

Unlocking a Great Idea!

2012-01-11T09:11:00.001-08:00

It was one of those “Aha!” moments. I looked at the rug in the sewing room, and looked at the curtains. And then I thought of the rug in Amy’s room. And the lights turned on.

Old rug..

Barkcloth curtains (and my mannequin’s arm!)

Rug in Amy’s room.

I know this isn’t an earth shattering revelation, but all of a sudden it came to me that Amy's rug would go perfectly with the sewing room curtains, and I asked her if she’d care if I switched her rug for the rug in the sewing room. She is getting a room makeover as her Christmas present, and so it did not matter to her. She’ll be getting a new rug of her own choosing soon. And so she helped me do some rug swapping right there and then. (I feel guilty in that the sewing room rug still had bits of thread on it from my last sewing project, but I’m going to vacuum it for her.)

The sewing room is so striking now, with the rug and the curtains. Why I wonder, didn’t I think of it before?

I guess this is my point today. What causes those “Aha!” moments to happen? What causes our thoughts to suddenly see things in a new way?

Monday night, I was contemplating what I would come up with for today’s post, and I could think of nothing. Sometimes, I have so many ideas that they line up in my mind like airplanes on the runway, waiting for their turn to take off. And at other times, nothing…

And then I happened to look at my key chain, full of so many other things than keys I actually need and use-a number 19 tag (19 is my favorite number), a Valerie keychain from a dear friend, a WWII era Victory key, a mini tape measure, a lucky horseshoe and penny, and my giant safety pin, given to me by my mom years ago-a sentimental favorite (almost confiscated at the airport once when they couldn’t decide if it could be used as a weapon.)

Aha!

So my question today-what do you keep on your keychain just for fun, or sentiment, or luck?

Why it Still Matters: The Legacy of My Uncle Pete

2012-01-09T05:43:00.001-08:00

This is a repost from a year ago-I thought it was well worth repeating. I’ve added a few more details and some additional photographs, as well.

If my Uncle Pete were alive today, he’d be 98. By now, he would have accumulated a lifetime’s worth of stories and memories. He would have a past that would go beyond his trials as a POW, and though forever changed by those experiences, he would be defined by other, happier times, too.

Instead, my uncle died January 9, 1945. Sixty-seven years ago today. Killed while aboard the Enoura Maru, a POW transport ship, or Hell Ship, when it was bombed as it sat in Takao Harbor, Formosa.

The sinking of the Enoura Maru. It was tied up along side a Japanese oil tanker, making it an attractive target. The Enoura Maru had previously been employed as a livestock transport ship. It was filthy when the prisoners were crammed on board-packed in so tightly that many could not sit down. They were given practically no food or water. My uncle died when the hatch cover over the hold where he was confined was hit by a bomb and crashed down, killing many men.

In the couple of years before the war, Pete, a Pharmacist's Mate, was attached to the U.S. Naval Hospital in Canacao, in the Philippines. He was wounded in the attack on Manila on December 10, 1941 and became a prisoner of war when the Islands eventually fell to the Japanese . He spent most of the war interned at the Bilibid prison camp in Manila, and at this camp, a hospital was set up to care for sick and injured prisoners.

Bilibid Prison Hospital, where my uncle would have worked. Note how emaciated the prisoners are.

Wooden crosses marking the graves of deceased POWS. My uncle had carpentry skills and was given the job of making these crosses.

Years ago, my Aunt Virginia, Pete’s sister, dedicated herself to the task of finding as many of Pete’s friends and acquaintances from his WWII past as she could, asking them for any information they might have about her brother. Over time she developed friendships with some of the men and women who had known Pete.

I have Virginia’s collection of letters, given to me after her death. Reading through them, they all mention the same thing about Pete. That he was one of the kindest, most compassionate individuals they had ever known. He had a particular concern for those fellow prisoners who were the worst off, both emotionally and physically, and tried his hardest to help them survive, putting their needs above his own.

I’ve read accounts of the conditions at prison camps like Bilibid, and how the prisoners were treated. I can’t even begin to imagine the trials and horrors that POWs such as my uncle faced. But this is what I find to be such a testament to Pete: that he never lost his own humanity even when all traces of civility broke down around him.

January 9, 1945 may have been a long, long time ago, but Pete’s story deserves to be told over, and over, again. Not only because he was my uncle, and I want to remember him and honor him. But because kindness, compassion and humanity are as relevant today as they were sixty-seven years ago.

My Uncle, Roland Erich Going PHM2, US Navy, Honolulu

Pete’s grave marker at the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific, Oahu.

Technorati Tags: Enoura Maru,POW,WWII,Bilibid Prison Camp,Manila

“I’d Like to be a Dentist”

2012-01-06T06:40:00.001-08:00

In the end, when it was all said and done, and a lifetime’s worth of toys and teeth had been painted, or pulled, there was no room for doubt in any elfin mind.

He had not been a misfit.

Or a nitwit.

And both he, and his pliers, would be missed.

His funeral, held a week from Tuesday, at 4:30 sharp, was well attended by the many dolls whose teeth he had fixed. And Rudolph, with his nose red from crying, read the epitaph.

Stranger! Approach this spot with gravity! Hermey is filling his last cavity.

This post for TRDC was inspired by the epitaph for John Brown-an unknown dentist.

Don’t worry, this was all in fun. Hermey is alive and well and still practicing dentistry at the North Pole.

My Little Red Book

2012-01-04T08:22:00.001-08:00

Did you make any New Year’s resolutions this year? I made one.

It’s hard to believe now, but I used to be a real slob. I was so messy as a kid that my grandmother even wrote me a poem.

And in elementary school, my second grade teacher asked me, one afternoon, if I’d like help cleaning up my desk, and when I said yes, she dumped the entire contents of it onto the floor. (I still find myself appalled at her attempt to teach me to be tidy. It just seems mean, now.)

Eventually, I learned to love neatness. I guess I’m a little obsessed with it these days. I admit, though, that I can still make a first class mess with the best of them-after baking, or sewing, for example. (For a funny post about my studio, read this.) In general though, I like to run a tight ship.

When it comes to being neat and tidy and organized though, I do have my Achilles heel. My collection of addresses and phone numbers. Slips of paper. Corners torn off envelopes. Random scraps scrawled with numbers, and names. They are everywhere, and nowhere to be found when I need them. It’s become quite the joke in my house.

So this year, I have resolved to find all those bits and pieces of vital information and write them down in one place. I bought myself a cute little vintage red address book, made in 1947, but never used. Waiting all these years to come to my rescue, I think.

As it says in the Forward:

We write the record of our lives on the Scroll of Time. Memories of friends we have made, ecstasies we have lived, and unsullied joys we have felt, through the years, form the pages of the Book of Life.

Lest we forget, we pause from time to time, and turn the pages of this Book to live again past thrills, remember friends, and recall pleasant associations.

Now that’s what I call an address book.

So anyone want to be added to my Christmas card list? Or have me remember a birthday or anniversary perhaps? Want me to know where to reach you day or night?

I’m your gal, because this is one resolution I really hope to keep.

Now, if I could just find my little red book. I know it’s around here somewhere…

An Iconic Bit of Happiness

2012-01-02T05:47:00.001-08:00

Yesterday, we took our tree down. I’d planned to leave it up a bit longer, but it was really starting to dry out. Today, I’ll finish putting the rest of Christmas away, for another year. It’s these days-the post Christmas days-that seem to be the saddest for me.

With holiday preparations over, and the new year welcomed, I know that Amy’s Christmas break is over and she’ll be returning to school, and it leaves me feeling a little lonely. And the house, deprived of its festive decor, seems a little sad itself.

This year though, I have something to cheer me up. My Kit Cat Klock-a gift from my mother in law. I’ve wanted to have a Kit Cat Klock for a long time.

The Kit Cat Klock was introduced in 1932 by the California Clock Company, in Portland Oregon, and has been produced ever since. It’s even been estimated that on average, one Kit Cat Klock has sold every three minutes in the last 80 years. In design, the clock has changed a little bit over the years, and has also switched from a plug in clock to a battery operated clock, but it still has its iconic rolling eyes and wagging tail. When the Kit Cat Klock made its debut in the thirties, America was in the midst of the Great Depression. The Kit Cat Klock helped bring cheer and inspire hope.

I love that the Kit Cat Klock has been around for so long, making people smile for 80 years now. I certainly can’t help but feel happier when I look at mine.

***********

For more information about Kit Cat Klocks, you can visit the official website here:

https://www.kit-cat.com/

Image courtesy of kit-cat.com

Ringing in the New Year!

2011-12-31T07:42:00.001-08:00

I found this wonderful quote by Ellen Goodman. It is my New Year’s wish for each one of you:

We spend January 1 walking through our lives, room by room, drawing up a list of work to be done, cracks to be patched. Maybe this year, to balance the list, we ought to walk through the rooms of our lives... not looking for flaws, but for potential.

Happy New Year, and all the best for 2012!

Valerie xx

In Appreciation

2011-12-30T07:50:00.001-08:00

In March I will mark my fourth anniversary on Etsy, and looking back on these past four years, I can say I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. But I could not have done it without all of the wonderful people I’ve met along the way. Friends, mentors and my incredibly wonderful customers.

Just a couple months ago, I was humbled once again by the kindness of someone I didn’t even really know. A fellow Flickr member who saw my bag photos and asked if I’d like some fabric she didn’t want any more. I told her I’d love to have it.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been offered the gift of fabric by people who want nothing in return for their kindness. A couple years ago my incredibly talented artist friend Lisa from Island Dream Life sent me a package of barkcloth out of the blue. She was destashing and thought of me. And another seamstress friend named Lisa, from Zibagz was at a yard sale, bought a piece of barkcloth she knew I’d love and sent it to me. (And she’s a fellow bag maker, too! I love her work!) And I have to mention other generous friends...Eddie, Heidi, Vanessa. Thanks, you guys!

When the package from Donna, my Flickr friend, arrived, included among the beautiful fabrics were four small pieces of a gorgeous aqua blue barkcloth. Each strip was approximately 14” by 7”. At first I thought about using them at the top of a bag as a contrasting band of fabric-but then it came to me that I could sew three of them together to form a larger piece of fabric, and use the fourth piece for the handles of a bag.

I love the finished bag. And I decided that I want to “pay forward” the kindness of everyone I have met in the last four years. And so I’m donating the entire purchase price of this bag to Honor Flight (http://www.honorflight.org/)

Their philosophy, in their own words:

Since America felt it was important to build a memorial to the service and the ultimate sacrifice of her veterans, the Honor Flight Network believes it's equally important that they actually get to visit and experience THEIR memorial.

Many veterans have the desire to visit their memorial in Washington DC, but are financially or physically unable to do so. Honor flight helps make that dream a reality.

I can’t think of a more meaningful way to say thanks.

First Love

2011-12-28T08:10:00.001-08:00

First love. They say you never forget it. For his sake, I hope he has.

Robin. With his wavy blond hair and thick black glasses. He sat in the desk behind me. I guess there was something about my brown pixie cut and blue cat eyed frames that made his heart go pitter patter.

He would pass me notes-several a day. They always said the same thing. Do you love me? Yes or No. Please check one of the boxes. And every day I would stick them inside my desk and pretend I hadn’t gotten them.

Maybe it was persistence on his part, or maybe it was curiosity on mine, but whatever it was, one day I boldly checked the box next to Yes and passed the note back. I could tell Robin was elated. At recess, he shyly held my hand. And a few days later, he presented me with a couple of presents. A Hot Wheels car, and a gold heart on a chain. With a pearl in the center. Poor Robin. If he had only just given me the car. I wasn’t so sure about this love business.

Robin had a friend. Brian. Brian sat next to me. He had dark brown hair, freckles, and 20/20 vision as far as I could tell. He started passing me notes-making his bid to “steal me away.” His notes were direct. To the point. Kiss Here. A wet spot on the paper, circled in pencil.

I guess I kind of liked that caveman approach. I lost my heart to Brian. Poor Robin was as forgotten as that necklace he’d given me. Even with the pearl in the center.

Third graders can be so cruel.

****************

I’m reposting some of my favorites from this past year. This one still makes me smile. I sometimes wonder about poor Robin.

Happy Monday!

2011-12-26T06:38:00.001-08:00

I’m honored to be the featured blogger today over at Write on Edge . If you have a few minutes, please visit me over there and see which post I chose as my favorite one to write in 2011.

I am also thrilled to say that we had a white Christmas after all! Even though the forecast said rain, those were definitely snow flakes that were falling, and in less than an hour we were celebrating Christmas in a winter wonderland!

