R.R. Goodwill's Blog

The New Dream, Revisited

“Rapunzel…you were my new dream.”
Holy cow, guys, remember this project? :-P
RapunzelDress, Part OneRapunzelDress, Part Two
I’ve done a lot of soul-searching since the last time I posted on this subject. In that time, I’d pretty much decided to let go of the Rapunzel Costume idea, as I can’t afford proper materials, have no place to wear it (can’t afford tickets to Festivals and such), and my sewing skills just aren’t up to the challenge of corsetry and working with slippery satin and/or taffeta. And I wasn’t sure I’d really be comfortable togged out as a Disney Princess and possibly getting mobbed by squealing munchkins, anyhow. :-P
Anton Argentos:So ja, yet another dream sacrificed to grim Reality…. *melodramatic tragic pose*
Isabella:*Pinches nose-bridge*
Bramblerose Cottonwool:Ooh, I’m gonna cry! *Sob*
~*~The Pixie~*~There, there, dear. *PatPat*
Gilbert Sherwyn:We pretty much knew it would happen.
However…!Sometimes, when I give up on a pet dream, the Lord turns around and gives it back to me. With a recent thrifting expedition, new inspiration has come. You might say the project has risen from the ashes, after a fashion.
Jason Windrider:Did…did you just…?
Ember MacTavish:Tehehe—*snort*
OK, yeah, bad pun. :-P

One of the local charity shops yielded this lovely poly "taffeta" party-frock, in what looks like the perfect sugarplum-purple for Rapunzel’s skirt and half-off, too!Mind you, I generally don’t go for these dusty-lavender/mauvey colors (they tend to look drab and muddy, especially next to my other true-lavenders)…but this project is the exception. One of those “X-Y-Z” situations.*

The dress looks like it was originally strapless, and someone added these grape-purple straps later. Probably the color choice was to tie in the sash. Both are for the chop, as the color doesn’t blend with the main dress, IMHO. Crummy interior shot :-P
Home-machine-stitching visible
at top of front bodice curve

 My plan (Lord willing) is to take the skirt off the top and adjust the fit from there. Ideally, I’d love to get some self-colored (or slightly deeper) textured or printed fabric for a center panel, and a lighter, matching fabric for the new bodice. And don’t worry; the old bodice won’t go to waste. I intent to try adn get a matching purse out of it!
I actually have my eye on some satin jacquard/brocade on Etsy at the mo’, which comes in both "Plum" and "Lavender" shades.  Looks paler than IRL,
but this stuff is hard to photograph
because SHINY

I also picked up "0.625 yard" (so…a little over half a yard? UGH, decimals) of flannel-backed satin in "Orchid" color, courtesy of Jo-Ann’s remnant bins. Haven’t decided whether to line the bodice with it (Lord willing I get the brocade), or make a blouse to go under the same.As you can see, it’s a bit "bluer" than the dress/skirt, but I think it has enough pink to blend all right. This pic closest to satin’s actual color


The biggest decision now is how to make the bodice. The movie costume looks like a corset or pair of stays (similar to Redthreaded’s Regency Stays pattern, sorta), worn over a separate blouse. But I may opt for a simplified princess-seam bodice and throw some zip-ties in the seams. In that instance, the blouse would just be a peasant-blouse made from some pink gauze from The Stash, with the purple puff-sleeves being attached to the bodice.
 …which wouldn’t be screen-accurate, but I think it’d be more attainable for my skill level. So that’s the latest on this particular pet project. It’s on the backest of back burners (actually, I’m not sure it’s even on the stove), but at least I have some of the materials, and can work on it as I’m able.
Wish me luck!Until next time, Gentle Readers,God bless,~R~
* “X-Y-Z” situation(s) = An instance when one departs from a preferential norm in favor of something one generally tends to dislike. Based on the statement, “I generally don’t like [X-Y-Z]…except when I do.”~Tom’s Dictionary of Whacked-out Terms and Old Family Sayings

Happy Bookiversary, Prince Nácil!

 

Imagine, if you will, a cozy little cottage, with rose-vines rambling up the whitewashed walls and thatched roof, bees buzzing and butterflies fluttering among the flowerbeds before its front stoop. A charming wooden sign hangs from the rose-laden arbor at the head of the flagstone path to the door, bearing the words, The Rambling Rose.

Imagine, upon entering, a spacious yet inviting area, full of bookshelves boasting many familiar and beloved titles, comfortable seating of a slightly old-fashioned nature, and a beautiful floral arrangement in the fireplace, in lieu of a fire, for the Summer.

Seven people fill the main room of the cottage—people of such varying types that their appearances might startle anyone not familiar with them.
A tall, handsome fellow with twilight-gray eyes and a kind smile leans against the fireplace mantle, dressed in sagey gray-greens accented by silver embroidery. His raven-black hair has a touch of iridescent green in certain lights, his ears stick up through his hair a little, exposing their softly-pointed tips, and his fair skin seems almost to glow faintly in the low light—all indicative of his Elven heritage. This is Nácil Vítuódhrán, Crown Prince of the Faerie-folk of Ýdára, heir to the throne of the Elven-king, and is known among his Human friends as Victor Greenwood.

A white-haired lady, also of Elven kind, stands beside him in a gown of pale blue, hung with sparkling crystal beads. Her beautiful face is tinged with pink as she listens to Prince Nácil, her cobalt-blue eyes shining. This is Lady Müriel, an Elven Enchantress much loved and honored among the Fae.

On a nearby settee, two elderly ladies have taken up their knitting. The one, Mrs. Mary Whitaker, is the quintessential kindly-old-grandmother type: Round and rosy, with snappy green eyes that crinkle at the corners when she smiles. She has chosen her best red dress for the occasion, her soft silver-gray hair pinned up and over her head in braids.

Her sister, Miss Lillian Prescott, with her bobbed mousy hair, enormous black-rimmed spectacles, and smart maroon suit-jacket and skirt, has the air of a no-nonsense, practical librarian…yet there is a youthful twinkle in her soft gray eyes that hint at another side of her personality altogether.

Two children—a boy and girl under ten—are busy looking over the strange and interesting things the boy pulls out of his pockets. The girl, Jane Foster, kneels primly on the soft wool rug in the center of the room, her blue calico dress arranged neatly around her. Her golden-brown braids hang like two ropes past her shoulders, tied at the ends with red ribbon-bows.

The boy, Harold Spencer, wears a green tunic and brown knee-breeches—both a bit rumpled—and has long since cast his boots into some corner or other. He chatters gaily, tanned face flushed with excitement, brown eyes wide and sparkling, his earth-brown curls waving and bouncing with each enthusiastic motion.

The seventh stands apart from the others, his coal-black horse-half taking up nearly the entire corner. His man-half, dark of skin and clad in a fiery scarlet tunic embroidered with gold thread and glass beads, rises taller even than the raven-haired Elf-lord, his proud head of woolly black curls nearly touching the ceiling. This is Pyros Sootflank of the Centaurs, and while he carries no weapons, he emits an air of strength and aggression—a warlike spirit—this one, and his expression, though neutral, is a silent challenge to any who would oppose him or those he has vowed to protect.

I look over the room from the kitchen of my little cottage, arranging the last few items on the refreshment trays. I secretly wonder if the twisted crepe-paper streamers and handmade paper banner hanging from the central ceiling-beam are appropriate decorations for a celebration in honor of the Elven-king himself….

