the guts . . .

I finally got the center pages to the Thanksgiving album scanned . . .

You should be able to click on each page to enlarge it enough to read . . . except for the eggs which must have been rolling around on the scanner bed and well, our ham really wasn't maroon. Next week, I'll be allowed to publish the covers and share some exciting news.

things I learned over Thanksgiving . . .

If you have a double oven, make sure you turned the correct one on.

While using an apple corer, make sure your thumb is two centimeters to the left.

When mashing potatoes make sure the bowl is big enough and the beaters on low.

Measure twice, cut once. (I seem to be having particular difficulty with this one.)

It is not polite to snore while others are watching TV.

Make sure your kidlet knows which bowl of eggs are hard boiled.

The reading glasses you can't find just might be in the garbage can.

and lastly, that no matter what goes wrong, it is still Thanksgiving and your family already knows your quirks and doesn't care.

Blame it on Kelli . . .

While waiting for the chaos that is our family on Thanksgiving day, I was bemoaning to Kelli that I needed some kind of artsy project to keep me focused until all you-know-what, breaks loose around here. She who always has wonderful ideas, mentioned doing a mini Thanksgiving album. Out came the ruler and x-acto knife, a little measuring here and little rearranging there and ta-da . . . the core of the project.

And to my incredulous surprise, I was able to make a .PNG file to the exact dimensions so I can make my very first hybrid album. Doing a happy dance . . .

waiting for the craziness to begin . . .

is a great time to play . . .


Credits: Paper and heart: Vinnie Pearce, Fonts: Jaime, My Old Remington, Rage Italica, LB_Typewriter.

I came across this photo a couple of years back. I was two maybe three . . . on one of our rare visits to my father's parents outside of Boston. I still remember the long ride in the car and the many stops to visit Mrs. Murphy . . . the smell of the wood soap with which my grandmother cleaned . . . the claw footed tub . . . the pull chain toilet . . . the bay window . . . not much more. But as my father aged, the resemblance between he and my grandfather was acute.

And . . . in case I don't get a chance later . . . a very Happy Thanksgiving to you all.

T-Day and counting . . .

Appointments have been kept, errands run, lawn mowed, leaves raked, pool deck tables scrubbed, house cleaned, last minute food bought, brownies made, deviled eggs resting, the garlic roasted, the rappini par-boiled, dips garnished, extra leaves in the table. And best of all, my kidlet is home!

Tomorrow the turkey gets stuffed and roasted, the apple crisp gets assembled and ready to bake, the potatoes get mashed, the salad gets tossed, the rolls heated, the corn warmed, the beets dished, the ham sliced, and my family assembles. And once again, as every time this year, that old refrain echoes out from the recesses of my memory . . .

We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing;
He chastens and hastens His will to make known.
The wicked oppressing now cease from distressing.
Sing praises to His Name; He forgets not His own.

Beside us to guide us, our God with us joining,
Ordaining, maintaining His kingdom divine;
So from the beginning the fight we were winning;
Thou, Lord, were at our side, all glory be Thine!

We all do extol Thee, Thou Leader triumphant,
And pray that Thou still our Defender will be.
Let Thy congregation escape tribulation;
Thy Name be ever praised! O Lord, make us free!

What a blessing this day is . . . to gather my family close. It does not get any better.

Sturbridge Village again . . .

Are you getting tired yet? He brought me some 70+ shots.

expulsion and other idiosyncrasies . . .

There is yet another Internet questionnaire floating around . . . this time a survey about high school. The question that stopped me in my tracks . . . "Were you ever expelled?" So long ago I should not remember but I do . . . and the answer is yes, indeed I was.

Because my mother died when I was 14, it was decided that boarding school would be the most viable option. I started in the fall of 1963. When you are young and the rules and restrictions are crushing, well, from the beginning it was difficult to tow the line. I was used to running free . . . . being shut in a dorm was a difficult adjustment . . . I was not alone, several of us longed to explore off campus. But the first two years we behaved ourselves rather than have our beloved headmistress think less of us. Returning to school the beginning of our junior year, we were devastated to learn that Miss Wolf and Miss Wilcox, the rudders of the school had retired. In their stead, a new regime was at the helm . . . a headmaster and his protegee. While he occupied himself with the machinations of the school and took seemly little interest in the small enclave of boarding students, she on the other hand decided to make us her priority. She and I . . . well, our relationship was doomed from the beginning. There was bound to be seepage.