Happy Monday, and I hope all of you had a wonderful, wonderful weekend!

Bing Said It Best

2011-12-23T07:19:00.001-08:00

I'll be home for Christmas
You can plan on me
Please have snow and mistletoe
And presents on the tree

Christmas Eve will find me
Where the lovelight gleams
I'll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams

Merry Christmas, my dear readers. I love each and every one of you.

Putting Our Best Spoon Forward

2011-12-21T07:47:00.001-08:00

Amy is off from school for a couple weeks, and one of the things we enjoy doing together is our Christmas baking. This year, though, we are finding it to be a bit of a struggle to enjoy ourselves while we do it.

For starters, Amy is tired. She has been working so hard in school, and now that Christmas break is here she just wants to rest. She certainly deserves to. And me? I seem to have some sort of Christmas bug, and I’m not feeling good. To top it off, there isn’t any snow in the forecast, and it looks like we won’t be having a white Christmas this year. Outside, it’s just very cold and brown. (Our kitchen barely has heat in it, so we were cold inside as well. A kitchen redo is definitely on our old house “to do” list.) Anyway, we thought we’d try to bake at least one kind of cookie. We chose Russian Teacakes, also known as Snow Balls. Here is the recipe. And when I say these cookies are good, I mean they are good.

Russian Teacakes

1 cup butter, softened

1/2 cup powdered sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

2 1/4 cups flour

1/4 teaspoon salt

3/4 cup chopped nuts (optional)

Powdered sugar

Heat oven to 400 degrees. Mix butter, the half cup powdered sugar and vanilla. Mix in flour, salt and nuts until dough holds together.

Shape dough into 1 inch balls, place about 1 inch apart on ungreased cookie sheet, and bake until set but not brown, about 10 to 12 minutes.

Roll in powdered sugar while warm.

Makes about 4 dozen

I thought I’d take a few pictures of the process. Can you tell Amy was less than pleased with the idea?

There’s no doubt about her feelings on being photographed here.

The dough is done. Can you tell I shouldn’t put food photographer on my resume?

Rolling the baked cookies in the powdered sugar. Why is it that sugar always seems to make everything ok?

The finished cookies, artfully arranged and professionally photographed.

We did still manage to have fun, plus we have plenty of time to do more baking-like the sugar cookies I wrote about a few days ago, and my favorite quick and delicious fudge.

And we’re still hoping for that white Christmas!

Of Christmases Past

2011-12-19T07:47:00.001-08:00

As I’d creep down the basement stairs, a lifetime ago, it seems, I would spy the neatly arranged boxes on the shelf. And even in the middle of the hot summer, a shiver would run down my spine. Because I knew what those boxes contained. Christmas!

The old glass ornaments, the team of white plastic reindeer, the Santa and Christmas caroler candles, the Advent wreath…

And though it seemed like Christmas would never come, I was comforted by the thought that any time I needed assurance that the calendar was slowly, but surely turning it’s pages toward December 25th, I’d look at those boxes.

Years later, when I was on my own, and did not have many decorations yet, my mom got some new Christmas ornaments, and gave me a box of some of the old ones she was replacing. The colorful glass kind-Shiny Brites. And it was like she’d given me a piece of my childhood.

I still have those ornaments, too. The one pictured above holds a special place in my heart. I remember gazing wistfully at it as a little girl, and even though there is nothing extraordinary about it, I remember I loved it more than any other. It still even has the original piece of thread attached for hanging on the tree.

This year I was lucky to find a vintage Nativity set from the 1950s, at Goodwill, for $3.99.

It reminds me of one of my favorite Christmas poems-an English carol, actually. The words were written in the 1920s by Robert Davis.

The Gift of the Animals

Jesus our brother, kind and good
Was humbly born in a stable rude
And the friendly beasts around Him stood
Jesus our brother, kind and good.

"I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown,
"I carried His mother up hill and down;
I carried her safely to Bethlehem town."
"I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown.

"I," said the cow, all white and red
"I gave Him my manger for a bed;
I gave Him my hay to pillow His head."
"I," said the cow, all white and red.

"I," said the sheep with curly horn,
"I gave Him my wool for His blanket warm;
He wore my coat on Christmas morn."
"I," said the sheep with curly horn.

"I," said the dove from the rafters high,
"Cooed Him to sleep that He should not cry;
We cooed Him to sleep, my mate and I."
"I," said the dove from the rafters high.

"I," said the camel, yellow and black,
"Over the desert, upon my back,
I brought Him a gift in the Wise Men's pack."
"I," said the camel, yellow and black.

Thus every beast by some good spell
In the stable dark was glad to tell
Of the gift he gave Emmanuel,
The gift he gave Emmanuel.

And this year Willow has added her own verse.

“I” said Willow, warm and soft,

With my wagging tail sent a glass ornament aloft…

Did I mention how cute Willow is? It’s hard to stay mad at her for very long!

Do you have a favorite ornament?

Technorati Tags: Christmas,animals,ornaments,childhood memories

Sugar Cookies

2011-12-16T07:32:00.001-08:00

1 1/2 cups powdered sugar
1 cup butter, softened
1 egg

In the first few hours of the day, her kitchen is cold, but in spite of this, she sets to work. From out of her tin recipe box-decorated with colorful fruits and vines-she pulls a dog eared card-Christmas Sugar Cookies

1 teaspoon vanilla
2 1/2 cups flour

She brushes a stray piece of silvered hair from her eyes to better see this recipe that she is about to follow. Over the years, she’s made these cookies several dozen times, but she wants to make sure, once again, that they are perfect.

1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon cream of tartar

As she measures, and pours, and stirs, her mind begins to wander-but the path it takes is familiar. She is remembering other years, and other baking days when this very same recipe was the one that lay on the counter in front of her. “ A lot of water under the old bridge,” she thinks to herself. “94 years of water.”

Cream together the powdered sugar, butter, egg, vanilla, baking soda and cream of tartar. Mix in flour. Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours. Roll out small portions of dough 3/16” thick on lightly floured surface. Cut into shapes. Bake at 375 degrees for 7 to 8 minutes until golden brown. Let cool, and frost, if desired.

*******************************

In the way that 94 years can go by in the blink of an eye, this day has come to an end. She pours herself a glass of milk and drinks it, and then pours a second glass, and sets it on a painted wooden tray. From her china cupboard-older than she is-she takes out a piece of her best Haviland china. A salad plate. On it, she carefully arranges three cookies, and puts the plate on the tray beside the milk. Taking the tray to the living room, she places it on the coffee table next to her Christmas tree.

She tucks herself into bed, but she knows that it will be hard to sleep tonight. She has nothing to fear though. She has been a very good girl this year.

This is one of my favorite posts from 2010. Next week Amy and I will begin our holiday baking in earnest, and we will be making a batch of these cookies. One of my favorite Christmas traditions is using recipes that have been in my family for many, many years.

Do you have a favorite Christmas cookie?

Frosty

2011-12-14T06:30:00.001-08:00

For almost a week now, it has been really cold and foggy here. While it’s hard to be outside for more than a few minutes-unless I bundle myself up beyond recognition-the heavy coating of frost really is gorgeous!

An evergreen shrub looks like someone sprayed flocking on it.

There is so much frost on the sidewalks you can actually see footprints in it!

Trees look magical…

The wreath on my front door, and the frosty screen.

Not a good day to sit in the back garden, even if it does look like a winter wonderland.

There is however, one dear creature who doesn’t seem to mind the cold! Poor Kona’s ball was frozen too!

This is a vintage planter I got a few weeks ago when I was out thrifting. It cost just $3.50, and as I carried it around the store, several envious shoppers came up to me to admire it. The funny thing is, I’d had a run of unsuccessful thrifting luck, and so I sent myself an email, wishing myself to find some great treasures.

Dear Valerie, Have fun at the thrift stores today! I hope you find some great stuff! Love, Valerie

I sent as a joke, but you know, it really worked! ;)

And lastly today, I want all of you to know how much I love that you visit me here at my blog. Life can get a little hectic and stressful at times, and you are always welcome to come here and escape for awhile.

Besides, I think there might be a little something for you under the tree…

Have a great day!

Wild About Leopard!

2011-12-12T06:03:00.001-08:00

When I was a young girl, my mom made me a jumper out of black and white fake pony skin. I loved that jumper. I was a very horse crazy kid, and in that jumper I felt like I was, well a horse. The day that jumper no longer fit was a sad day, but leave it to my ingenious mom to sew a stuffed toy horse out of it. (I named him Charlie horse, and I still have him!)

What I didn’t outgrow was my love of fake fur, but my favorite animal of choice these days is leopard. I am seeing it everywhere and I couldn’t be happier because I love it.

I bought a yard of faux leopard a few weeks ago to make myself a fancy scarf, and had an idea to try creating bags with the remnants.

This my first design-using a very tiny-but very cool barkcloth remnant from the 1950s. The lining is an orange polka dot. Polka dots are another favorite of mine.

And here is the second design-a great vintage floral barkcloth that I believe to be from the 1940s. In addition to using some faux leopard at the top of the bag, I added little patches on the lower front corners-reminiscent of a vintage suitcase.

I have just a little bit of faux leopard left, enough for another couple bags, and I’m excited to see what I’ll come up with.

And then there is this piece of faux mink I found…

Five Minutes

2011-12-09T06:02:00.001-08:00

The doorbell rang.

Singing merrily away, she was occupied with her holiday baking and had failed to hear the heavy shoes that thumped up her front porch steps. Pausing to note the five remaining minutes on her red Lux timer, she removed her flour dusty apron, flung it over a chair and bustled from her warm kitchen-the strains of one last fa la la on her lips.

She opened her front door to an icy slap of cold air, and a shiver shot through her body. Though her thin cotton house dress offered little protection from the weather, this was not the reason for her reaction. It was the sight that greeted her. The uniformed figure, yellow envelope in hand.

Her voice barely audible, she whispered her shock. Oh please God, No. Her legs seemed to bend without her permission, refusing to support her weight, and the porch rose up to meet her.

Sitting there, in the cold, she opened the telegram. She forced her spinning mind to maneuver the words into the correct order, and her swimming eyes to read them.

Her son. A million dollar wound. Home for Christmas.

Inside her kitchen, the timer rang.

She giggled her relief.

Oh, heavens! My bread!

As she lifted her hand to brush away the tears that were frozen on her cheeks, snow began to fall.

**************

The prompt this week? The piece should begin with “The doorbell rang” and end with “snow began to fall.”

Remembering Pearl Harbor

2011-12-07T05:52:00.001-08:00

Today marks the 70th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor, and the entrance of the United States into World War II. While the numbers of casualties that day were staggering, and bear remembering, I decided to re-post something I wrote a year ago that portrays those casualties on a personal level.

Several times now, I have visited the National Cemetery of the Pacific, on Oahu. I’ve walked among the headstones and read the names of some of those who died that December day, so long ago. Who were they, I wonder? And who did they leave behind?

****************

Every Year On Christmas

In dreams we’ll always be together
Beneath the moonlit sky
We mustn’t say goodbye
Each night I’ll push aside the mountains
I’ll drain the oceans dry
We mustn’t say goodbye
I promise you that when the postman rings
My heart will be inside
The envelope he brings
Oh, don’t you know the memories we gathered
Can never, never die
We mustn’t say goodbye

With a sigh, she sat down at last, in his chair, covered in the plaid that didn’t go with anything else in their living room. The chair, despite her protests, he’d insisted on getting. She had nicknamed it “Sore Thumb.” She was tired, but at the end of another day, this day, she was proud of herself. She had survived another Christmas without him.

In her hands she held a letter. She’d been very careful with it these past few years, and she reminded herself not to cry over it and smudge the ink. She read it, trying hard to make believe she was reading it for the first time.

December 1, 1941

Sweetheart,

…I scarcely can believe it! Only two short weeks and you will be here, celebrating Christmas with me! It is hard to keep my mind on anything else. I am counting the days, my love…

Your sailor.

Despite her best intentions, her tears fell. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and found comfort in the softness of his chair, covered in the plaid that never would match anything in their living room. A sore thumb. A constant reminder of him. She was glad.

Song excerpt from “We Mustn’t Say Goodbye” (Al Dubin/James V. Monaco)
From the film “Stage door Canteen” 1943

National Post News

Finding Perfect

2011-12-05T08:39:00.001-08:00

When we moved back to the Pacific Northwest eleven years ago, we added a new tradition to our Christmas preparations. Every year we get a permit to go out and cut our own tree from the Okanogan-Wenatchee National Forest. Taking advantage of the good weather, we ventured out yesterday to find the perfect one.