I give myself a shake and join the party in the parlor.

Smiling, I call their attention to the table between the old ladies’ settee and the wing-chairs by the fireplace, where I set down my trays of sandwiches, fresh fruit, cookies, candies. I nip back into the kitchen for two glass pitchers full of blood-orange soda and lemon-cucumber-water.

“I’m afraid it isn’t much of a party, Victor,” I tell Prince Nácil with a rueful shrug.
He smiles patiently down at me. “Never mind, Anka,*” he soothes. “It’s only been a year since you shared my story with the world; perhaps things will be different next year, when—please Elyon†—you have the second chronicle published.”

* Anka = Originally referring to the (female) keeper of a magical piece of jewelry that brings the imagination to life, coined in Kendra E. Ardnek’s The Ankulen.Male form Anku,gender-neutral/collective form Ank’. I have adopted the term when referring to my fellow scribblers (and when my Characters address or refer to me), but give full credit for its creation to Kendra.

† Elyon = The Name for God used in Ýdära. Short for El-Elyon (“God Most High”).

In accordance with Elven tradition in Ýdära, we all join hands and sing a hymn of thanksgiving, asking our Creator to bless the food we are about to eat.

Once everyone has filled their plates and obtained a glass of their chosen beverage, we find comfortable seats and enjoy our humble but tasty repast.
Victor scoops little Jane up on his lap, both of them looking the picture of happiness, and Lady Müriel takes the chair opposite them, beaming a radiant smile that tells of the joy she feels.
Harold sits cross-legged on the hearth, munching away with great enthusiasm.
The old ladies lay aside their knitting and chat gaily between bites with the Elves and the children.
Pyros stands apart, senses alert even as he enjoys his meal.

At length, I clear my throat and hold up a sheet of paper. “Well, friends,” I announce, “it looks like we’ve all had sufficient eatables for the present. Who’s up for a game?”

Harold’s hand shoots up like a rocket, his mouth being full of chicken sandwich.
Everyone else agrees, and Pyros nods.
“Right,” I begin, for lack of anything better to say. “I have here a list of questions for each of you, which you will answer truthfully, to the best of your ability and knowledge.”
“Do we win a prize?” Harold pipes up.
“How about another Killer-chip Cookie+ to take home afterwards?” I quip.
Harold seems savvy with that idea.

+ Killer-chip Cookie(s) = A type of cookie made with chocolate, butterscotch, and white chocolate chips

“So,” I begin, glancing at Prince Nácil over my papers, “shall we start with our guest of honor?”

He lifts one corner of his mouth. “If you wish, Anka. Ask your questions; I shall answer.”
My smile turns sheepish. “Well, I guess we can begin with an explanation of why your hair has greenish highlights now, when I never mentioned it in your book.”
Miss Prescott adjusts her spectacles. “I wondered about that.”
Prince Nácil chuckles and runs his long, slim fingers through the shoulder-length fibers in question. “I expect it’s to do with my having to feign being Human for so long. All the Fae—from the tiniest Flower-Faeries to the tallest High-elves—have some kind of color to their hair. Most of us have the usual colors—blacks and browns, and some blonde and red, and every shade in-between—all with highlights or undertones that, among Mortal Races, would be considered strange. And of course, some of us have hair-colors not found naturally among any other Race—white and silver, or any color of the rainbow, depending upon the type of Faerie. Doubtless this is because Elyon created my people from light, and as you know, light separates into different colors.
“I expect my own highlights didn’t show up at first, upon removing my disguise, because I had assumed it for so long, and so it took me some time to readjust to my natural form.” He sends a smirk in Miss Prescott’s direction. “And yes, dear lady, that’s also why I’m about six inches taller than when last you saw me.”
A chuckle ripples through the room.
I straighten my papers, even though they need no straightening. “OK, next question: Are there any foods you discovered in the World of Men that aren’t available in Ýdára?”
He ponders his answer a moment. “Not as far as basic ingredients, no. It was more a matter of how Adam’s Race prepared them. For example, I don’t believe the Fae would ever have thought to mix flour, eggs, and water into a dough, and boil it.”
Harold makes a face. “That sounds nasty!”
“Harold,” Lady Müriel murmurs, “you forget yourself.”
Prince Nácil chuckles. “It mayn’t sound appetizing, my lad, but believe me, pasta is actually quite tasty when prepared correctly—especially when paired with a good sauce.”
I smirk. “Hear, hear.” I shift my papers again. “Final question: Is there anything you actually miss about the World of Men, now that you’ve returned to your home world?”
He smiles tenderly down at Jane and gives her a squeeze. “This one right here—I miss her terribly by spells. I miss everyone at Willowmere Farm…and while you didn’t include my interactions with him in this book, I miss young Robert Igo, for he felt like part of that same family.”
Jane nods. “Robert islike family—we pretend I’m his little sister. Please, Miss Anka, why isn’t Robert here today?”
“Because he isn’t in this book, sweetie. But I promise to invite him when we celebrate the book he isin.”

I glance down my notes. “Well, Jane, how about we interview you next? Tell us a bit more about you and Robert.”

Jane’s round blue eyes twinkle. “Oh, that’s easy, Miss Anka; Robert is my very best friend—besides Elsie Douglas. I’ve known him since I was a baby. Grandmother says”—motioning to Mrs. Whitaker—“she let him hold me when I was a year old, and he was three. He’s not like other boys—he likes to learn about birds and animals and plants and things, and he stands up for me when Buddy Jenkins teases me. I love Robert like he really was my own brother. Are you really going to write a book about him, Miss Anka?”
“Well, it’ll still be mostly Victor’s story, but yes, Robert will be a part of it later on.”
“Please—when?”
“After I finish the second book in Victor’s story. But back to the interview: Care to tell us about old Theodore?”
“Theodore is my favorite toy. There’s…there’s something special about teddy bears, isn’t there?”
I smile softly, thinking of my own little buddy-bear at home. “Indeed.”
“Aunt Lillian gave him to me when I turned five. She told me she used to play with him when she was little, and that she got him from her big brothers and sisters. So you see, he’s very, very, old and special, so I try to take good care of him.”
“I’m sure you do, my girl. One more question: What would you like to be when you grow up?”
“Oh, I want to be like Grandmother. I want to get married and have a family, and take over the farm. But that won’t be for ever so long.”

I hide a smirk behind my papers. “Riiiight…and because young Master Harold here is squirming all over the place, I’ll question him next.”