Now lest you think we were never allowed out, let me back up a tad. On Saturday mornings, we were allowed to hop the bus to the Short Hills mall . . . accompanied by an upper class man . . . and had to be back in the dorm by 4:00 to get ready for vespers and dinner. By the time we were juniors, we were on our own. We were also allowed downtown to the laundromat located just this side of the train station, if needed. Once our animosity for our assistant head mistress grew in direct proportion to our fading memories of our beloved leaders, we no longer felt the compunction to follow the rules. We often signed out of the dorm . . . carted our laundry bags to the laundromat and sidestepping to the train station, rode our way into NYC. The freedom to wander the city was heady and always started with a jaw defying hamburger at The Dugout down in the village. We were careful to be back in time, clean laundry in hand.

The first real rift between us came senior year while I was dating, such as it were, the brother of one of the day students. Dick had called one Sunday afternoon to say he was coming for a visit and bringing Phoebe along. "Phoebe who?", I asked as my hackles raised those jealous hairs on the back of my neck. Dick, looking furtively around - he not being allowed on campus - pulled off to the side of the dorm entrance and began to unload Phoebe from the back of the family station wagon. Phoebe was a goat. No wonder I adored this boy. While we chatted about all things important to 17 year old's back in the mid 60's, we forgot to keep on eye on Phoebe nor did we notice the imminent approach of "she who must be obeyed". It was the strangled scream escaping her throat that brought us back to this world. Phoebe, it seems, was happily munching on her prize roses. I was never sure if she was more perturbed about my illegal visitor or her roses, but things were never the same.

Then came the issue of church. Sunday morning attendance was mandatory. There being no Dutch Reformed churches in the area, I tried attending Temple with my roommate. After being told that was no longer an option for a Christian - I liked Temple . . . they fed us well - I went to whatever church tweaked my fancy. I wasn't keen on the Methodist church up on the corner, it being chosen by its close proximity, after the minister likened God's reliability to that of a TV set. Nixed the Episcopalian church after Pammy fainted from the many ups and downs, sending her kneeling bench skittering up three rows. And so it went until I arrived at the Catholic church. I loved the rhythm of the Latin words, the response from the congregation. What I didn't count on was that SHE was a parishioner and was incensed that I was an interloper. I was invited to never return. And so with my options dwindling and my friends as up for a change as I, we took to signing out for church, dodging down side streets, crossing the railroad tracks and sneaking into the town's greasy spoon: The Greek Diner. How we loved it there. We dawdled our allotted time swilling richly brewed coffee, smoking Parliament cigarettes and learning Greek phrases from the proprietor. That is until one Sunday when one of the under class girls, thinking to join the fun, walked right down the main street of town with a teacher on her tail. We were busted. You could almost hear HER chortle with glee as she pronounced our fate that fall afternoon. Phone calls were made, discussions with parent had . . . and in the end, there were too many of us and the charges deemed too frivolous by those who paid the bills. We were, much to her great frustration, reinstated. War, of course, had been declared and continued through graduation day. And when we packed up our trunks that very last sad spring day, the boarding department was closed forever. We were the last of the last.

Sturbridge Village . . .

While the 9TS was in Massachusetts for his karate tournament, they managed to squeeze in a day at Old Sturbridge Village. The perfect man took tons of shots so that I had a cache of new goodies to play with. What an absolutely perfect gift!

Paper and word: Vinnie Pearce

Antique Stamp: Michelle Coleman

Clock Face: Club Scrap

Fonts: Flouxentine and LB_Typewriter

paper bows . . .

One of the girls posted these adorable Christmas bows on the gallery. I couldn't resist.

So I guess I'll be making my own bows this year.

EDIT: Because I keep getting requests, click HERE for directions.

this weeks JS challenge . . .

required the use of a template by Sara. Sigh, I am template challenged. The two of us do not get along.

remind me again why . . .