The permits are only five dollars-a real bargain! Two years ago when extremely cold temperatures prevented us from going out, and we bought our tree locally, I was shocked at the prices! Upwards of $80 for a six foot tree! Luckily, we waited so long to get ours, that trees were 50% off by then.

There are certain guidelines that people are asked to follow in choosing their trees, to maintain the health and beauty of the forest-to not cut trees along the highway or within 150 feet of a river, stream or active wetland, and to select a tree from a group of trees instead of ones that are growing individually.

We found a good place to start walking in search of our tree. It was a beautiful day-cold, but sunny. There was also not so much snow that walking was difficult. I still lagged behind Amy and Stuart though. I was so bundled up that I could only take about a six inch stride!

The word slow is not part of Kona’s vocabulary. She has only two speeds. Stop, and fast. Willow, at fifteen, no longer can make the trip. I bet she enjoyed the piece and quiet without Kona for a few hours though!

Trees cut in the wild tend to look more like Charlie Brown Christmas trees. Often more sparse than commercially grown trees, lopsidedness is a common feature. Still, they are so beautiful. Walking among the possible choices, in the forest cathedral gives a new meaning to the word perfect. After a pleasant half hour or so search, we found the one.

Carrying it back to the car, we enjoyed a few more moments of the stillness and crispness of the woods.

This year I wore one of those “mad bomber” fake fur lined hats. They are warm-even if I felt like I was wearing a raccoon on my head.

Amy helped secure our perfect tree to the top of the car.

Several hours, lights, ornaments, and cups of eggnog later, our tree was the gorgeous centerpiece of our living room. At a dash under 10 feet, it is the tallest tree we have ever had. True to form-trees always look smaller in the wild!

And today, my sweet girl Amy, the centerpiece of my life, is sixteen!

The Compliment

2011-12-02T04:40:00.001-08:00

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she stared down at her feet, her bare toes digging into the softness of the chenille carpet as though she were trying to brace herself for what came next. Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet her reflection, and her self esteem shattered once again and fell in pieces around her.

She exhaled the breath she had been tensely holding, and fought to ward off the inevitable tears. Hopeless, she sighed to her mirrored twin. Utterly hopeless, and she picked herself apart flaw by flaw. Ears that seemed to be too big for her head. A nose that did not fit her face. The gap between her front teeth.

Why on earth had she agreed to go to the Christmas dance at the Canteen? Was the war effort really relying on her attendance? She doubted very much that she would be boosting the morale of any soldier or sailor. She was, after all, anything but inspiring.

The blue rayon dress, seldom worn. Red lipstick, the wrong shade for her coloring. A rhinestone comb. It was the best she could do.

************

A freshly minted soldier, wearing his newly issued uniform, tapped her on the shoulder.

May I?

He led her to the dance floor, her mind puzzling over his choice. Her. Putting an arm about her waist, he whispered into her right ear.

Hey Doll. Did anyone ever tell you that you have the most beautiful hair?

There, in the dark, in his arms, she felt like Veronica Lake.

This week we asked you to write about hair. So many of us have a love-hate relationship with it. For some of us, it’s our defining feature. Whatever it means to you – or to your characters – we want to know about it.

Technorati Tags: Red Writing Hood,flash fiction,World War II,Veronica Lake

Chasing Snowflakes

2011-11-30T06:41:00.001-08:00

Kona, last year. Her very first snowfall. She was pretty thrilled about it. She ran circles around the yard, trying to catch snowflakes, and I’m sure she could have kept it up all day.

This is my favorite time of year-there is that excitement in the air that makes me feel like running laps too. But my energy will be spent on shopping and baking, wrapping presents, writing Christmas cards, and decorating. Lots to do, but I don’t mind. I love it all!

As this most magical of seasons gets underway, I wish all of you the joy of chasing snowflakes.

Ice Skating

2011-11-28T07:12:00.001-08:00

The year I was in the 10th grade was the year I learned to ice skate. I remember going to the local ice rink with a friend of mine who aspired to be an Olympic figure skater.

First we would stop off at her house and she would let me borrow one of her little skating dresses. She even gave me a pair of ice skates she no longer used. As she’d gotten better at skating, she had gotten better skates.

For a couple hours, lost in that world of ice, I would practice staying upright, while my friend skated circles around me, spinning and doing the occasional double axel, or some other skating stunt. After several weeks, I was quite comfortable on the ice. I never learned to do any tricks other than skating on one foot, but I still remember the exhilaration of skating around the rink as fast as I could go.

I had a tight little group of friends that same year, and all of us went to the rink every so often, as did the youth group from the church that I belonged to. The worst accident I can remember is that a boy fell down and some other kid skated over his finger. Mostly I remember how the ice rink was one of my favorite places to be-the brisk coldness of the ice, the rock music blaring over the loudspeakers, the laughter shared with my friends.

My family moved at the end of my 10th grade year-from Arlington, Virginia to Puyallup, Washington-and I don’t remember ever ice skating again. I kept my skates for a while and eventually gave them away.

From time to time, I miss those ice skating days, but now that I’m older, I certainly don’t miss all those spills I took on the ice.

I bought these skates last year, to use in my Christmas decorating. Still, if I loosen the laces enough, and wear the right socks, they just about fit…

Did you ice skate as a kid?

Technorati Tags: ice skates,ice skating,high school memories

Happy Thanksgiving!

2011-11-24T08:06:00.001-08:00

Today, as I am thinking of all the blessings I have to be thankful for, I count each and every one of you, my dear readers.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving, and may you be richly blessed today, and always.

Love, Valerie

Arriving in Style

2011-11-23T08:46:00.001-08:00

Back when I was still a college student, I decided, one year, to have an adventure and take the train home for Thanksgiving. With romantic visions of club cars, and steamy railroad station platforms in my head, I laid out the clothes I intended to pack. I set aside my travel outfit. A skirt and sweater, sensible heels, and my long wool peacock green coat.

Valerie! My friend Heidi said. No one dresses up to ride the train anymore!

But I still did. And yes, I was in the minority. As for the actual trip, well-I got to Tacoma just fine, but not in the manner I would like to have been accustomed to.

I often feel like I was born into the wrong era. And the way train travel has changed over the decades is just one more reason why. Sure, it is still wonderful to travel, by any means, to see family and celebrate a holiday as wonderful as Thanksgiving.

But just imagine what it would have been like to get to your destination like this…

Champagne cocktail, anyone?

After Dinner Wisdom

2011-11-21T08:40:00.001-08:00

Two fortune cookies. Two possibilities.

Amy told me to choose first. I debated for a second, and made my decision. Wow, I thought. What a meaningful and timely fortune! I’m going to hang this little piece of paper up where I can see it every day. Have it become my mantra of sorts, because it’s true. To be able to follow your heart is the key to happiness, in my humble opinion.

I was distracted from these inspiring thoughts by the crack of the second cookie.

And then I read Amy’s fortune…

Hmm.

I could have lived with that.

Blue Sky and Asphalt

2011-11-18T06:02:00.001-08:00

I don’t know who came up with the idea first, Dutch Decker or me, but it was only a matter of time before the corridors of our dormitory were buzzing with two words. Road Trip.

An afternoon as fine as this was not to be wasted on a pursuit as trivial as studying. Blue sky and asphalt. They were calling.

We knew of only one kid who had a car. Bif Franklin. And we were in luck. We located him, lounging in his room, unable to decide what to do with his afternoon. So we decided for him.

While Bif went to fetch his ‘47 Plymouth, the rest of us ran around like crazy, assembling any and all manner of provisions we thought we might need to pack along. Several plaid wool blankets, a dozen or so bottles of Coca Cola , Dutch’s portable record player and a stack of 45’s, two footballs, and plenty of food. I didn’t bother to take inventory, but I was hopeful there would be something my taste buds could get along with. At some point, someone remembered to invite the girls.

Piling into the car- jackets and cares left behind-we were off, our destination still unknown. That we were headed for the open road, bound for anywhere, was enough. Then, about a half a mile out of town, Bif tried unsuccessfully to drive over a large rock.

And that was the end of our road trip.

***********

For the Red Writing Hood prompt this week, we’d like you to take us on an actual journey, specifically a road trip.

In 300 words or less, create a fiction or creative non-fiction piece that lets us feel the wind from an open window or the dry heat of a car vent.

Come back this Friday to link-up and let us ride shotgun on your road trip.

A Writing Lesson

2011-11-16T06:16:00.001-08:00

A few evenings ago, I was sitting at my computer, ostensibly working on my NaNoWriMo work in progress, but I was really watching the stiff breeze outside scatter thousands of leaves in every direction. Kind of like words. Lots of possibilities, but I could not seem to choose the right ones.

I feel like baking something, I announced to Amy. Something like pumpkin bread.

Since Stuart was already headed out to the store, to roam the aisles in search of a dinner idea, Amy offered to go along and get the necessary ingredients for the pumpkin bread.

You stay, mama, she told me. Try to get your writing done.

I continued to stare at the leaves, thousands of them, and I realized that I needed to embrace the luxury of NaNoWriMo: That all words are good words. The goal is quantity, and not quality, so much. This is an uncomfortable concept for me. Normally when I write, I tend to choose words carefully, and use them very sparingly.

It wasn't long before Stuart and Amy were home, and I was actually writing away. Amy called to me from the kitchen.

Come here mama, I have a surprise for you!

A reward? For working so hard? I imagined the possibilities. Chocolate perhaps, or some flowers?

And then Amy handed me a butternut squash.

I know how much you wanted to grow these in the garden this year, and how disappointed you were when you had actually planted acorn squash instead, so I thought you would really like to have this.

Her face was beaming.

A lot of sentiments were running through my mind just then. That I love my daughter with all my heart, and any kid who picks out a squash as a surprise present is pretty darn special. I am already imagining how good that beautiful butternut will be, cooked with a little brown sugar and butter, and I realize something else. That finding the right words isn’t really so hard, after all.

Now when you have a butternut squash to inspire you.

Guest Blogger: My Daughter Amy

2011-11-14T06:28:00.001-08:00

This is an essay Amy wrote for her Sophomore Honors English class. It makes me more than a little proud.

Veterans: For Sale?

Each year on the 11^th day of the 11^th month, people across America observe a day of remembrance. Veterans Day is supposed to be a day of remembrance; a day to remember all those men and women who have served or are serving in the armed forces. It was never intended to be a day for people to flock to the stores in search of good deals, or a day for businesses to make a few extra dollars. The real meaning is being lost—obscured by the “Veterans Day Sale!” posters plastered all over store windows. If they aren’t torn down soon, the idea of remembering veterans will be replaced by the idea of buying and selling.

Originally called “Armistice Day”, November 11 was a day to celebrate the end of the First World War and commemorate those who fought in it. It was later renamed “Veterans Day” and the commemoration extended to all veterans—past, present, and future. Unfortunately, there was another, bigger change. Businesses began to see this day as a time to advertise sales, attract customers, and make more money. People started associating this noble occasion with terms akin to “Veterans Day Sale! 50% Off” and “Big Savings This Veterans Day!” However, the commercialization didn’t stop there. Several years ago I was at Fred Meyer’s around the 11^th, and there was a rack stuffed with American flags, some spilling onto the floor. There was a sign on this rack which proclaimed “Clearance-Flags 50% Off.” Is this right? Are American flags, the symbol of our country, so insignificant that they can be crammed onto shelves and dropped on the floor for the purpose of putting a few extra dollars in someone’s pocket? This was not the idea in mind when the 11^th day of November was christened Armistice Day, nor even when it was renamed Veterans Day. It was not meant to be a day of making and saving money, or a day to sell flags at half price. It was a day to remember.

Veterans Day is a day set aside to honor the men and women who have served or are serving in our armed forces. These veterans have given us the freedom to live our lives, even at the cost of their own. This day was set aside to remember these brave people and pay tribute to the sacrifices they have made for their fellow countrymen, and yet they have made it into a day of big deals and big savings. We are forgetting that the real purpose of Veterans Day is not the sales in the stores, but the salute to our veterans who defend this piece of land we call home. My great uncle fought in WWII and was killed while imprisoned by the Japanese. He fought for his country alongside millions of other men and women. For the sake of all veterans and their memories, we cannot forget that the reason for Veterans Day, is the veterans. The name “Veterans Day” helps to remind us that this is a day belonging to veterans, as well as a day to show them that they are not forgotten. Let’s hope that in years to come the name of the 11^th day of the 11^th month is not changed again, or that if it is, it does not become “Sale’s Day.”