“I wasn’t squirming,” he protests.
“Fidgeting, then. OK, my little eager beaver, what do youwant to be when you grow up?”
Harold scrunches up his face, looking at the ceiling, as if that will help him think of an answer. “I think…well, I never really thought about it. Like Jane said, I won’t be grown up for years and years and years, so there’s no sense worrying about it right now.”
“But is there anything you want to do or be that you can’t until you’re a man?” I prompt.
“Oh, well, I guess I dohave to be at least fifteen before I can join the Army, and help Prince Nácil kill off those bad men in black.”
I frown slightly. “Anything of a less violent nature?”
He thinks a bit more. “Well, I guess I’ll probably get married eventually. Perhaps to Penny Tanner or Gretchen Forester. They’re the only girls I know, save Jane, of course, but she doesn’t live in Ýdära.”
I hide another smirk. “Mm-hmm.Right, second question: What was the strangest thing you ever found and brought home in your pockets?”
“Well, the first time Lady Müriel took me to the Southern Shore, I found some seaweed that looked like little palm-trees…but she made me throw it away the next day because started to stink.”
“Circle of life, I’m afraid. All right, last question: What was it like when Lady Müriel told you Prince Nácil was due to return to Ýdära soon?”
Harold’s eyes light up. “O! it was very exciting! All Arboria had been waiting a hundred years for Othniel’s Heir to come back to them, and now it was finally going to happen! I couldn’t wait to meet him, for Lady Müriel had told me so much about him—all about his kindness, and his bravery, and how he was always willing to help others in need. Oh, yes, and she said he was very handsome, too, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

Lady Müriel blushes crimson, and Prince Nácil hides a smile behind one hand.

I slide the first sheet of paper behind the other. “Methinks we’ll move on to someone else, so’s Lady Müriel can recover herself.”
Harold looks over his shoulder at his Elven guardian. “Recover herself? Is she ill?”
“No,” I deadpan, “just a bit flustered—for reasons you’ll understand when you grow up, my lad. Now then…how about you, Miss Prescott?”
She lays down her knitting and adjusts her spectacles. “I’m ready when you are, dearie.”

A light tap-tap-tapsounds at the window, and we catch a glimpse of an undefinable winged shape just departing. The—whatever-it-was—has left a small roll of paper on the windowsill, tied with glittery purple ribbons. Upon opening the scroll, I glance down the page, inscribed with sparkling purple ink. I recognize the signature at the bottom of the epistle and give the tiniest of tiny hops before rejoining my friends.

“This is a letter from Anka Kendra!” I announce. “It’s addressed to you, Miss Prescott. She has fivequestions for you to answer.” I cast a quick inquiring glance at the rest of the group. “…if that’s savvy with you-all…?”
Our friends are perfectly agreeable.
Mrs. Whitaker counts how many stitches she has bound off. “You can skip my interview, Anka dearie, if it will save time.”
“Oh, I think I might have one question you’ll enjoy answering. Right, then, here are Anka Kendra’s questions:

“Hello, Miss Lillian Prescott! Tell us a bit about yourself?”

Miss Prescott whips out a handkerchief and polishes her spectacles. “Well, now, let me see…I’m the youngest in my family—the ‘baby,’ as the saying goes. I had seven siblings who lived to adulthood, but of those, only Mary and Alice are left. I was rather sickly as a child, so while my brothers and sisters were off at school, I learned my lessons at home and spent hours in Papa’s library, having all sorts of adventures in Faerieland and far-off times. When I grew up, I took on a job at the local library and discovered several new favorites that Papa hadn’t had in his collection. No matter how old I get, I have a thirst for knowledge and enjoy learning new things and gathering new ideas to ponder.”
“You recently took in a traveler named Victor Greenwood. What were your first impressions of him?”
She chuckles. “‘Traveller’—that’s a diplomatic way of putting it. More like a wanderer—just a poor soul with no home and no family. My first impressions were that this fellow seemed awfully young—compared to the other tramps we'd helped before—and I saw plainly that he needed a good meal and a soft bed, if nothing else. More than that, though…there was something about him that made us wantto help him. It was as if we just knewhe was a good sort, and we had nothing to fear from him.”
Prince Nácil’s eyes grow soft during this speech, and Jane cuddles closer to him.
It takes me a moment to gather up my courage—or rather, channel my more impish side—to ask the next question: “I know you never married, but was there anyone who ever caught your eye?”
Miss Prescott gives me a Look over her spectacles. “Well, now, that’s getting personal, dear girl.”
“Hey, don’t kill the messenger, Aunt Lillian,”I protest. “I’m just repeating what Anka Kendra asked you.C’mon now, be a good sport.”
She smirks. “Oh, after all, why not? There were one or two boys in my Sunday school class I was rather sweet on for a spell…until I realized they felt threatened by the fact that I knew more history, science, and even Scripture than they did.”
I shake my head sympathetically and move on to the next question: “What are your three favorite books?”
“Only three?” Miss Prescott scoffs, looking playfully annoyed. “Tsk, tsk,young woman! How can one choose three favorites, when there are so many wonderful books in the world? But for the sake of this interview, I’ll name some I grew up with: Papa’s volume of Grimm’s Fairytales, The Arabian Nights,and Robin Hood lore. I’m also quite fond of that allegory by Mr. C.S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.If it’d been available when I was a girl, I’d have devoured it…and quite possibly poked my head in Mamma and Papa’s old wardrobe now and again, to see if Mister Tumnus was in there.”
“Last question: If you ever found yourself on a fairy tale adventure, what are three things that you would bring with you?”
She smirks at me over her spectacles. “Well, now, I’ve already been on one, haven’t I?”
“Then what are three things you’d highly recommend taking on said Adventure?”
“Food and water, a tinderbox, and medical supplies would be a given, so I’ll say a blanket, some kind of light source, and a pot or frying pan. The blanket could serve as a wrap in case the weather turned cold. The light source—well, that should be obvious. And the pot or pan would make meal preparation easier. It could also serve as a weapon in a pinch (Heaven forbid).”

The little scroll disappears in an explosion of purple glitter.

“OK then,” I snicker, brushing glitter off my shoulders, “are you up to answering questions now, Lady Müriel?”
She holds up one hand. “You need not interview me, Anka. I said all that was important last year, when you sent Nácil’s story into the world. I am content simply to be here, and celebrate its one-year anniversary with him.”
“Just one question?”
“If you wish it, Anka.”
“Could you explain a little about wands in Elven culture?”
“Ah. Certainly: All those with the Gift of Enchantment must use a wand to focus their powers until they grow stronger. A wand is the first object an Enchanter learns to fashion—not a difficult process, compared to some crafts, but for a raw beginner…nerve-racking, at best. The materials must be lightweight, and of good quality, especially if quartz is used. Any cracks or imperfections will cause the energy flow to become unstable.
“Typically, an Enchanter will use a wand until he comes of age, or shortly thereafter, when his powers have waxed greater, and he is able to direct them by hand, or even by thought, if he is especially powerful.”
She looks downward a moment. “To answer the question you are too polite to ask, Anka, I was one of the few whose powers remained unstable and difficult to control without a wand, well into my adult life. It was always a source of great vexation to my mother.” She smiles ruefully. “A daughter of the great Lady Lucrísha, Mistress of Magic, should be more capable than that, after all.”

Prince Nácil’s expression during this speech is an alternating mix of compassion and quiet outrage, but he remains silent.

Unsure how to respond, I turn my attention to Mrs. Whitaker. “One question for you, if you’re agreeable?”

Her green eyes twinkle. “Ready when you are, dearie.”
“Describe, if you can, your thoughts and feelings when you adopted Jane and brought her home to Willowmere for the first time.”
Mrs. Whitaker’s expression grows soft, and her eyes mist over. “Oh, I don’t know if there are words for how I felt that day. I was clean worn out inside, what with the trouble Matilda Foster put everyone through about it. But when all the papers were signed, and everything was legal and official, and I was riding home with this tiny, precious bundle in my arms…I just felt this peace wash over me, and my heart was calm again. It was like the Good Lord was telling me all my hard work—everything I’d gone through—was about to see its reward. And I certainly have, these eight or nine years, and that you may tie to.”
Jane wriggles down from Prince Nácil’s lap and throws her arms about Mrs. Whitaker’s neck. “I love you, too, Grandmother!” she declares, kissing the wrinkled cheek. Then she returns to Prince Nácil.