I love cats. I can't seem to remember. Is it because Bear has a predilection for dumping over all things containing fluid? In mere seconds, he hooks his meaty paw along the rim and with one swift snag, there is water everywhere . . . or coffee . . . or gasp . . Cabernet!!! Great rivulets of the purple stuff dripping over the edge of the bedside table, splashing onto the bed linens, puddling on the hard wood floor . . . not to mention the shards of glass that need to be dodged with bare feet. Or, could it be the cold weather that makes them so rambunctious that Bear wakes me up at 3:51 a.m. with a little wad of slightly damp paper dropped ever so daintily onto my left cheek in hopes I will play fetch with him . . . his eyes so eager. Or because my heart goes into spasms spying that rather large sleek rat scurrying along the kitchen back splash toward the opening can of cat food. Shoo Ninja! Only Snoop remains serene and poised, staying out of trouble. But I can tell he is remembering his youth when it was his turn to terrorize and beguile. I can see that glimmer in his eye, the slight amusement playing across his upper lip. . .

They are now all ensconced in an intertwined trio of fur in the center of my bed . . . snoring ever so sweetly in their shallow feline cadences. Yes, of course, now I remember . . .

snoop again . . .

Credits: Frame: Katie Pertiet
Paper: Lynne Grieveson
Corner Edges: Anna Aspnes
Postage Stamps: Michelle Coleman
Font: LB Typewriter
Tag: Katie Pertiet
Element: Written Word, Club Scrap

on going back . . .

It's been an extraordinary weekend here in the cave. The 9TS is in Massachusetts at a karate tournament he signed up for before he became . . . well, the 9TS. I have no one to pick on . . . a very strange feeling. I've been rumbling around picking up this, rearranging that, cleaning here and there. Truth be told, I miss him terribly.

I figured with him away, I would have plenty of time to work on the writing class I am taking. When I first looked at the course, I was uncertain if it was really for me. I mean, look at me. I write all the time. I can't keep my mouth shut or my pen still. I spill my guts and plaster it all over the net. I am queen of too much information.

But because of the ‘sparks’ from the class, I have reconnected with my old friend Sara (AKA Baby Sally/Binker). Emails have been shooting back and forth like lightening. I've laughed and I've cried. It's been very cathartic. Its one thing to go back 40+ years and remember, but it's totally another to make that trip with someone who was there with you holding your hand. 1970 was a different era, a different way of life . . . A clean slate begging to be written on . . an age of experimentation. And experiment I did. I had grand company: Sally, who by her own recall, slept through those years but yes, our memories do not always converge. She was our creative soul . . . writing, illustrating, inhaling life on her terms and Cyndee, our old soul, seeking her place. She was my companion, my partner in our struggles to become who we were about to be . . Hig was my very own Peter Pan. He opened doors to things a kid from a glass cage could only stand in awe of. The stories just well up, they trigger themselves in salvos. They double up and swirl back like smoke over a campfire. They engulf my soul. I feel the energy that was then. I am amazed and floored and shaken.

Shickshinny . . .

Central Pennsylvania was, back in the late 60’s, dotted with camp grounds of various religious persuasions . . . the meeting sites of summer revivals. Members owned small cabins situated around a community meeting/dining hall. While occupied throughout the summer, these little two story bungalows laid vacant during the late fall and winter months. Sally’s great aunt was the owner of one such cabin . . . the perfect destination for those of us with the urge to escape the grasp of academia.

We loaded up my father’s old blue Oldsmobile station wagon that I had commandeered for a few weeks and headed north on Route 11. We traveled past Sunbury and Danville, through Berwick and on into Shickshinny . . . . It was as clear and bright as only an October day can be locked in the throes of an Indian summer.

The cabin had a screened in front porch to protect it’s occupants from the swarms of summer gnats and yet allow them to chat with anyone who passed their way. Inside was a large room with a partition in the back hiding a small bedroom area. The rest of the sleeping quarters were tucked in a half loft overhead . . . . three large iron beds. The downstairs was completed with a small parlor and a tiny kitchen . . . . the stove so ancient we had no idea how it functioned . . . not that cooking was high on our priorities. We settled down as the sun fell, chatting about this and that. Discussions that held our attention at the time but have long since fallen to dust and been swept out of the corners of my mind.