We cannot afford to forget the true meaning of Veterans Day. It holds too much importance to become a date of barely remembered significance. This holiday pays tribute to the very people who make it possible for us to live the lives we do and give us or freedom. Forgetting or dismissing the meaning of this day would be like saying “veterans aren’t as important as saving money,” but veterans are important. If there were no veterans, there would be no United States of America or, for those people who would rather observe the occasion with sales, Veterans Day sales.

The 11^th day of the 11^th month was designated a holiday as a way to remember the veterans of WWI. Now it is called Veterans Day, but the idea is still one of the remembrance of veterans. However, the shadow of commercialism is falling over this date as it has many others, and is threatening to obscure its true purpose. We must make sure that Veterans Day never loses its meaning, for that is one far too important to lose. As it stands, we are far too close to saying “don’t forget that sale” instead of “don’t forget that veteran."

Photo credit: Alan Berner

No Sacrifice too Small

2011-11-11T06:13:00.001-08:00

It will forever seem like a cruel twist of fate: That my Uncle Pete missed the arrival of the American forces in Manila by just some 50 days. When the Bilibid prison camp, where he had been interned for nearly 3 years, was liberated in those first few days of February 1945, my uncle was already gone. He, along with over 16oo other men, had departed on the ill fated voyage to Japan, shipped out December 13, 1944.

50 days. A length of time that might very well have made the difference between my uncle becoming a veteran of World War II, instead of the casualty that he was.

I’ve read about the guilt that returning veterans, of any war, often feel over the fact that they were lucky to survive and return home, when many of their buddies did not. They wonder, Why was I the lucky one? And, Why was the other guy asked to make the ultimate sacrifice, and not me? In reading the memoirs of men who knew my Uncle Pete, they asked themselves those same questions.

But sacrifice comes in many forms. I know that every man and woman who has served our country has paid some part of the price that has bought the freedoms we enjoy today. Our veterans need to know that just as they will never forget that they were the “lucky ones”, we will never forget what they have done for us.

To all of our veterans on this day, and forever-

Thank You!

When a Pet Dies

2011-11-10T09:17:00.001-08:00

This past week has not been fun for Amy. Usually healthy, she caught one of the “bugs” going around school and missed three days. Yesterday, finally, she was able to go back to school. She made it through the day, but was pretty tired yesterday afternoon and evening.

And then this morning, Amy really didn’t want to go to school again. She woke up tired, and the thought of a full day of classes seemed overwhelming. I gave her the option of staying home-and it helped her rally herself and make the decision to go to school anyway, and finish out the week. I promised her a nice long and relaxing weekend to completely recuperate and catch up.

And then, as I was saying goodbye to Amy this morning, we noticed that Amy’s pet parakeet Coral was not looking too good. She didn’t seem to be able to fly, but clumsily maneuvered around her cage using her feet and beak. The slightest exertion seemed to exhaust her, and she would pause, close her eyes and rest, all the while trembling. Amy was visibly upset when she headed out the door to school, but I told her not to worry. I promised I would take good care of Coral today.

But as I write this, Coral is sitting on the bottom of the cage, and I know what is coming. Coral is going to die. And even though Amy is a “big” girl now-she’ll be 16 in just under a month-she is going to be very, very sad when she gets home. Because the loss of a pet, no matter how small that pet may be, is still a loss.

It’s one of those things that happens in life. I just wish it didn’t have to be this weekend.

Mug Shots

2011-11-07T07:48:00.001-08:00

There is no shortage of coffee cups at my house. When I pour that first mug of steaming heaven in the morning, I could choose one of the lovely coffee cups we’ve collected on our trips to Hawaii. I love these mugs. Every time I look at them I remember it all. Palm trees, sandy beaches, tropical flowers, coconut shrimp…

Or I could use my custom For the Love of Pete mug. It’s my choice of cup when I have coffee out with my friend Paula on Fridays. I figure a little advertising never hurt anyone, and using this cup is so much more practical that wearing a sandwich board…

And then there are these beauties. These cups and saucers are among the few remaining pieces of my mother’s wedding dishes. They are classic 50’s style-and the pattern is called Caribe by Carlos Montez. How I would love to have a whole set some day, and there is something so sophisticated about drinking coffee, or tea from a cup and saucer instead of a mug…

This however, is the mug that I search for each morning. I can’t explain my attraction to it, other that I just seem to find it really pleasing to look at. It’s a Fiesta ware mug in the color periwinkle. Normally I’m a green person, and I have Fiesta mugs that are green. I don’t know, there is just something about this mug…

So tell me. Do you have a favorite mug that you like to drink your morning coffee or tea out of ? Or will any cup do, as long as it doesn’t leak?

For the Love of Pete

2011-11-04T07:19:00.001-07:00

I’m reposting this today-I wrote it almost 3 years ago and thought I should give it a bump . Since I first posted this, I’ve also learned how to scan photographs, so they are easier to see. I continue to crunch out words for NaNoWriMo and at this moment I have around 8,5000. I am also taking care of Amy today, as my darling daughter is home sick. Here’s wishing all of you a wonderful weekend!

My uncle, Roland Erich Going, July 1, 1914-January 9, 1945. The origin of the nickname Pete remains a mystery to this day.

Pete at Pearl Harbor. Pete enlisted in the navy in 1934 and became a pharmacist's mate. He was sent to Pearl Harbor for his first duty assignment. He adored Hawaii. He was transferred to Manila, Philippine Islands in 1940.

Pete and Adeline. A love story doomed from the start. Manila fell to the Japanese in January, 1942 and Pete was taken prisoner, as was Adeline. In May of 1942 Pete was moved to the infamous Bilibid prison camp. Because of his carpentry skills, he was given the job of making wooden grave markers for prisoners who died.

After Pete was taken prisoner, his family began their long and agonizing ordeal of not hearing from him and not knowing his fate. Letters written to him during this time were returned.

A note Pete secretly wrote and kept hidden at Bilibid prison. He left this note behind at the camp when the Japanese moved the prisoners out of the camp around Christmas Eve 1944, and loaded them on transport ships known as hell ships, so called because of their horrible conditions. The prisoners were to be sent to Japan to be used as forced labor. While Pete was aboard the Enoura Maru, the second hell ship he had been on, the US bombed the ship. They were unaware that the ship contained allied prisoners of war. Pete was killed, along with many other men. Pete's note was found by the American forces when Manila was liberated a short time later.

My father visiting the grave of his brother Pete around 1950. Pete is buried in the beautiful Punchbowl Cemetery on the island of Oahu. In a final token of love by a father for his son, my grandfather chose Hawaii as Pete's final resting place. My grandfather was given the choice of having Pete buried in a local cemetery where he could have visited his son's grave, but instead chose the place Pete loved best. Towards the end of his life, my grandfather was able to visit Hawaii and finally pay his respects to his son.

No Time for Dilly Dallying

2011-11-02T10:18:00.001-07:00

A few days ago, I signed on with NaNoWriMo. As many of you already know, it’s a 30 day writing marathon (November 1-30) where the goal is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. Achieving that final goal of 50,000 words averages out to having to come up with approximately 1667 words per day.

In typical Valerie form, I’ve already written close to 5,000 words. I am so determined to finish NaNoWriMo that I am trying to write as much as I can during these early days. Those 50,000 words are nipping at my heels, and I want to get a good start by exceeding that daily number,and leave myself some wiggle room in case, for some reason, I can’t write on a given day.

It seems overwhelming right now, but like any big task, just jumping in and doing the work is my best strategy. It works when I decide to paint a room, or can 50 pounds of peaches, or whatever. At some point during the project, I know the balance will shift from what I have left to do, to what I’ve already done, and the end begins to come into sight.

I won’t be blogging as much in the next four weeks, but I’ll still be reading your blogs.

Wish me luck. And for those of you doing NaNoWriMo as well, good luck to you. We can do this!

Halloween Hide and Seek

2011-10-31T07:12:00.001-07:00

It happens every year during the last week in October. I go on a sort of Easter egg hunt, only it isn’t Easter, and it sure isn’t eggs I’m after. I’m hunting for something much sweeter. The Halloween candy.

We always buy plenty. Much, much, more than we’ll really need for the big night. The way I figure it, we can spare a bag or two, and certainly a few pieces at the very least. It’s not like I’d be depriving any of the ghosts or witches who turn up on our doorstep tonight, their hard earned reward.

But still, the candy disappears. Hidden some place where I supposedly won’t find it. I guess I’ve shown my husband one too many times that I can’t be trusted to exercise self control. (He’s right, of course.)

After searching out the obvious hiding place, and a few more creative ones, I come up empty handed. Once again, Stuart has done his job well.

Part of me is disappointed, but another part of me is glad. Actually finding the candy would involve some tricky decision making. Like how much to help myself to, and whether or not to confess my sins.

I guess I’ll just make myself wait until this evening, when the candy will reappear, and be left out in plain sight, no less. With all the confusion of trick or treaters coming, and the doorbell ringing, and the dogs going crazy, well no one will be keeping an eye on me…

Happy Halloween, everyone! And here’s wishing you endless pieces of your Halloween favorites!

By Heart

2011-10-28T07:16:00.001-07:00

She cues the familiar music in her head and starts to sway. These days she moves with the slow easy grace of someone who is comfortable in own her skin-at last.

Throughout her life, she has listened to the measured beats of every imaginable rhythm, rejecting some, embracing others, and sometimes staying out a little too late.

She had regrets once, for some of the tangled steps she chose to trace, but not any more. She knows that any other choreography would not have led her to the person she is today.

Tears and laughter, trials and triumphs-one thing is certain.

She knows the dance, by heart.

*****************************************

The picture prompt that inspired this week’s piece of fiction for the Red Writing Hood-to write a piece where athleticism features prominently.

Amy

2011-10-26T07:20:00.001-07:00

It’s hard to believe that next Monday is Halloween, and then begins the season for counting blessings. I don’t need a special holiday to be thankful for my daughter, though.

Before she was born, and after she arrived, we were like any other new parents. We read articles from the experts on the best ways to create a smart baby. We bought toys designed to stimulate brain development. We wondered about preschool, and which lessons and activities would optimize her chances for success later in life.

All of this is great. All of this is fine. It should be the desire of every parent to want the very best for his or her child. But I’ve realized that we have done a good job in raising our soon to be 16 year old Amy, but not for the reasons that years ago I would have thought I needed to list.

I am proud to say that Amy is kind and caring, compassionate and helpful, and she always sees the good in everyone she meets. She may never be a rocket scientist, or be a billionaire, win a Nobel Prize or even be the next movie star—but the world is most definitely a better place because of her.

Golden

2011-10-24T08:54:00.001-07:00

Yesterday we went for a long walk along a section of the “Rails to Trails.” This particular stretch is named the John Wayne Trail, although Kona and Willow were more impressed with the attractions that were off the trail…

We were impressed with the beauty of fall. It’s come to our valley in a big way, and the color this year is spectacular! Please enjoy these pictures I took-

I asked this wooly caterpillar for his predictions about the severity of the coming winter, but he wasn’t talking.

So to help prepare myself, I’ve gathered two of my favorite recent vintage finds:

It can get pretty blustery here when the winds of late autumn blow. Even though this bottle-from either the 40’s or 50’s-is empty, I still think it will help me. At $4.00 it was too charming to resist!

And on cold and dark fall and winter nights, I can read by the glow of this pumpkin colored lamp. A steal at $3.99!

Have you carved your jack-o-lanterns yet, or are you waiting until next weekend-like we are?

Message Received

2011-10-21T06:09:00.001-07:00

He noticed the yellow envelope of a telegram, wedged under his front door. At the same time he thought he sensed a blur of movement in his periphery. Bending to retrieve the telegram, another blur.

The envelope opened, he read:

Shame on you Andrew. Stop. You shouldn’t have been so careless. Stop. Always finish what you start. Stop.

“Stop! Stop! Sto…!”

Fingers tightened on Andrew’s throat, silencing the last word.

*******

For this week’s Red Writing Hood prompt, we’re inviting you to truly scare us.

Here’s what you’ll need to do:

Compose a post in the form of a text–160 characters.

Your text must elicit or express fear.

Though this initially looks like more of a fiction prompt, we challenge our non-fiction writers to take a stab at it as well. (Stab! Scary!)

********

I put my own spin on this prompt and chose to have the message take the form of a telegram.