I glance over at the Centaur, still standing stiffly at attention in the corner. “Hoy, Pyros! What are you doing ’way over there? Come and join the party.”
He shakes his woolly head. “With due respect, Anka,” he replies in a voice as deep and rich as his skintone, “I am unworthy to be among the Elven-king’s inner circle. I shall remain hither, and stand guard.”

I shake my own head indulgently. “Pyros, this is my house, and I’m the Anka; no Dark Elves can get in here, unless I summon them—which I sha’n’t,” I assure him quickly, as he stiffens at the mention of Dark Elves.
Prince Nácil beckons with his arm. “Come now, Master Centaur; draw near and be merry with us. I neither want nor deserve the sort of deference from my subjects that causes them to feel they must keep their distance. That were discrimination, and I’ll have none of that.”
Pyros bows and stands beside me, facing the rest of the group.
I take half a step sideways, looking up all eight feet of his stature and realizing just how tall that is….
I clear my throat. “H’hrm!Well, I was wondering if you could tell us about any friends you might have among your people, and perhaps your Goat-men neighbors.”

His dark face remains expressionless, but there is a hint of sadness in his obsidian eyes. “I have no close friends now, for many whom I called friends were wild and unruly. After the Revolution, when I had realized the great sin I had committed, I urged them to repent, as had I, and follow the Law of Elyon. But they would not, and so I broke all ties with them. Moreover, I warned them never to set foot in Arboria in my lifetime, for unless they forsook their wicked ways, I would count them as enemies of Righteousness, and would oppose them in Elyon’s Name.”

Miss Prescott pushes her spectacles back in place. “‘Repent, or I’ll kill you’?Isn’t that rather harsh, Master Sootflank? Couldn’t you have—”
“They were a danger to the good folk of Arboria,” he declares firmly. “They were set in their ways, and threatened my life if I continued to dog them, as they put it. It was not ideal, but it was necessary.”
I’m starting to regret my inquiries in this vein. “Can you tell—”
“I once had a dear friend,” Pyros continues in a slightly softer tone, “who was of the Fauns—Titus Merrylegs, and never was anyone so well-named. But he, too, was wild, and fell into sin, for which he was severely punished. After that, he repented and strove to follow Elyon’s Law, but his bad reputation was too great to overcome quickly. He was shunned, ridiculed, excluded, and at length he left Arboria, and I have not seen him since. That was shortly ere the Revolution, so I expect he is dead by now.”

The group falls silent, and Prince Nácil looks thoughtful.
“Oof, that’s rough,” I cringe. “Have you anyone currently that you respect or admire?” I prompt, hoping for something more positive.

He straightens, a light of pride in his face now. “I am loyal to my chieftain, Arémus Snowmane, and would gladly lay down my life for him, and the warriors who serve under me. Of those, I have an especially good rapportwith my captain, Artúro Ruddiflank. There is also a young colt recently enlisted, Æla Thunderhoof, to whom some have given the epithet of The Tempest. She shows great potential, and I shall watch her career with interest.”
So shall I, if I can figure out how to weave it into the narrative,I say to myself.
Then, aloud, “Thank you, one and all, for coming to my little party—such as it was—and for bearing with these interviews. I hope my readers will find your answers as fun to read as I did to write them down.”
“Do we get our Killer Cookies now?” Harold asks eagerly.
I ruffle his curls with an indulgent smirk. “Absolutely, my lad. Come, everyone—cookies for all!”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Thank you to all who dropped by, and virtual cookies to anyone who made it through all that text! (Now you know why my blog is called The Rambling Rose, LOL.)

Shout-out to Kendra E. Ardnek for her contribution to the character interviews!

Don’t forget to pick up your copy of Prince Nácil on Amazon, if you haven’t already!
Kindle | Paperback

Until next time, Gentle Readers,

God bless,
~ℛ~

Heads Up!

 

Just a quick note to let you know that my Christian Fantasy novel, Prince Nácil, turns one year old tomorrow! *Confetti*

I have a special post scheduled to launch in the morning, so check it out when you can!

WARNING: The post is VERY long, and for that reason I didn’t insert any pictures, so be aware of that. Hopefully the content will make up for its length, wot? ;-)

If you want to see inspiration pix for my Characters—and just fun worldbuilding inspo in general—pop on over to my Pinterest boardsand have a wee explore.

 If you haven’t read Prince Nácil yet, it’s available on Amazon, in Kindle and paperback formats.

If you have read my magnum opus and are anxious for more…well, first off, the Bible tells us to “be anxious for nothing,” so just chillax, friends. ;-) Seriously, though, I’m working on the sequel, The White Birds, to the best of my ability. My family moved earlier this year, and the new place—while amazing—needed a LOT of tweaking and TLC.

That’s finally settling down now, and I intend, by God’s aid, to focus more diligently on my writing.
Feel free to bug me about it, to keep me committed.

Hope to “see” you at the Bookiversary Party tomorrow!

Until next time, Gentle Readers,

God bless,
~ℛ~

My Experimental Valentine | “Oops”

 Since my last post ended on a bit of a downer, I’ll share this more cheerful little story to make up for it.

Back in the Fall of 2019, I decided to try my hand at a short story, inspired by this social media post that ended up on Pinterest:

[source]

(Although for some reason I remembered it being with Adrien and Marinette from Miraculous....)

I dunno; I just liked the concept of the gentleman forgetting to propose but thinking he’d popped the question, and the girl being weirded out.

I was going to share this on V-day last year, but it needed a bit of “polish,” and I ran out of time. So I’m sharing it now. Better late than never, wot? ;-)

~*~

Molly Dunbarr’s cell phone buzzed, quickly followed by the happy little chime indicating a new text message. She set down her comb and unhooked the phone from the charger, quickly navigating to the text app.

The new message was from her best friend, Dan Ushitat:

Good morning, Molly Malone.
Are you busy today?

Molly smirked at his nickname for her as she mentally ran through her plans, and answered his message:

Good morning!
No, I’m free all day

A moment later, he answered:

May I drop by around tenish?

What was the fellow up to? He never “dropped by” spontaneously. She wondered if it had to do with the dance last night, and for half a second she was tempted to worry. But then curiosity took over, and she replied:

Sure! That would be great

He responded almost immediately with:

Awesome! See you then.
Love you

Molly read over the text conversation again, especially that last bit—where he’d signed off “Love you.” He’d never said that before. Something prompted her to answer with:

Love you, too

and not worry about whether it was appropriate or not. After all, she and Dan had grown up together. At one time, she’d thought of him as her “other brother,” since he and Andrew had played together so often as boys. As she’d grown older, she’d thought of him as her best friend. But more than that, she reminded herself, he was her brother in Christ, Who had commanded His followers to love one another. All these things, she told herself firmly, gave her every right to tell Dan, “I love you.”