When we first heard the noise, a steady tattoo around the house, we had no idea what we were hearing. Slowly the recognition hit that we were not alone in the camp ground out in the middle of nowhere. And shortly, we were, not only not alone, but our company was now on the porch although Sally had carefully latched the screen door. Panic set in. Cyndee bravest of us all, grabbed a butcher knife we had found earlier in one of the kitchen drawers. My stomach was decidedly sliding lower and lower, Nancy puddled onto the floor in horror as we watched the transom above the front door push inward. As a hand followed, Cyndee lunged at it with the knife, plunging deep into the old wooden door. She had missed.

Immediately the voices cried out in shock. Familiar voices. Voices of boyfriends, who thinking themselves pleased silly, had decided to scare the heck out of us. They had indeed, succeeded.

EDIT: The place still exists!!! Well, not Sally's aunt's cabin . . . it burned to the ground several years later. But Sally, being a now twice published author, and therefore relatively easy to track down, sent me a link to it's web site.






And just so I didn't breeze past it too fast . . . and in case you are in the mood for something written in a totally refreshing voice, click here to Sally's web site and start with Crackpots!!!

Endeavor . . .

It still thrills me to look out at a black sky and watch a shuttle launch . . . simply amazing.

On another note . . .

I had lunch yesterday with a dear old friend . . . an old roommate, actually . . . as in two marriages ago . . . pre-kidlet . . . another life time ago . . . back in the dark ages . . . yup, we go back that far. I adore Robin. We have history. And about that history . . . we both keep our mouths tightly shut . . . except for the occasional snort or giggle that explodes out if we are doing a little reminiscing. Robin has a knack for putting things into perspective. That's one of the things I have always loved about her. That and that she is also one of THE most creative souls I know. Her drummer walked away from the crowd years ago and never once looked back.

Robin and I get together for our birthdays . . so we see each other twice a year . . . not necessarily on time . . . but we do get together . . . to catch up, check up, drink up. As I was driving up the coast to meet her at a little fish shack we frequent, I was awed by the scenery. The road runs up the coast with an unfettered view of the ocean for miles . . . well a clear view unless you count the wild sea oats and palmetto scrub . . . Sometimes I take for granted that I live so close to the ocean . . . so with top down, the theme song from Steel Magnolia's blasting, wind blowing on a clear bright beautiful day, I was thankful for so much . . . for the day . . . for friendship . . . for the 9TS waiting at home. Yep, it was a good day.

Stories in Hand . . .

Jessica Sprague's newest class started Monday. She is teaching a system to collect all the stories of our lives so that they will be easier to journal and scrap . . . great idea. The first project is a "sparks" book. A rather hefty sized little devil with 1000 prompts to get those ideas flowing and ready to be written down. The second is a little flip notebook for jotting goodies as they come to mind. Both are amazing little tomes in their own right.

Outsides:

Guts:

and of course I had help. Why Ninja and Bear are so fascinated with the inner workings of my printer is beyond me but it is certainly better than catnip.

Bear managed to extract his paw . . . up to his shoulder . . . from inside the printer, before I could get a shot. I have no idea what that little cat brain of his thought he would find.

Ninja is waiting desperately for another sheet of paper to come chugging out the door?!?!?!?

Bombs away . . .

My talented friend Sue, posted this really adorable 'pine cone' on her blog HERE. I think they are so stinking cute! So you know I had to try my hand. How could I resist!
But those of you who know me, know I rarely read the instructions even though Sue nicely provided them . . .

My first mistake was buying an ostrich sized egg. What was I thinking?

The second was the adhesive fiasco. Sue had recommended Glue Dots. My stash was low so I needed to improvise. I tried Tacky glue and immediately glued the wax paper to the decorative paper and then to my desk top. Not good. My second try was my Xyron. As I watched the petals fall off one by one, I resorted to my ATG. Finally a solution.