Getting it Right

2011-10-19T08:23:00.001-07:00

I’ve been spending the past few days doing something I should have done a long time ago-getting serious about my Etsy shop photos. For the Love of Pete has been in existence for almost four years now, and up until this point I haven’t put that much work into my pictures. In my own defense, it hasn’t been for lack of wanting to, but I was just so intimidated by the whole idea.

And then last week, I got the shoes. I knew they would make an excellent photo prop, but there was a catch. I was the only one able to wear them-they are too big for Amy, plus she has a pretty hard class schedule this year. With lots of homework every night, she simply doesn’t have the time to help me. I had one alternative. Learn to use the automatic timer on my camera and take pictures of myself, and while I was at it, learn to master some lighting techniques too. As you can tell in the above photo-I found out that I have to hold perfectly still in order to get a clear image. After setting the timer and getting into place many, many times, my legs got tired from wearing the shoes, but I kept at it, and I now have several good photos in my shop.

I also decided to experiment with different backgrounds for some of my other pictures, opting for colorful and bold instead of white. (First I even tried a piece of plywood for my background, but that didn’t look so good!)

So what’s my point in all of this? Too many times I think we all tend to believe that we can’t learn to do something new. We sell ourselves short and give up before we even begin. But we can! I like to think my pictures prove that.

Is there something new you’ve found the courage to try? Something that seemed overwhelming, but you gave it a shot anyway? I’d like to hear about it.

P.S. I’m proud to be using my dad’s old footlocker from his Navy days, too!

Terror in Daylight

2011-10-17T06:51:00.001-07:00

Every fall, we make a trip to the local nursery to get our Halloween pumpkins. And every year I end up, for a short time, scared out of my wits. Why? Because I’m afraid of the soon to be Jack-o-Lanterns we buy? No. My fear stems from something much more sinister.

The corn maze.

On the surface, what’s to be afraid of? It’s a small maze, and from the outside I can see where its borders are. Some of the stalks aren’t even that tall. It’s a maze designed to be fun for the smallest of children. I know all of this. Plus, it’s broad daylight as we head for the “ENTER” sign.

But once we are in there, among the corn, my sense of reason leaves me. I am the last to go into the maze. Stuart heads down one row, Amy heads down another. My indecision lasts for just a few seconds, but it’s long enough to allow the corn to swallow them both up. I start down the path that Amy has chosen, hitting one dead end after another, the corn suddenly seeming much taller than it did from the outside. As hard as I try to stay calm, I am gripped with the unreasonable terror that if I ever do get out, my family will have vanished, never to be seen again. I’m about ready to run blindly through the stalks and make my own exit (strictly against the rules, by the way-but then so is leaving your parents unattended) when I suddenly catch up with Stuart. I’m ok after all, and maybe I’m even having fun. “Have you tried going that way?” I ask him. But when I turn to hear his reply, he has vanished again.

For two years, when I was a kid, my family lived next to a big corn field in Pennsylvania. “Stay out of the corn,” my mother would warn us. Why, I wondered? But I never asked. Maybe it was best not to know. When I was older, I read some Stephen King stories, and I understood. Terrible, terrible things happen in fields of corn.

I am so spooked by this time, and so lost in my thoughts of worry and regret for even allowing this trip into the corn maze, that I can hardly see. And then all of a sudden, I am standing in a clearing. Miraculously, I have found my way out. Stuart is right behind me again, and Amy is up ahead, running in the grass and playing with a fat brown cat named Pumpkin. I take a deep breath, straighten the collar on my coat, pull a stray piece of corn silk from my hair, and soon I’m laughing and enjoying the beauty of a bright fall day in October.

I do have just one last piece of advice though.

Don’t ever, ever go, into a corn maze after dark…

*****************

Photo sourced from the internet.

Hotel Street

2011-10-14T08:32:00.001-07:00

Fred Corydon had a long day ahead of him. But he didn’t mind. He had a very special date tonight.

The morning air felt cool as he unlocked the entrance to his Hotel Street tattoo parlor. It would be plenty hot in a couple of hours, the sun blazing over all of Honolulu. But for now there was enough of a chill to raise goose bumps on his heavily tattooed arms. Once inside, he made a final check to make sure that his shop was in order before opening for the day.

The first of a steady stream of customers came through the door around eleven am. A fresh faced sailor, wanting his maiden tattoo. He looked through Fred's sheets of tattoo flash, and then admired Fred's own tattoos-a leggy lovely in a sarong, a long dagger with a red tip, and an eagle and a dragon locked in a fight to the death- before finally deciding on an anchor and sparrow design. There were a lot of sailors in Honolulu now. Had been, since Pearl Harbor.

The day progressed. Around two o’clock, Fred talked a teenaged boy of 17 out of a tattoo. “If Louise is still your girl in a year or so, come back and we’ll talk. Trust me,” the sarcasm seeping out of Fred’s voice, “You don’t want to make it permanent, until you know it is permanent.” And lastly, another sailor who was already so tattooed he had enough ink in his skin to double as a fountain pen, entered the shop and finished off Fred’s day.

Usually Fred stayed open late. Hotel Street really started to jump at dusk, and so evenings were his most profitable hours of business. But not today. Closing up shop around four pm, he headed home to shower and trade his white t-shirt and dungarees for a pair of khaki pants and a colorful Aloha shirt. Rubbing a spot clear on the steamed up bathroom mirror as he prepared to shave, Fred caught sight of the little red heart tattooed on the left side of his bare chest, and his own heart caught in his throat. Daddy's Girl.

“Dames.” he cursed. “They steal your heart, and then they break it.” But this little red heart was one piece of his heart he intended to hang on to.

He couldn't wait to see his daughter.

**********************

If you haven’t figured it out, this week, we’d like you to write a piece in which a tattoo figures prominently. Fiction or creative non-fiction. There is a lot to think about: why someone would get one, what they chose, when they got it, what message does the tattoo(s) send

Walnuts

2011-10-12T08:43:00.001-07:00

My grandma had a walnut tree in her yard. Tall and massive, and I’m guessing as old as my grandma, it was situated next to the driveway, near the street. Even though my grandma is gone now, has been for years, I hope the tree is still there.

It was her fall ritual. To go out and pick up the fallen walnuts. I guess that’s how you harvest walnuts. You pick them up. You don’t have to climb up and get them. Not that my grandma wouldn’t have tried. In her early nineties, she insisted on mowing her own yard with an electric mower, the long power cord always trailing precariously around her feet.

Those walnuts. I remember the sound they made when the tires of passing cars crunched over the ones that had fallen in the street. Grandma would take a box, or basket, or whatever container was handy, and pick up the fallen nuts from her yard and driveway. She’d carry them up to her attic where they would dry over the winter, waiting to be cracked open the next spring. She did not own a nut cracker, but seated at an old TV tray in her kitchen, armed with a cutting board and hammer, she would slam the nuts out of their shells, walnut shrapnel flying everywhere. She would crack nuts by day, and when insomnia struck, she would get up, and slam away in the middle of the night.

At Christmas time, we could always count on getting a package from her, and the contents never varied. A jar of her mincemeat, and a jar of her walnuts. The walnuts were like gold. My mother used them sparingly so they would last as long as possible. (They were also used cautiously as bits of shell were bound to be mixed with the nuts.)

I have my grandma's mincemeat recipe. Amy and I make a batch every year. I like to think it’s every bit as good as that which my grandma made. I miss those walnuts, though. We buy a bag at Christmas time now, because there is no package coming in the mail. Because there is no longer a grandma who lives at the house with the walnut tree in the yard.

I just hope the tree is still there.

I’m missing my Grandma Helen today. I wanted to write this little tribute to her.

Revealed! The Bathroom Makeover

2011-10-10T05:42:00.001-07:00

Before…

Not very much to love here. Bad wallpaper, wood paneling that had seen better days, funny angles and corners, a dirty glass shower enclosure…It seemed hopeless.

But with some new paint, in two different hues of green-on the walls, wood paneling, built in shelves, and wall cabinets, and by taking out the glass doors and putting up a barkcloth shower curtain (that I made), installing a new sink and light fixtures, the transformation began to take place. (I am so thankful to have a husband who knows a thing or two about electrical work and plumbing!)

I found this wall mounted hand dish and thought it would make a good hand towel holder.

I found these two dishes at Goodwill. They used to be part of a 50’s lazy Susan snack set. They will be useful for keeping small items like Amy’s hair bands organized.

A couple more vintage finds-a really neat piece of art pottery that can hold wash cloths, and a 50’s plastic kleenex box cover. I splurged on two new sets of towels and new bath rugs-both on sale for 50% off!

The biggest expenditure was the two new light fixtures. I wish my pictures did them more justice, but they are really gorgeous. I got them from a company out of Portland, Oregon called Rejuvenation. I also found the new soap holder and cup holder there too. An incredible source for old house style lighting and fixtures.

I was not crazy about the wall cabinet and medicine chest, but they were too good to get rid of, and so I just painted them. They look much better now.

So there you have it!

If I’d had an unlimited budget, I would love to have had a claw foot tub and new floor too, but I am really pleased with how this project turned out. I never could have imagined that such an ugly duckling of a bathroom could turn into such a swan!

Pinup art by artist Joyce Ballantyne (1918-2006) She is best known for her iconic 1959 Coppertone ad with the little girl and the naughty dog.

Technorati Tags: bathroom,makeover,vintage style,Rejuvenation,decorating

Chasing Shadows

2011-10-07T06:52:00.001-07:00

This is the time of year, on these crisp October nights, when the line between what is real and what isn’t becomes blurred. Walking after dark along leaf scattered sidewalks, the skeletons of bare trees silhouetted against the inky sky, it’s easy to see things…hear things… believe things.

Another October, years ago, my friend Veronica and I decided to see the movie “An American Werewolf in London.” It was close to midnight when we left the theater, and we were scared out of our skins. Gripped with imagined fears, we headed out into the cold and windy full moon night for the several block journey back to our dorm. Then somewhere, close by, something howled…

And we RAN!

Sure, deep down, we knew it was only a dog. But it was just so much more thrilling to terrify ourselves by believing that the howl was coming from a creature far more sinister.

This frightful feeling, I must confess, is what makes these October walks after dark so much fun. It’s the perfect kind of being scared-the safe kind. And it’s also realizing that you don’t have to be a kid, to enjoy the magic of the season.

**********************************************

This week we asked you to take us somewhere. Where was up to you -fiction or creative nonfiction- but we asked you to use your words to paint the setting as vividly as possible. In 200 words.

We’re so excited to go there with you!

The Right One

2011-10-04T10:40:00.001-07:00

Part of the finishing touch I give to every bag I sew is the addition of a vintage button. I am extremely picky about this. For me, it’s such an important detail, that I’ve even delayed finishing a bag when I can’t find just the right button that works. Great barkcloth and high quality workmanship are always a given. It’s finding the right button that is the unknown element. The deal maker, or breaker, so to speak.

I was so excited to come across the collection of buttons above. They are all winners, and they will all inspire me at some point in the future. I love the big and bold ones. I love the small, playful ones. In short-I love a great vintage button.

This black button has to be the most enormous button I’ve ever come across. ( I’m wondering if I’ll need a building permit when I decide to use it some day!)

My question for you is-what part of your craft has to be just right? Is there one detail in what you do, that if you can’t get it just right you are not satisfied? This is a unusual question I know-but I’d love to know your thoughts!

Technorati Tags: vintage buttons

Happy Fall!

2011-10-02T07:46:00.001-07:00

It seems each morning now, the temperature dips a little lower. Soon, we'll have our first freeze.

Yesterday, Amy harvested the pumpkins and gourds from our garden. I love the colors!

I did some deadheading and cleaning up in the flower beds.

And we picked an autumn bouquet for the table.

This season conjures up so many feelings for me-sadness over the ending of another summer, nostalgia for times gone by, a sense of urgency that I must prepare for the coming winter, and a feeling of excitement over something I can never quite put my finger on. It’s the time of year for woolen coats, and hearty soups and sidewalks scattered with fallen leaves. It’s the potion of the calendar that I love most of all.

Happy fall, my dear readers! Here’s wishing each of you the best these golden months have to offer.

Choices

2011-09-30T08:26:00.001-07:00

Choices. She counseled herself. Life is about choices. She stood in the dwindling twilight as the mist rolled in off the Channel, her hair curled in damp tendrils around her face. It was thirty-five minutes past six, and the benches were empty. Guessing that it was either too foggy, or too close to Tea for anyone other than herself to be out, she was happy to be alone with her thoughts.

She had agreed to meet him at the benches at seven.