Still and all, they’d both been too shy to say it growing up. In fact, there had been a time when Molly had been unable to look him in the eye without feeling acutely self-conscious and nervous and just plain awkward. Likewise, Dan had seemed less than easy around her. Molly’s theory had been—and still was—that they were both the type who could sense other people’s emotions and read body-language…and they had each sensed the other’s nervousness, and it had amplified their own.

Ugh,Molly thought as she massaged some curl-defining lotion into her dark tresses. I probably came off as standoffish at best, or that I didn’t like him. It’s a wonder we’re even still friends after all these years.She smiled at her reflection, sliding a stretchy knit headband behind her ears. Proof that he’s a patient, understanding soul.

She went about her morning routine in a bit of a haze. Later on, she would be unable to tell you what she had for breakfast, what she said to her father and brother before sending them off to work, and to Mother before she left for her teaching job in town, or even if she mentioned Dan’s coming. All she remembered after that day was waiting expectantly for ten o’clock with a curious sort of excitement and a feeling that something unusual was about to happen.

She pottered about the house, picked up sundry craft projects and put them aside again, too distracted to follow the instructions. She laid out her latest sketch, intending to finish it…but ended up staring into space and musing over last night’s events instead.

She still smiled—a smug little smile, truth be told—to think she had actually convinced Dan to join the local square-dancing club with her. She hadn’t been sure dancing was really his thing. Growing up, he’d always gotten volunteered to man the CD player at their friend Jack’s parties. Apparently, Dan did enjoy dancing himself, too. And he’d learned the steps quickly, even retaining them better than she could, despite her having taken the introductory class before.

Last night had put their knowledge to the test. Every Spring, the town held a grand Square Dance Festival, and all the square-dancing clubs in the area—and people from all over the country, too—joined the festivities. Molly could still see the ladies in their frilly skirts and ruffled blouses, and the gentlemen in Western-inspired shirts—some of them even sporting cowboy hats and boots.

Dan had opted for something a bit subtler for his first Festival: Dark-brown loafers, brown tweed trousers, and a muted green dress-shirt. The only nod to the “Western” theme was the silver collar-tips Molly had found at one of the local thrift shops, set with genuine turquoise nuggets of a slightly greenish hue. The muted colors, Molly had thought, not only had a slight woodsy vibe, but harmonized well with Dan’s naturally tan complexion and dark hair and eyes. But then, Dan had always been good-looking, no matter what he wore, she had to admit.

She glanced over at her laundry basket, where the hem and part of the sleeve of her own costume hung over the rim, recalling the soft drape of the printed light-purple rayon, the fairytale vibe of the asymmetrical hem and lace-up embroidered bodice. She smothered a giggle, remembering Dan’s comment that they could pass for a couple from one of her favorite Disney movies…if Molly had worn a long golden wig.

She fell silent, recalling something she hadn’t paid much mind to at the time. Dan had seemed…distracted…several times during the evening, once or twice dancing with her instead of his current partner during one of the dances. She chalked it up to adrenaline—the excitement of dancing with so many other people, of the festive occasion—and being still a little unfamiliar with the more advanced calls.

At least, she had last night. In the light of day, away from the bustle and good cheer of the Festival, Molly wondered if there had been something on Dan’s mind. And now she thought on it further, she remembered catching him looking at her with a soft little smile and shining eyes—but she had chalked that up to “party mood,” too.

She sighed ever-so-slightly, unsure how she felt about that explanation. An alternative suggested itself…and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that, either.

She’d always liked Dan—at one time, she thought perhaps she could be happy with him—but as the years had passed, and he gave little to no indication of feeling anything more than friendship…well, she’d come to accept that they were just kindred spirits meant to enjoy a beautiful friendship for as long as God left them on Earth. Not that there was anything “just” about a kindred spirit, mind—

The doorbell chimed, shattering her reverie and alerting her to Dan’s arrival. Downstairs she flew, curiosity and a faint sense of apprehension whirling inside her. She assumed what she hoped would be a friendly smile, prepared to receive her old friend with a hug if he liked, and opened the door.

There he stood, looking spiffy even in dark-wash jeans and a black graphic tee with eagles on the front, smiling broadly, his dark eyes sparkling.

“Hullo, Sunshine!” he beamed. He stepped over the threshold, gently wrapped his arms about her shoulders…and kissed her.

Molly couldn’t decide whether to back away or return the favor.

And before she had time to think further, he released her, still smiling—positively glowing, in fact.

Her brain refused to function. Her power of speech flew out the proverbial window. She stood rooted to the spot, staring at him with slack jaw and a heart-rate like a woodpecker.

“Did you get to sleep okay after last night’s excitement?” he asked, as if nothing unusual had just happened.

She nodded dazedly, wondering if she was perhaps still asleep.

Dan shut the door behind him and began untying his sneakers. “I thought maybe we could discuss the details today, while it’s still fresh in our minds.”

Molly blinked stupidly. “Details?”

“Yeah, sure—setting the date, how many guests, flowers, catering, all that sort of thing. We didn’t exactly have much time last night, and I didn’t think you’d savvy shouting over the noise.”

She stared at him in growing confusion, wondering if he had gone off his head.

He glanced at her, took one look at her expression, and raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong? You look…kinda upset.”

“Oh, nothing,” she blurted. “My best friend just lip-kissed me out of the Blue without so much as a by-your-leave, that’s all, and now he’s talking about setting dates and catering, and just freaking me out in general.”

His forehead puckered. “Best friend?” Then his eyebrows shot up, as though a thought had occurred to him. “Wait,” he murmured. He grabbed her left hand and examined it. “Where’s the—? Didn’t I—? Aren’t we—?” he babbled, looking more worried and confused with each unfinished question. Then his face morphed into a goofy, lopsided grin, and he snapped his fingers. “That’s what I forgot to do last night!” he muttered, chuckling a little.

Molly peered at him suspiciously. “If I didn’t know you better, Danny-boy, I’d ask if you’d been smoking funny flowers, ’cause you’re not making any sense whatever.”

He laughed, covering his face a moment. Then he pressed his forehead to hers, scrunching up her curls in the back of her head—another thing he’d never dared in their growing-up years….

“No, no; I’m not high or drunk,” he chuckled, with a bit of a sigh in the mix, “just idiotically absent-minded, apparently.” He straightened, giving her another lopsided grin. “The fact is, Molly Malone, I—I meant to propose to you last night. Had a speech all prepared and everything…only…I guess I rehearsed it and fantasized about how it would go so many times in my head…I…I forgot I hadn’t actually done it in real life. Sounds a bit stupid, I know—and more than a bit mental—but…well, there it is.”

Molly couldn’t have been more astounded if gravity had suddenly been reversed.

“And to add insult to injury,” Dan continued, sticking his hands in his pockets, “I probably left the ring in my other pants, so I can’t even make up for it properly now.” He sighed. “I’m sorry—really sorry. Especially about…well, what happened a minute ago.” His cheeks colored a little. “I…I hope I didn’t—I dunno—offend you or anything.”

“You—were—going—to—propose?” Molly croaked.

“Yeah.” He flashed her a guilty smile. “Just out of curiosity…if I’d actually popped the question…would you have said Yes or No?”

“I’d have said Yes, of course!” she cried, blinking against the tears perversely forming in her eyes all of a sudden.