Then came the placement. Three rows in and I realized my staggering was off and I was now going to have a striped pine cone. Oh well, too late now.

I showed the 9TS the finished product and he uttered one word: Grenade.

Harumphhh!!!

So I sent a shot to Sue, who realizing that I had built the entire 'grenade' bss ackwards, carefully gave me a 'cone' anatomy lesson. Yikes. A little more fiddling and it's done. My first attempt.

And yes, there will be more . . . smaller versions . . . hanging from my tree this year. As with most new things, I am giddy with delight. Thank you Sue for sharing!!!

black cats . . .

Our neighbors, two doors down have a little black cat. Every time I see him, my heart skips a beat and I think Ninja has escaped. A quick check confirms our little Tasmanian devil is safely tucked inside. We see their little guy all over the place. Amazing how often he is sited. Or so I thought. Then this, when I let Snoop out for his morning constitutional:


Three, count them, THREE little black cats. No wonder he was everywhere at once!!! (Sorry for the quality of the shot but the sun was not due up for another hour or so.) It's raining cats!

Weeding the woods . . .

When we bought our house back in 1995, the previous owners had these glorious green thumbs and it showed. Gorgeous azaleas, hibiscus in every hue, elephant ears, tiger lilies . . . the list goes on and on . . . . even a Meyers lemon tree. It took me months to discover that the reason every cat in the neighborhood came to visit was because they had planted catnip in the herb garden. We also inherited a tiny cement pond and what we call our Chinese garden. No one remembers why we decided to call it the Chinese garden . . . maybe because it was serenely tucked away and the low slung boards hinted of something Asian. It was such a calming little area.

Fast forward 13 years and two black thumbs later and to say things are overgrown and in disarray is putting it mildly. Yesterday I decided to try and make inroads into the mountain of kudzu and tater vines that had all but covered over the 'garden'. Tarzan would be proud of me. It took me a couple of hours but I finally cleared the basic area.

Last night, I dragged my loot to the curb for pickup. If I keep this up, I just might discover the lost Mayan ruins or King Tuts Tomb. Hopefully with some more weeding and some mulch, things will be back their former glory.

But don't hold your breath.

catching up . . .

Tuesday, to celebrate Jackie's birthday, we went to:


Yep, Jackie, Joe, 9TS and I hit EPCOT for the annual International Wine and Food Festival. 9TS's foot still healing, we rented a wheelchair . . . I know I shouldn't be gleeful but it was so much fun to jump the lines . . . made up for pushing him around "the world" but, I can't take all the credit . . . Joe was in charge of getting him up the hills. Even Jackie took a turn, but she was rapidly relieved of duty after she ran me over. Ouch and major bruising. Snort!

My favorite, as has been since I was a kid, was the 3D movie. I get giddy with my glasses on. Love the flying debris that seems to come right at you. But leave it to Disney . . . when the dog on screen sneezed, little splatters of water/mist were ejected from the seat in front of you. Major "ew" factor but oh so much fun.

Least favorite? The meal at the Italian Pavilion. Now I know where the airline food went when they stopped serving meals on planes. Nuff said. But dessert, that was another story . . . we hit the French pavilion's bakery and waddled away content and ever so slightly drunk on chocolate. And of course I took the obligatory pictures but there was nothing spectacular so I will save you from the dreaded home slide show.

Justice . . .

Katie, refusing to walk away with her tail between her legs, managed a meeting with XXX and his boss XXX2 (they both have the same name, as do Katie and her boss . . . confusing huh?) Anyway, it ended up with XXX apologizing and XXX2 asking her to stay. But Katie said although ACS was near and dear to her heart and she had been volunteering since she was 12, it obviously wasn't a good fit and she was afraid of getting blind sided again. She said it wasn't worth the stress, offered to work with her replacement and handed over all her contacts. She wished them luck and left while the other Katie and her co-chair, Mike stayed. XXX2 asked them what it would take to get her back. Katie and Mike said they thought it was a moot question and that they had just lost a highly motivated, highly devoted volunteer.

I am so stinking proud of my kidlet for standing up for herself . . . sooooooo stinking proud!!!