Until today, they had been unaware that the other even existed. And then on the double-decker this morning, he’d given up his seat for her. Handsome in his uniform, she became suddenly shy and could scarcely murmur her thanks. He was friendly, though. An American. Very charming, with his foreign accent and big smile. The attraction was instant, and they’d spent the whole day together. By that afternoon they seemed to feel that their destinies were meant to be intertwined. At five, she left him, so that she could feed her cat. That had been her excuse, at least. She’d wanted to spruce herself up. Put on a nicer dress and freshen up her lipstick. She would get a cat tomorrow, she told herself. Just to keep herself honest.

Back in the small and comforting nest of her apartment, she had time to mentally sober up. What on earth was she doing? Meeting him might change all of the plans she had made for herself. Or it might change none of them. She simply didn’t know. What plans had she, for her future, anyway?

At six she left for the benches. She knew what conventional wisdom dictated. A girl was supposed to be fashionably late, and she should make him wait a bit. But she wanted to arrive first, pick her spot, and firmly entrench herself. She wanted to be well prepared for whatever might be coming down the road to the rest of her life. When the benches came into view though, she stopped, concealed in the darkness of a corner. A short time later, she observed him step out from the shadows across the street, checking his watch before sitting down.

Choices, she reminded herself. Life is full of choices. It would be easier, she lamented, if someone could tell her exactly what to do. She continued to hesitate. Six fifty-five. Seven-ten. He looked at his watch and looked lost. At seven-twenty, he stood up. His shoulders noticeably slumped, he started to walk away.

Choices. The here and now. The now or never.

Billy!

She reached out. And grabbed the unknown.

***************************

This piece of fiction is based on the photo prompt above. I changed the location from New Orleans, to wartime England.

Gifts

2011-09-27T09:25:00.001-07:00

I thought this would be an appropriate post to re-post today. I’m taking a little blogging break while we do some cosmetic work on our downstairs bathroom.

We live in an old Victorian house. Not the gingerbread variety, but the simple farmhouse variety. It was built in 1900, and has seen a lot, and not all good, in those 11 decades.

When it came on the market a few years ago, we were living quite happily in a 1940 bungalow. But there was just something about this house that compelled us to take a look. While it had a lot of good things going for it, like wood floors, ornate moulding and French doors, the negative aspects made us say "not for us," and "too much work."

This house was not going to give up so easily, though. It kept forcing its way into our thoughts. We started to think more and more about what we could do to fix it up, and what a really incredible place it could be once again. We began to see that by saving this house, we could save a piece of the history of our town. The house didn't care what our motives were. It simply wanted to be loved, and have owners who didn't shoot BB’s into the walls, or write on them with markers. Owners who didn’t park half a dozen cars in the front yard.

As we moved in shortly before Christmas, and began the task of restoration, the house, or maybe the spirits of those who lived here before us, began to thank us. Our first evening as new residents, an overwhelming aroma of cigar smoke and perfume filled the living room. Perhaps we were the guests of honor at a small welcoming party, given by a grateful, but unseen host. The following spring, we unearthed a gold wedding ring. We discovered it buried in the dirt while we were putting in a flower bed. Another time, while cleaning out a pipe, we found a very old dime from 1869. And most mysteriously-and oddly of all, there was the time when a dishpan full of water was found emptied on its own. Some help with housework? That would be appreciated!

While having this house is a gift in itself, we wonder what tokens of appreciation it will offer us in the years to come. In any case, we will continue our labor of love on this place we now call home.

My Choice

2011-09-22T11:35:00.001-07:00

Feeling uninspired as a writer? Check. Feeling a lack of success as an artist? Check. Feeling sorry for myself? Perhaps the biggest check of all, and if you’ll bear with me for one more-I recognized a reality check was in order.

Yesterday I spent a few hours doing some good old fashioned home canning. I’d been staring at a 23 pound box of red Bartlett pears for a few days and decided they weren’t going to can themselves. And I also kicked my own can a little and told myself that moping around and staring at a computer screen were not how I want to spend all of my time.

What I love about canning is not only the satisfaction of a job well done, when I am done, but I love the process. It’s hot, and I dirty a lot of dishes and utensils. Boxes of produce and kettles of water are heavy, and I get tired. My back hurts. But I’m serious about liking every second of it, because sometimes it just feels good to do some hard physical work.

Women in the past knew all about that. My mom told me recently that her grandmother used to get so tired she wanted to die. Cooking for the threshing crews and cleaning up, only to have to do the same thing over and over and over-plus do all the other household work too.

I have it pretty easy. I wash a couple dishes, and then moon about my lack of inspiration as I try to write a blog post. I sweep the kitchen floor and then obsess over my Etsy shop statistics. So it’s no wonder that when I bought my vintage canner a few years ago, the clerk asked me what I was going to use it for. “Canning,” I replied quizzically. I guess the obvious wasn’t so obvious any more.

Today I am pretty satisfied with my gleaming jars of pears. Due to the gorgeous red skin of these particular Bartlett’s-the finished pears have a lovely rosy pink tint to them. I know that come winter they will taste good as well as being pretty to look at.

Now back to the internet…

(To post this!)

Avast, Me Hearties!

2011-09-19T07:51:00.001-07:00

Begad! Snatch that mutinous landlubber!

Today be International Talk Like a Pirate Day!

This day, not only do me mark th' passage 'o another year 'o me life, but this day be also international speak like a scurvy pirate day. Either way, a scowl 'n an arrrrr be in order. If ye’d like to spy wit' ye eye ye moniker translated into a scurvy pirate moniker, ye can take 'tis quiz. I guarantee it be pretty silly, but I like me moniker fer this day!

http://www.piratequiz.com/

After ye take th' quiz, then be tellin' me what ye moniker be if ye like, me bucko!

Mad Mary Flint

Shiver me timbers!

Blown Away

2011-09-16T08:26:00.001-07:00

Two years ago, I participated in a craft show held on Saturday, September 19. The day also happened to be my birthday. I wrote this post about the experience and thought I would repost it today. We are leaving this afternoon to visit my parents for the weekend to celebrate my birthday with them. I’m hoping for good weather, but at least we’ll be inside.

“The wind is my friend.” “The wind is my friend.”

The man next to me was chanting, with quiet desperation in his voice. We were squished together like sardines, along with many other vendors, inside a big permanent tent set up at an outdoor art show. His whole display had just crashed to the ground.

The day had not started well. Everyone had set up their displays early that morning amid cloudy skies and howling wind. But then miraculously, the wind died down and the sun came out. It was going to be a gorgeous day after all! We milled about and visited with each other before settling in to wait for the show to open, the customers to come, and business to be good.

And then I noticed something. My handmade bags began to twist ever so slightly on their hangers. My canopy gave a slight shiver. And I thought to myself, in despair, “It’s coming back…”

In the blink of an eye, it was back, growing in force like a runaway train. And before I had time to go to plan B or even come up with plan A…BAM! Over went my display racks and off like kites flew my bags. It was a horrible moment. Some kindly people (I don’t know who they were, the moment is a blur), helped me set back up. For a little while I was good, and then BAM! This time something rather unladylike slipped out of my mouth as I expressed my frustration. I was in a state of panic. What was I going to do? The show still had a good 4 hours to go.

It did not take long before everyone was in distress. Paintings, jewelry and everything in between were set aloft. This is when many of us were ushered into the big tent, normally reserved just for a few artists. It really didn’t matter. Even inside the tent, the wind kept finding its mark. I heard vendors say over and over to potential customers “Well, I had a nice display set up, but you see, the wind came up…” As for me, I sat quietly in a daze, the wind having deafened me and left me speechless hours earlier. My once neatly hung bags, arranged carefully by style and color, were in a shambles, and my racks were anchored to my table with a tangled maze of ropes. All that I really cared about at that point was that my bags were all still there. (I didn’t count them. I probably should have.)

As the hours went by, the day continued to deteriorate. The wind blew harder and harder and it got cold. It even got to the point that all of us stopped looking around to see whose stuff had taken the latest hit. The only thing that mattered was how fast we could pack up and go home.

So what can I say about the wind, now that the show is over?

That after being battered by it for hours, I finally know what it’s like to have straight hair. And I probably should learn some new vocabulary words to express myself in times of crisis. That once again, Mother Nature proves that she is Mother Nature. (When the event coordinator became irritated with me the week before the show because I asked her what happened in the event the weather was bad, and she said it wasn't going to be bad, I felt like I’d chalked up a victory right along with the wind.) And most of all, in the worst circumstances, we come together and help each other.

And you know what else?

A piece of chocolate birthday cake tastes even sweeter after a trying day. But I sure could have used a little help to blow out all those candles. Where is the wind when you need it?

(Thanks to my daughter Amy for the "before" picture.)

13 Pictures

2011-09-14T07:11:00.001-07:00

I wrote this last fall, and thought I would post it again.

As I was making chili yesterday, I thought about those picture frames you can get that hold all of a child’s school photographs from kindergarten through grade 12. I remembered thinking when Amy was really little, that 13 years was a long time, and a lot of pictures.

Last June Amy finished middle school, and had I bought one of those picture frames, 9 slots would now be filled. Along with those 9 years come a lot of memories.

Memories like Amy’s very first day of kindergarten, when her brand new teacher forgot to count the children after recess and Amy was left outside, all alone, for quite a while. Amy didn't mind. She had fun playing long after everyone else had gone inside. She was “found” by a helpful 5th grader who took her back to her classroom, and a very embarrassed teacher. Amy happily related the incident after school that day, much to both Stuart’s and my horror!!

I remember a list of spelling words that came home when Amy was in the third grade.

Sailor. Anchor. Knot. Ship. Bosom.

Bosom?

That made me do a double take! I had visions of lusty barmaids entertaining men who’d been at sea too long. I realized quickly though, that Amy’s teacher meant the word boson.

Then there was the dear teacher who announced to the class, “Had Lincoln not been assassinated, he would still be alive today!” That was in 2002…

One year at the spring student talent show and bar-b-que, attended by families, friends and respectable members of the community, the local country music radio station provided the D.J. services. They played music before the show started, while people were getting their lunches, and the kids were getting ready to perform. Above the chatter of the crowd I could hear the strains of “Ten Rounds With Jose Cuervo.” Was it my imagination, or did the lunch servers ask, “Would you like milk or tequila with your burger?”

And I smiled remembering the junior high school age kids. Once they’d fought over who got to sit on my lap when I would help out in Amy's classrooms. Now I spied them awkwardly holding hands with boyfriends and girlfriends.

Yes, lots of memories…

Yesterday, Amy started high school. Hard to believe that she is only 4 pictures away from going off to college. As I made the chili, I must admit I had tears in my eyes. But then again, those were some pretty strong onions I was chopping.

Trade Up

2011-09-12T07:52:00.001-07:00

This is a picture of my new sewing cabinet. If it leaves you at a loss for words, don’t feel bad. My reaction, at first, was the same.

A couple weeks ago, one of my husband’s co-workers (Let’s call him Hank, shall we?) emailed my husband and asked if I would like to have an old treadle sewing machine and table. “Yes!” I replied! No two ways about it. I have a habit of collecting sewing machines and a vintage foot powered model would be the perfect addition.

The machine, I found out, was acquired in a trade for an old washing machine. Some college kids knocked on Hank’s door one evening, and explained they were taking part in a game called Trade Up.

Each person starts with something small, like a bobby pin. And then they go door to door asking if they might trade their small item for something bigger. I’m not sure of the exact rules, but that is the gist of the game.

So when the owners of the treadle sewing machine came calling on Hank, Hank was more than willing to seize upon the opportunity to rid himself of the unwanted washing machine.

About a week ago, Hank emails my husband again to see if I still want the machine. Yes! I sure do! Arrangements are made to go get it, and I ask if I should come along to help. No, I’m told. Hank has mentioned it doesn’t weigh that much.

What? Doesn’t weigh that much? An old cast iron sewing machine can double as a boat anchor in a pinch.

I pace around the house with anticipation, (with visions of restoring my new classic machine to its former glory) and soon enough, my husband is home. “Well,” he says. “It’s not exactly what Hank remembered it to be It was night time when he got it. First, there’s no machine. It’s just a cabinet. And second, it’s pretty beat up. Hank offered to take it to the dump if you decide you don’t want it.”

I admit, it wasn’t love at first sight. But my daughter offered to help me clean it up-she could see the potential right away. And I have to admit, that as the dust and spider webs fell away, I started to see the potential too. The cabinet does have a certain charm. Someone, at some point, made a valiant attempt to give it character. They painted the trim black, and added circles of plastic, also painted black, behind the black and gold knobs.