“And if I’d had the brains to bring the ring with me, and could ask you properly today?”

“See previous answer.”

He lifted one corner of his mouth. “Even though I’m an absent-minded twit?”

She smiled indulgently. “I think we can chalk that up to adrenaline.” She gathered her courage and wrapped her arms about him, laying her head on his shoulder. “I love you, Daniel Ushitat.”

He hesitated only a moment, then slid his arms about her shoulders again. “I’ve loved you for a long while, now,” he confessed, “only the time never felt right to say so. Something always told me to wait—that you weren’t ready to hear that yet.”

She sighed, giving him a squeeze. “I thought as much. I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

“Making you wait for so long—”

He put a finger to her lips. “Hey, now; good things are worth waiting for.”

She gave him a tiny smile. “Indeed.”

They shared a proper kiss this time, full of the new-found warmth and tenderness they held for one another.

“Shall we go in and sit down?” Molly murmured a moment later.

“Sure.” He smirked. “I guess we do have a wedding to plan, after all.”

~*~

Not to brag, but usually, I can’t write a short story to save my life (“This feels too shallow! I need DETAILS!”), yet here we have this one all completed in less than four Open Office pages (originally three, but...then I tweaked it. *Halo*). Two, if we count The Unicorn.

Sole Deo Gloria!

Any comments and/or suggestions (such as a proper title, LOL) are welcome, as always.

Until next time, Gentle Readers,
God bless,

~ℛ~

 

My Experimental Valentine | Allegory

If you’re looking for a sweet, heart-warming little love story to put you in the Valentine’s mood, or if you enjoy stories that end with Happily Ever After in general…this story is not for you.
It was a bit of an experiment back in the Fall of 2019—my first real attempt at allegory, the first short story I was ever really happy with…and frankly, the closest thing to a tragedy I ever wrote.

I think I’m finally comfortable enough with sharing it here, so take a look if you care to. If you’d prefer something a bit more in keeping with V-day, check back a bit later today; I’ll have a more upbeat story posted. ’Cos as jaded an cynical as I’ve become, I’m still a hopeless romantic at heart, and much prefer happy endings…even though I’ll never be worthy of one myself.

~*~

The Unicorn
by R.R. Goodwill
Copyright © September 2019

[source]

Once upon a time, there lived a little Unicorn who dwelt upon a farm. Why the Farmer had brought her there, and for what purpose, she could not fathom. She could not give milk like the cows and nanny-goats. She was not swift and strong like the horses. She could not give wool like the sheep, nor was she bold enough to herd them like the dog. She could not catch mice like the cats. And since the Farmer had not brought any other Unicorns to the farm, he clearly did not intend to breed her, as he did with the other animals.

“In short,” she concluded miserably, “I am utterly useless.”

Yet the Unicorn was not without her own special abilities, for she could sing beautifully, and it gave her great pleasure. Most of the time, she sang when only the Farmer could hear, although once in a great while she allowed a select few of her friends to hear her songs. [source]Now the Unicorn had in the course of her life befriended some of the animals on the farm, as well as a few from the nearby forest. But her best friend was a Bluebird who sang even more beautifully than the Unicorn, for his songs were full of deep thought and quiet wisdom. The Unicorn and the Bluebird often spoke together, as well, and the Bluebird proved himself more observant, and to understand her better, than most of the Unicorn’s acquaintance.

As the years passed, however, the Unicorn’s friends left the farm and the forest and crossed a broad, deep river that lay nearby, and made new homes—and new lives—for themselves in the lands beyond. The little Unicorn, however, was obliged to remain on the farm, and she missed them terribly. She realized what good friends she had in these creatures, and it made her wish that they could all live close together, as before. But she knew that could never be, for they had their own lives now, and those lives had moved far beyond the narrow limits of farm-life, or even forest-life.

Over time, she began to miss the Bluebird most of all. As she relived her memories of times spent with him, and recalled the conversations she had had with him, she shed not a few tears at the thought of never seeing him again, and even began to feel she had somehow driven him away, albeit unintentionally.

One day, as she stood leaning against the fence at the far end of the pasture, gazing sadly at the great river that now divided her from her friends, she saw the Bluebird flying about over the waters, landing upon the far shore. As she looked, it seemed as though there had been a veil over him, but now it blew aside briefly, as if stirred by some unseen breeze. For one brief second, she glimpsed his true nature…and she saw that he was not a Bluebird at all, but a graceful White Stag with silver horns and gentle eyes. And she began to think perhaps, had things been different, she might have been happy with him, had he wanted her.

[source]

  But of course now, it was too late, for they were in two different worlds, and she had no way to leave the farm, nor could she cross the great river—not unless the White Stag came to fetch her, and they could stem the tide together.

This realization caused the little Unicorn grief, even long after the moment had faded into memory. She blamed herself for missing what she saw as an opportunity for happiness—and moreover, a future of usefulness and purpose. She called herself hard names and shed many tears. She even considered sending a message to the White Stag, telling him what was in her heart. But in the end, she refrained, sensing it would be improper for her to speak first.

“If he is my soulmate,” she reasoned, “let him make the first move. Then I shall know it is genuine, and not just a silly whim or fancy of mine.”

The White Stag never spoke.

And so the little Unicorn concluded that the White Stage did not care for her—and perhaps no longer even considered her a friend after so many years.

Nevertheless, she determined to make something of the rest of her life—such as it was—and be the sort of person he would have been proud of, could he but be there to see it. She continued to sing her songs, weaving a bit of the White Stag’s deep thought and quiet wisdom into them as she was able to grasp it, and thereby honoring her old friend in the only way she knew how.

 ~*~

Feel free to leave feedback, suggestions, etc. in the comments below. All I ask is that you keep it clean, kind, and considerate. Thanks!

Until next time, Gentle Readers,

God bless,

~ℛ~

 

Cover Reveal! | Love and Memory

So here we are again, on this Thanksgiving Day, to celebrate another upcoming novel by Kendra E. Ardnek: Love and Memory.

*Confetti floof*

LaM is the third installment of Kendra’s Rizkaland series, so fans will be thankful*wink* to have more adventures with Clara and Andrew, Reuben and Petra.

How Does Your [Royal] Garden Grow? | Sneak Peek from "The White Birds"

More pix from our own garden on my Instagram
(@fionawildrose)!

  [NOTE: If you haven’t read Prince Nácil yet, be aware that beyond here, there be spoilers.]
(All pictures  after first two via Pinterest)

* * * 

    They entered the Gardens without another word, and Nácil’s heart lightened at the sight of the neat beds, stately trees, and vibrant colors that met his eyes.