The cabinet, with it’s touches of black and gold, really does go well with my tiny Singer Featherweight. And the drawers are nice. Who doesn’t need more storage space? The cabinet is comfortable to sit and sew at, and I have to admit it adds a certain flair to the room.

Now, if someone ever comes to my house playing Trade Up, there is a certain brass chandelier-reminiscent of an octopus-in the basement, that I’ve been meaning to get rid of…

9/11

2011-09-11T08:20:00.001-07:00

HOLD FAST.

Traditionally, a sailor would have HOLD tattooed on one knuckle, and FAST on the other knuckle so that he could keep a better grip on the riggings. In other words, don’t let go.

Today, as our nation pauses to reflect on the events of this day, 10 years ago, I think HOLD FAST is a fitting reminder to all of us.

Hold fast. Don’t let go. Persevere, and triumph. Through anything.

In remembrance of all of the victims of September 11, 2001.

Faded

2011-09-09T07:40:00.000-07:00

She was preparing to send him off, again.

She’d sent him off countless times before. His very first day of school, and all of the other first days of school after that. Train trips to visit his grandparents. A Christmas break excursion to the big city, when he was in high school. She knew the ritual by heart.

Though she had done his packing for him when he was a little boy, he had long since stopped needing her help. She hovered around him anyway, watching as he gathered his socks and underwear, some shirts, a pair of tan trousers. And his dungarees. She felt the tears welling up in her eyes, and tossing an excuse behind her, fled his room for the privacy of her own, where she muffled her sobs with her pillow.

Just this past summer he had worn those dungarees to summer camp. They were new when he left. As new as summer itself. Two weeks later, when he arrived home, they looked as though he’d had them for all of his 17 years, and then some.

Summer had been one last hurrah for him. One last chance to be young and carefree. But summers do not last forever, and neither does youth.

He was 18 now, and she was preparing to send him off once again. This time to a place meant for men, not boys.

She was sending him off to war.

The prompt: We all have a relationship with jeans. They can make us feel a range of emotions, and this week we asked you to write a piece in which jeans figured prominently.

All’s Fair in Ellensburg

2011-09-06T09:56:00.001-07:00

Every Labor Day weekend, the population of Ellensburg grows from 15,000 to 55,000 as people come from who knows how far and wide to attend the Kittitas County Fair and PRCA rodeo.

I wish I could say that I meant to take a picture with my finger in it-but I didn’t. It does serve a purpose though-as it looks like I’m pointing the way to a day of fun.

Notice the bottom sign? Here in Ellensburg they don’t tolerate hooliganism!

Sadly, not a Mary in the bunch.

The fashionable steers this season chose blue.

Working at the cow wash…

What a beautiful face!

I also like to do home canning , and I was inspired by all of these colorful jars of fruits and vegetables. It is a lot of work, though. It would be so much easier to grab a few of these instead. But I didn’t..

I believe this was the first time that I ever saw bird rolls. Cute! I’d have awarded them a blue ribbon too.

My kind of sewing machine.

Can you find the hidden lady? I thought she was a dahlia at first. Sunflowers were part of this year’s fair theme.

When in Rome… There are certainly plenty of cowboy hats to choose from.

Um….no. Don’t think so.

The first day of rodeo competition is called slack. It’s a sort of elimination round before the actual rodeo begins the next day. For some of these guys, there’s always next year-or the mechanical bull.

Driver’s ed is really starting to pay off for Amy.

We ride off into the sunset for another year. Or at least Amy did. I took the picture, and managed to keep my finger out of the way this time.

Devil May Care

2011-09-02T09:03:00.001-07:00

She was no spring chicken. She’d long since stopped kidding herself. But she wasn’t exactly so old and tough that she was ready for the stewpot, either.

Staring at a lipstick display at the five and dime, Myrtle was lost in these thoughts as they paraded through her head. Focusing on the lipstick again, she considered her current situation. It had been a few years since she had used lipstick, or any other cosmetics, for that matter. In fact, the subject of lipstick had not crossed her mind until just now, when she’d walked by this display on her way to find the Epsom salts for Harold’s sore back. But that very morning Harold had remarked that her glory days were behind her and she should act appropriately for her age. All because she happened to mention that she was tempted to buy a fashionable new dress.

Myrtle wanted to believe that she was still attractive. True, she had let herself go these past few years. But some new lipstick might be just the ticket for sprucing herself up a bit. Perhaps red. She started to reach for a tube, and hesitated.

Still staring at the display, Myrtle asked herself a question. What was she afraid of? At 39 cents did she really have much to lose? Her worry, she explained to herself, was that if she made herself look attractive, she might receive some unwanted attention from the opposite sex. She was, for better or worse, a married woman, and had been for 25 years. The idea of fighting off an amorous male was too tiring to contemplate. But who was she kidding? Searching deep down within her 5’6” frame, Myrtle confronted her actual fear. That lip rouged or not, new dress or not, no one would notice the difference.

Standing there, in front of all those lipsticks, Myrtle recalled Harold’s words, and they wounded her again. In an angry rebound, she straightened her shoulders, chose a daring shade aptly named Devil May Care, and cast Harold and his aches and pains out of her mind.

As Myrtle, head held high in defiance, left the dime store, a delivery man with his cap tilted rakishly down over one eye held the door for her and whistled softly. Myrtle blushed, as crimson as the lipstick she carried in the small paper bag.

That evening, in the quiet of her bedroom, Myrtle took her diary, filled with nothing but blank pages and despair, and kissed the first page with her freshly painted lips. She wanted to remember this day.

Sure, she was no spring chicken. But she wasn’t ready for the stewpot just yet.

*************

The prompt:

Labor Day weekend is almost upon us.

It is a time of transition: summer to fall, kids back to school, no more wearing white..

For this week’s prompt, write about a season of change for your character or you. It can be literal or metaphorical.

Israel "IZ" Kamakawiwo'ole

2011-09-01T07:30:00.000-07:00

I love his music. This song is magical.

Something’s Missing…

2011-08-31T17:26:00.001-07:00

Me, lately.

I can’t believe it’s been a week since I posted.

Excuses? I have a couple…

Between writer’s block, (I’ve been looking high and low for bits of inspiration. Maybe I need to look right in front of me.) and an internet connection that works one minute and then goes out the next (I’m clueless about wireless, and I hope that our internet service provider has some answers.) I haven’t been around here much.

I’ll be back to blogging full strength soon. I promise.

I miss all of you!

The Here and Now

2011-08-24T12:15:00.001-07:00

Lately I feel like my life has hit a point that resembles the Bermuda Triangle. I usually feel melancholy this time of year, anyway, because summer is rapidly drawing to a close. But this year it’s different.

With my dad’s recent bad patch, and my upcoming birthday (I despise birthdays) and Amy entering the 10th grade, I feel like the grains of sand that define my life are just slipping away.

I guess everyone gets to this place at some point-the place where you stop and take stock. And ask those tough questions like, “Am I happy?” or “Is this where I thought I would see myself now-and if not, where do I want to be?”

It’s hard for me to face up to the fact that my official role of “mom” is drawing to a close. I know I still have 3 years before Amy graduates, and after that there are the college years, but still.

I also realize that nothing, nor anyone, lasts forever. I have lots of old pictures of my ancestors that prove that.

But I wonder, who will I be someday when I don’t have Amy at home? When my parents are gone? When I an old woman?

I received this bit of advice recently, from a friend whose kids are grown, after I asked her how she dealt with her own Bermuda Triangle.

Live in the moment. Don’t squander the here and now, mourning over what will be.

Like Kona does.

I never thought I would be envious of a dog, but I am. Because Kona lives that advice every day. (Even though she doesn’t have a clue that she is doing it!)

And now I need to go pack. Amy and I are going on little trip tomorrow to spend some time with my parents. We will be back on Sunday. Hugs to all of you, and I look forward to catching up when we get back:)

Photos by my darling Amy.

The Thrill of the Hunt!

2011-08-22T14:01:00.001-07:00

I usually go to the charity shops in town, like Goodwill or St. Vincent de Paul, and I love them, but once in a while it’s fun to go to an actual antique store, where pretty much everything is a great find. I’m always on the lookout for barkcloth, nice pieces of vintage art pottery, and functional old kitchen stuff-plus anything else that catches my eye.

Browsing around a local antique store yesterday, I came across this little cutie-a vintage dashboard hula doll. She was in pretty good condition, and she was only 49 cents! Well, ok, so that’s what she cost back in the 40’s or 50’s when she was made-but still, I didn’t have to shell out that many coconuts for her. She is the perfect addition to my studio.

And then I found this adorable tiny old button! With it’s anchor and heart design, it fits right in with my For the Love of Pete shop logo. Sheer kismet!

Amy, my budding chef, found a nice little cast iron frying pan, and Stuart found three old books, so it was a successful trip.

I can’t wait to go again, and find more treasures that I didn’t even know I was looking for!

Technorati Tags: old buttons,dashboard hula doll,antique store,thrifting,vintage stuff

Somewhere in Time

2011-08-20T15:19:00.001-07:00

They had to leave immediately.

If the rumors on the street were true, if the chatter on the internet was to be believed, a flash mob was planning to attack their neighborhood in roughly 2 hours. Other parts of the city were already under siege. Around 11 pm, Jack called his wife from the electronics assembly plant where he worked, and told her what he’d heard. Trying to calm the worry in her voice, he advised her, “Now don’t panic honey, but I want you to pack a few things and get Tess ready. I’ll be home as fast as I can-I'm hoping to be out of here in about 5 minutes.”

For months, they’d been talking about leaving their neighborhood, anyway. Two years ago, when Jack and Louise first moved to this city, it had seemed like the ideal place to settle down and raise their small daughter. But the picture, painted these two short years later, was not so rosy. Violence had moved in and taken over. Smog and noise were their neighbors now.

Though it was only early fall, there was a decided chill in the air, more keenly felt due to the lateness of the hour. Bundling up their sleeping child, still dressed in her warm flannel pajamas, the pair loaded their car, an imposing vintage black Ford that had belonged to Louise’s grandfather. It offered, in the inky darkness, the safety of a mobile fortress.

“Jack! My cell phone, honey-I left it inside.”

“Leave it. There isn’t time to go back. Besides, I’ve got mine.”

Looking back, as they left their house, Jack and Louise could see, against the night sky, the surreal reflection of several fires burning other parts of the city into ruin. They headed off into the night, without a plan or even a destination in mind, hoping only to find another town, far away from their abandoned town, where they could start over.

After Jack had been driving for more than 7 hours, the darkness began to pull back, revealing the first threads of daylight. The family found themselves at the edge of a sleepy little village- a jewel of beautiful old homes, and a quaint downtown that was just beginning to wake up. As they made their way along the main street, hunger pangs stirring within their empty stomachs, the trio stopped in front of a friendly looking diner and parked between an old red pickup truck and a green sedan similar to their own car. Gathering Tess, they went inside for a bite to eat before continuing on.

Still marveling over their breakfasts-varying combinations of eggs, pancakes, bacon, toast and hash browns-for a mere 35 cents each, they tipped their waitress, a cheerful young woman with a 40’s updo, and went back out into the morning.

Continuing down the main street, both Jack and Louise were puzzling over this oddly dated-yet at the same time comforting- place they now found themselves in. Jack braked to let a man sporting a fedora and wool gabardine topcoat cross the street, and as Jack looked at Louise to raise his eyebrows in a question, he spotted, down a side street, an old fashioned movie theater with a lighted marquee.

Casablanca

This year’s soon to be smash hit!

Starring Bogart and Bergman

********************

Jack fully intended to head back out towards the freeway and continue traveling. He did not intend to linger in this town, as much as both he and Louise felt drawn to it. But for reasons they could not identify, they stopped at a small, well maintained tourist park. Perhaps it was curiosity, or perhaps sheer fatigue, but whatever the reason, Jack arranged to rent one of the park’s tiny cabins for the next several days.

This mysterious little city that seemed to be straight out of the past-a place they didn’t understand, but didn’t want to leave, would offer them a brief respite before they continued on their journey to find a new town, and a new home.

In a few short days they would come to realize two things.

First, it was 1942.

And then…

They realized they were already home.

We are in a new place, so we thought it’d be fun to take that theme into our Red Writing Hood prompt this week.

Your assignment: You must begin your story with the words “We had to leave immediately” and end it with “And then we realized we were already home.”

The middle part is up to you.

Details

2011-08-14T08:20:00.001-07:00

I’ve learned some of my best lessons about life from my garden. And one is that it’s easy to see the big picture-the broad strokes of color, so to speak.