    Despite the lateness of the year, the Royal Gardens still boasted life and beauty a-plenty. Several small members of the carnation family—commonly called “pinks” due to their toothed petal-edges—added shades of pink and magenta and ruby-red amid the blue-lavender asters and many-colored chrysanthemums. A few late-blooming delphiniums still bore clusters of brilliant blue atop their tall candles, while daisies and various coreopsis added splashes of white and gold. Some shrubs and trees that had been green in Summer now wore brilliant scarlet, golden yellow, and even burgundy, in glorious contrast to their evergreen garden-mates.
    “Shall we see how your roses are faring in their new home?” Nácil asked brightly.
    Müriel nodded with a tiny smile, but said nothing.
    In the center of the Gardens stood a magnificent fountain of white marble, its three tiers shaped like lotus-blossoms, sending a gentle stream of clear, sparkling water into the air before running down into the basins. A ring of heather-edged beds surrounded the fountain, interrupted by the intersecting garden paths of gray flagstones. These beds housed the Elven-queen’s prized roses, now mostly dormant in the Harvestide season, awaiting the return of Spring. In the center of each bed stood a new bush still covered in glossy dark-green leaves and a few sweet-scented blooms of nearly the same electric blue as the delphiniums.
    Müriel approached the nearest of these and cupped it in her hand as if lifting up the chin of a beloved child. Her smile grew ever-so-slightly wider, and she bent down to breathe in its fragrance.
    Nácil grinned and followed her example. “Ah! I had forgotten how blue roses smelled,” he remarked. “There really is nothing in the World of Men to compare with them, although some red roses come near to it.”
    “They appear to be adapting well to their new surroundings.”
    “Which is a great relief, to own the truth.”
    “Did you fear they would not?”
    “I was unsure. After all, they lived all their lives in the Red Forrest, and underwent a long journey to the Palace.” He smiled softly. “Perhaps…perhaps some residue of my mother’s influence lives on in this garden.”
    Müriel laid her head on his shoulder and her hand over his heart. “Part of her lives in you, dear Nácil. It is your Gift—which you inherited from Queen Jael—that makes this garden flourish, now.”
    He gazed at her tenderly, brushing a stray lock of hair off her face.
    If they heard the echoing patter of footfalls on the flagstone path, they disregarded them. If they heard Harold’s voice calling their names, they paid it no heed.
    Nácil lifted Müriel’s chin and kissed her softly.
    A long, drawn-out “Uuuuugggghhhh”sounded behind them, and they turned to see Harold standing a few feet away. He stared at them with knitted brows, his mouth comically askew.
    “All you two ever do is kiss,”he complained.
    Nácil smirked. “Should it please Elyon for you to be as happily married as I am, my lad, you’ll understand why, I daresay.”
    “Catch me!” Harold snorted. “When I get married, my wife and I will have lots more exciting things to do.”
    Nácil threw Müriel a wink and squatted down to Harold’s eye-level. “Oh, shall you, indeed? What sorts of things?”
    “Why, going on picnics, and attending the Dances at Springtime and Summer Solstice, and setting off fireworks at Christmas, and—oh, lots of things much more fun than standing about kissing all the time.”
    “Those do sound like exciting activities, to be sure. But I see no reason why we can’tenjoy them now. Supposing you consult the calendar in the library, and see when the next holiday will be? Then you can help us plan a celebration.”
    Harold’s eyes danced. “Really, Sire? I can help plan a holiday?”
    “Certainly; the next one shall be the first holiday observed in Arboria since Iceheart’s demise. That’s cause for a special celebration, if ever there was one.”
    Harold let out a wild whoop, leaping in the air and pumping his fist. He hugged them both and dashed off.
    Müriel hid a quiet laugh behind one dainty hand. “You handled that rather well, my love.”
    He rose, chuckling slightly. “By Elyon’s grace, I seem to be absorbing a portion of Harold’s abilities.”
    “Abilities?”
    “Defusing potentially awkward situations with cheerfulness,” he explained. “But I daresay we should be less…affectionate…in his presence, since it bothers him so. After all, he did live nearly ten years with you alone, and like as not isn’t used to the behavior of married folk.”
    She pondered this a moment. “I see nothing particularly inappropriate in your attentions to me.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “Well, this is a surprise,” he teased. “Not so very long ago, I seem to recall you objecting to my attentions when ‘there are children present.’”
    She smiled foolishly, coloring a little. “I—I was confused—you startled me, and I said whatever came into my head. As for Harold,” she continued, “he shall grow accustomed to them in time. And remember, Nácil; he is but a child yet, and such things are unfathomable at his stage of life.”
    “We are rather silly, aren’t we?” he chuckled, rubbing noses with her. “That is to say, one of us is very silly, and it certainly isn’t you.”

* * *

A snippet from my current WIP, The White Birds,sequel to my recently-published fantasy novel, Prince Nácil…and a wee dose of Victüriel cuteness for any and all shippers out there. :-P The imagery in this scene fit the current Autumnal weather where I live, so it seemed appropriate.

The Tale of the Maiden and her Sailor

 There once was a maid and her sailor.
They were soon to be wed, yessiree.
The sailor was tall, dark, and handsome;
The maid was as fair as could be.

The sailor, he left bright and early
For the church that beautiful morn,
But he soon was a-sittin’, not movin’,
With a tire that was tattered and torn.

Well….
He tried and he tried to keep movin’ along,
’Cause to persevere seemed like the norm.
But two, three, and four flat tires later,
He still hadn’t weathered the storm.

I s’pose you all may be wond’rin’
What our fair maid was thinkin’ that day,
When the clock, it struck one—two—and then THREEEEE!!!
And the wedding-time comin’ their way.

“Oh dear, will he make it here safely?”
Our fair young maiden did sigh.
But she knew what to do with her problem,
And she prayed to her Father On High:

“Lord….
“I’m gettin’ married here this evening—
Oh, how the candles, they will shine!
I'm gettin’ married, and
There’s no denyin’
My nerves are fryin’!
So get him to the church—
Oh, please, just get him to the church on time!”

His sailor-friends left to go hitch-hike,
But his best man, he stayed with him fast;
And six, maybe SEVEN FLAT TIRES later…
He got to the church at last!

~“The Sailor’s Story” Copyright ©2004 Kerry Goodwill (condensed)

~*~

The above is an excerpt from the song my mother wrote (which she, Peter, and I performed) for my grandparents’ 60thwedding anniversary back in ’04. While it takes a few creative liberties, it tells the humorous tale, in a nutshell, of the trials my grandfather went through to get to his wedding.

 The year was 1944. World War Two was still raging, but that didn’t stop Frank Goodwill and Lois Ream (my grandparents) from falling in love and deciding to spend the rest of their lives together. The wedding was set for the evening of September 9th, at the church in Monterrey Park, California, Grandma’s hometown at the time.

The wedding party. Love Grandpa's smile!
Pretty sure the bridesmaids in matching dresses (far right) are Grandma's sisters
Betty and Margie. No clue who the other people are, LOL.

Although Grandpa only lived a relatively short distance away (by car), it took him all day to arrive, as the tires on his car kept blowing out. This being wartime, and tires being rationed, he had to borrow ration cards from his sailor buddies traveling with him seven timesduring the course of his journey. As the song indicated, all but his best man eventually decided it would be faster to hitch-hike to the wedding venue.

Grandpa arrived at the church only a few minutes late—which Grandma actually didn’t notice, being so caught up in wedding what-nots.

She wore a handmade gown of satin brocade, and non-rationed canvass sandals. Grandpa of course wore his Navy uniform.

That look of anticipation isn't just Grandpa's love of sweets--
he hadn't eaten all day, so he was genuinely hungry!

If you follow me on Instagram, you’ll know we visited the old family home back in August of this year, during which time we found Grandma’s vintage wedding gown and Grandpa’s uniform in an old trunk in the attic. Sadly, neither Peter nor I can fit into them, otherwise I’d have talked him into doing a photoshoot, LOL.