My days go by in those broad colorful strokes. Time with my family, time outside, time with friends. I love the big picture. But lately, I’m trying to pay more attention to the details. Like Amy’s expression of delight when she’s reading Tin Tin , or Willow’s crossed front paws when she sleeps. The artful lines of my Fiesta ware teapot, the subtle age marks on my 100 year old living room floor, and the twinkle in my father’s eyes as he peers out from under the brim of his baseball cap.

In the smallest details, those close-ups, is where the real wonder lies.

A nickel for your thoughts?

Technorati Tags: garden,gadening,flowers,life,lessons,small,details

On the Subject of Romance

2011-08-11T08:22:00.001-07:00

Her room, second floor, third door on the left, at Clover Hill High School, was directly across the corridor from his. She taught English, and he, Mathematics.

Though introduced by name and subject at the orientation given for new teachers in late August, the pair had yet to engage in an actual conversation. They had not failed to notice each other, however, and the attraction between them had been instant.

Since the very first day of school, they each, throughout the school day, found any number of reasons to stroll casually past their respective classroom doorways and steal glances across the corridor, hoping to catch glimpses of each other.

He chanced, one Tuesday afternoon, to see her reach up to erase a list of spelling words from the blackboard and in doing so her dress rose an inch or two revealing a considerable expanse of her well turned calf and ankle. “I say!” he thought to himself, swallowing hard. “She is certainly one nicely balanced equation!”

Likewise, one Friday morning, as he waxed eloquently about some numerical problem, she observed him remove, in the heat of his explanation, his jacket- exposing his masculine shoulders. “Oh my!” she quivered. “ He is as nicely put together as a perfectly worded sentence!”

Their mutual admiration likely would have remained undeclared for the length of the school year, if not for a timely fire drill, carried out on the last Wednesday in September. As she started to descend the flight of stairs and make her way to the exit on the first floor, she was knocked off balance by a herd of unruly youth. Just as she lurched forward, he rushed towards her and caught her in a rough embrace.

With his strong arms about her, and his cheek fitted firmly against hers, there was little doubt, at that moment, as to which subject they both wished to study further.

Chemistry.

The prompt for TRDC this week was s-e-x! But not in so many words…

Dig In!

2011-08-10T16:24:00.001-07:00

Last Sunday my mom, dad, sister and niece came to visit for the day. It was warm by the afternoon, and so we cooled off with milkshakes. Kona kept herself busy for quite a while licking out one of the empty cups. Normally I’d think that a dog would panic having a cup stuck on its nose, but not Kona. She was much too busy licking to notice.

On a sad note, my precious father is under the weather and in the hospital today. He wasn’t feeling that great on Sunday, and this morning was very ill. I wish a milkshake could make him all better, but I think it will take some stronger medicine this time. Get well soon Dad:)

The Girl in the Picture

2011-08-08T08:15:00.001-07:00

Every time I go upstairs I see her, from her perch atop my enormous old Silvertone radio. Peering out from her frame, she wears a barely coaxed smile on her lips.

I confess that I bought her because I was drawn to her frame. Obviously homemade, and, by the looks of it, someone's fledgling attempt at woodworking. That was the charm.

What I found, though, was that I couldn't bring myself to remove her picture. She belonged in that frame, and the thought of casting her aside bothered me. She must have been dear to someone once, long ago. And so I "adopted" her.

I have dozens of old family photographs, sentimentally priceless to me. I would never think of getting rid of them. The people in those pictures, and their life stories, are a part of my history. A tangible reminder that I am here now because of those who came before me. True, many of them are people I never knew, as much strangers to me as the girl in the picture. Still, for better or worse, they are my family.

So, who was she, this girl in the picture?

I'll never know.

Why did she end up in a dusty corner of a second hand shop?

That, I'll never understand.

Lily and Joe

2011-08-04T08:41:00.001-07:00

We regret to inform you…..

It seemed only fitting on that summer night when Lily received the telegram, that a hail storm came through and shattered their garden, just as words on a piece of paper shattered her life.

Missing in action.

By morning, there was little left of the carefully planted beds of flowers and Victory Garden vegetables that had dotted their back yard. What remained in the wake of the storm was just an ugly tangle of broken stems and shredded blossoms.

Not that Lily noticed. Not then. Her heart was crushed, the beauty of her own life gone as well. It would be some time before she would look outside and realize that there had been two casualties that night.

Through the fall and winter, like her garden, Lily lay dormant. Her garden, under a blanket of frost and then snow, and Lily, swaddled in the comfort of her grandmother’s quilt. She was in shock, and so was her garden, and Mother Nature prescribed sleep.

In the spring Lily ventured out into her back yard for the first time, and assessed the damage. Normally, spring is a time of wonder, as new signs of life push through the darkness of the soil to reach the sun and rain. Lily felt no wonder this year. Just sadness and loss, and she watered the ground with her tears.

But as summer began to edge its way past spring, the first seeds of hope were sown. Dressed in Joe’s old work shirt, bib overalls and rubber boots, with her hair caught up in one of his red bandanas, Lily set to work. She pulled up the lupine that had never thrived even in the best of years, and planted snapdragons. The larkspur that shriveled in the midday heat she replaced with hardier chrysanthemums. She tore out half of the overgrown blackberries, and put in more tomatoes and green beans. And as she pulled, and cried and planted, her garden, along with her heart, started to mend.

By the end of summer, Lily was finished. She’d brought their garden back. Not the same garden they had planted together. That garden was gone. But a new one, a better one. She was sure Joe would approve, and be proud of her. She was accepting that her life held a future. Even without him.

And then one afternoon, in early September, just as she was in the midst of picking a bouquet of black eyed susans and asters to place on the little cherry table in her kitchen, Lily received a second telegram. Still holding the flowers, and scarcely able to breathe, she sat down in the grass and opened it.

For the second time in her life, Lily held, in trembling hands, a bouquet of flowers that seemed to her to be the most beautiful flowers in the world.

This week the TRDC club asked us to repost our favorite piece of writing. It was hard for me to choose, but I finally decided on this one, and reworked it a bit in the process. The original publish date was March 10, 2011.

Technorati Tags: WWII,World War Two,fiction,telegrams,garden

Summer Reading!

2011-08-03T06:24:00.001-07:00

I can’t wait to get my hands on this book!

I just read about it, and watched the trailer here at Tina's blog.

Go check it out-it looks like the perfect read-any time of the year!

In a Flower Bed

2011-08-02T11:23:00.001-07:00

I came across this bumble bee early this morning while I was walking around my garden. I love early mornings in my garden, especially if I have a nice hot cup of coffee to sip as I stroll.

This bumble bee was curled up inside this hollyhock-and at first I was afraid he might not be alive-but before too long he awoke, and dripping water droplets from last evenings watering as he flew, he began to make his morning flower rounds.

I love hollyhocks, as they remind me of the gorgeous hibiscus I see in in Hawaii.

And I’m glad the bumble bees appreciate them too.

Technorati Tags: hollyhock,bumble bees,gardening

Spell it Out

2011-07-31T08:38:00.001-07:00

There is something a little magical about pancakes.

Maybe it’s the melted butter and syrup that we drench them in. Maybe-in my case, it’s the handful of chocolate chips I sometimes toss on top of each circular pool of batter after I’ve poured it in the pan. Maybe it’s the memories.

I remember as a kid relishing the tall stack of “silver dollar” pancakes my mom made. Somehow hotcakes that were the size of large coins tasted better than anything I’d ever had. (Even as an adult I still consider “silver dollar” pancakes to be a special treat, even though a dollar isn’t worth as much today as it was then.)

So this morning as I was flipping through Amy’s old, well used copy of Betty Crocker’s New Boys and Girls Cook Book (1957), I came across this recipe, for “Branded Pancakes”.

How fun! And though making these pancakes might be slightly on the labor intensive side, imagine the possibilities that exist when you send a message via a pancake. For your school aged son or daughter, how about-

D O Y O U R H O M E W O R K

Or for your husband-

B U Y M E F L O W E R S

My advice though-just make sure you are the only one doing the cooking. I don’t think

I R O N M Y S H I R T

would taste very good first thing in the morning.

Technorati Tags: pancakes

Amy Scissorhands

2011-07-28T08:23:00.001-07:00

I should have known. I really should have known. Amy, alone in her room, had been too quiet, for too long. And by the time I decided to investigate, it was too late. Oh sure, I saw the red flags that waved across those moments of relaxation I had been enjoying. But I chose to ignore them.

The scene that came into view, just beyond the doorway of her room, surely must have resembled the beauty parlor from H-E-double hairspray bottles-one where a beautician with a grudge against hair, or some misguided sense of style, has been at work.

Hair and fur were EVERYWHERE. It took me a minute to sort out my confusion. Amy’s own curls were reddish blonde, and plentiful snippets of her hair lay scattered about. But I also saw clippings of black and brown fake fur, tufts that looked like real fur, and trimmings of green fake fur, too. There may have been other colors that I missed. It was hard to tell.

Amy, I can say with certainty, was a fast worker. When I mentioned that the quiet in her room had lasted too long, it could not have been more than 15 or 20 minutes. But put a pair of purple plastic blunt tipped scissors in the hands of a child on a mission, and it’s long enough.

I don’t know on whom she started cutting first-herself, or one of her many stuffed animals that fell victim that day. I do know that no one was spared. Not even Willow, our dog, who relished any form of attention-even if that attention made her look like a character from a Dr. Seuss story.

Of all the hair cuts given that day, they had one thing in common. They were all bad. (Amy’s was a real piece of work-cropped down to her scalp in several places.) But at least her haircut, and Willow’s haircut weren’t permanent. Not so for “Pinky” the bunny, “Flingo” the flamingo, “Dot” the cow…

And what did Amy have to say for herself when her handiwork was discovered?

“I didn't do it. My stuffed skunk did.”

So what do you say to a three year old renegade hairdresser, who is impossibly cute, telling a bold faced lie while holding a pair of safety scissors in her hand, and covered with hair and fur?

“Well I guess we should send skunk to beauty school then. If’s he’s going to be giving haircuts, he should at least learn to do them right.”

The TRDC prompt this week was to edit a piece we had written in the past. This story was originally published November 3, 2010.

Thank You, Shelby Little

2011-07-26T09:47:00.001-07:00

For creating this fun book that I found at Goodwill last week.

It was buried under a mound of assorted stuff-stuff that had nothing to do with books. I like to think it was hiding out-waiting for me to come along. Me, as in someone who would appreciate a book like this.

I was curious about the title, and the unassuming exterior. I figured it to be a novel, misplaced by someone who thought about buying it but changed their mind and dumped it in the bin where I found it. But it’s not a novel, it’s

THIS TO THAT

The Word-Change Book

The dedication reads: To those charming people who are dissatisfied with things as they are.

And what makes this book all the more charming to me is that it was written in 1927. It would seem that in 1927, this word change game-invented in the late 90’s, was once again a new and fascinating phenomenon.

After an amusingly written forward by the author’s husband, and then a note by the author herself, we get down to brass tacks.

RULES

1. Only one letter may be changed at a time.

2. No letter may be transposed.

3. Only English words, not definitely marked obsolete, to be found in standard unabridged dictionaries, may be secured by each change. Foreign words, simplified spellings, abbreviations and proper names are barred.

(The compiler of this book declines to be held responsible for any transgressions of the above rules, either real or apparent, made in the “Answers”-her job ends with Problem No. 180. When you get past there it’s simply a case of every man for himself and the one with the largest vocabulary and the heaviest dictionary wins.

Furthermore, no guarantee is given that the word-changes are made in the least possible number of steps. If you want a word-change done right, you’ve just got to quit your job, retire to some nice quiet sanitarium, and work the damn thing out yourself.)

So here is an example of what a word change puzzle is:

NOISE-----MUSIC

The answers to each puzzle are found at the back of the book, and I was delighted to see that each puzzle is solved by someone famous, or at least a friend of the author. In the case of the example above, the solver was none other than George Gershwin. In another instance, Emily Post solved the puzzle SOUP-----NUTS.

********

Here is an example of a completed puzzle:

WILD-----TAME

WILD—wile—tile—tale—TAME (solved by Theodore Roosevelt).

********

Each week I’ll be posting a new set of these word games-with the solutions given the following week with a new set of puzzles.

Have fun!

WET-----DRY

BIRD-----FISH

DIMES-----BUCKS

HELP-----FOIL

CLAD-----NUDE

SOUP-----NUTS