I did model Grandma’s dress back in 2000, as part of a fashion show for a mother-daughter banquet at her church at the time. It fit my fifteen-year-old self just about perfectly, apart from being a bit loose in the bodice and too long in the skirt.

All the "brides"! The ladies wore their own wedding gowns,
and most of the girls (barring the flower-girl at center) wore their grandmothers'.
Yours truly second to right (still not sure how I ended up with the biggest bouquet, LOL).
My Mom at far right, moddling her 1981 homemade wedding gown.

Grandpa took one look at me, then turned to Grandma and asked, “Was you really that skinny when I married you?”
Thanks, Grandpa. :-P

My grandparents were married over seventy years, until the Lord took Grandpa to his Long Home in November of 2016, at the ripe old age of ninety-seven. Grandma joined him three years later, shortly after her ninety-third birthday. They raised three sons, endured several hardships, and enjoyed many fun times camping and celebrating special events together. While their marriage was far from perfect or ideal, they were committed to God and to one another, and that is a strong testimony in this day and age.

I thank God for their commitment, and for the fact that we now have tangible reminders of it in the form of Grandma’s gown and Grandpa’s uniform. I thank Him, too, that they are now reunited, and praising their Savior together, for all eternity.

~*~

Until next time, Gentle Readers,
God bless,

~ℛ~

 

Good Times and Free Grog!

Bear with me as I indulge in a bit of nostalgia, Gentle Readers, and take a short walk down Memory Lane….

Three years ago this very day, my family drove down to California to visit our few remaining relatives there. I’d rather not go into the family stuff, as it wasn’t exactly thrilling (plus it was rather sad, as my late grandmother was suffering from dementia at the time).

I will mention, however, the Cuteness Overload moment we had while watching Singin’ in the Rainwith Grandma: I looked over at her, and she was singing along with “You Were Meant For Me.” D’aaaaawwww….

(Much of what you’re about to read was excerpted from an email to a friend shortly after the event in question, and lightly edited to be relevant to the present.)

The highlight of the trip, though, happened on Saturday night (the 29th). I had secretly contacted Peter’s three best friends (the other members of the old barbershop quartet) earlier that year, thinking that, since MY BABY BROTHER WAS TURNING THIRTY (!!!), it’d be cool to do something really special to celebrate. I was going to see if “the boys” (Caleb, Shawn, and Matthew) could come visit us for Peter’s birthday weekend, but when we found out we’d be visiting Grandma in Nevada City/Grass Valley in late July/early August of that year, we agreed it’d be more practical for the boys (who all still lived in California at the time) to meet us at Shawn’s parents’ home. A sort of “Un-Birthday” Party.

Plus it worked out better for their busy schedules.

Shawn found PDFs of all the songs they used to sing together and sent them to everyone, plus a barbershop arrangement of Happy Birthday…which they sang as Peter walked in the door (with Shawn's dad singing lead). Peter was pretty much oblivious to our sneaky plans until we drove up to the house and saw all the extra cars, hehehe. Although he must have thought it odd that Shawn’s mom would call us up the night before we left to “invite” us to dinner…and that we were bringing everything….

L-R: Peter, Caleb, Mom, Shawn, Bonnie, Guy, Matthew, me

(Please excuse the lack of photos. It appears I only took two still-shots that evening, and one of them was absolute rubbish due to backlighting. This one is horribly yellowed, but at least y’all can see everyone!)

On the whole, the evening was a great success, in spite of a bit of awkwardness on my part, and the music Caleb tried to print off the Internet getting saved goofy and printing messed up. It was so good to see them all again, and hear them sing (except when they sightread a new song—that was pretty awful, LOL), and catch up on their lives and just hang out…enjoying pizza and Root Beer, of course! (It was kind of a tradition.) As we used to say back in The Day: “Good Times and Free Grog!”

Normally, social interaction drains my emotional energy. I get to a point where I’m thinking, “OK, I’ve had enough of you. Go away/Let’s go home now.”

Peter’s party had the opposite effect. I could have stayed up all night talking with them (or even just Shawn and his folks)…but of course that wasn’t an option.

I felt a real spirit-kinship with our old friends that night…which we haven’t felt with anyone we’ve met since we left California, really. It was refreshing. It was wonderful!

And it left me so charged that I wasn’t a bit sleepy when we finally crawled back to Grandma's house after 10 p.m. I honestly don’t think I actually went to sleep until well into the Wee Hours,LOL.

Some highlights and quotes from the evening:

* Yours truly deciding to fist-bump “the boys,” not being sure hugs would be appropriate….
SHAWN: *Confused look* Well, that’s the hypo-allergenic way to greet someone.
ME: *Fist-bumps Caleb during this speech*
*Feels stupid*
*Sees Matthew with arms open*
*Hugs Matthew*
*Turns back to Shawn* Friendly hug?
SHAWN: Hugs….
*Hug*

Lesson learned: Don’t be afraid to hug people you’ve known since grade-school. It just makes things awkward.

* Shawn making a little speech about how it’s become a tradition to celebrate our gatherings with Root Beer, but that “we don’t have any root beer,” and someone suggesting a trip to the store to fetch some….
ME: *Opens cooler*
*Pulls out the pack of Root Beer we smuggled down for the occasion* Ta-da!
BOYS: *Sounds of appreciation and happiness*

* Matthew discussing the car hewas trying to sell: “It makes vroom-vroom noises, Caleb….”

* Caleb’s diagnosis of why the music wouldn’t print properly: “Yeah, someone set us up the bomb.”
ME: *Dies laughing*
(Virtual cookies to anyone who gets the joke!)

* Caleb finding a GORGEOUS old hymn called “Deck Thyself, My Soul,With Gladness,” and all of us singing it together (even though we weren’t sure of our parts).

* Sharing prayer requests before the party broke up, and praying together. The sense that everyone cared about each other and the things we were dealing with in life.

* Myself deciding not to be afraid take the empty chair beside one of the boys. Twice. Telling myself these fellows are my brothers in Christ, so it’s perfectly fine to sit next to them. (I’ve been shy and nervous around boys since I was nine, and terrified of giving them the wrong impression, so this was huge for me.)

* Shawn asking me if I’ve ever heard of NaNoWriMo, and suggesting I try it. Something about the act of “just getting it out there”—just writing on something, even if it’s not great—can unblock ideas that are clogged up. It was interesting that he’d even heard of NaNo,† and kinda cool that he even remembered I write.

† Re-reading this account, I remembered that several of our fellow message board members (circa early 2000’s) were involved in NaNo, so that’s probably where he heard about it. But it was still cool that he remembered after all those years.

* Peter, Shawn, and me discussing Star Trek after the party (Shawn had been going through the series for the first time). Peter and me advising him to “skip the first two seasons” of Next Generation, explaining the story behind the term “growing the beard,” and watching a Star Trek version of “Let It Snow” on Shawn's phone. LOL.
PETER: (as we were leaving) It took fifteen years, but we finally turned him into a Trekkie.

* Peter remarking on the drive back to Grandma's, “I’d actually been thinking about the guys today, and thinking we’ll probably never see them again....”

So it was extra special that they were able to come!

To this day, I’m still just tickled that it all worked out—that these grown men, with their own lives and careers and what-not, dropped everything and carved out some time in their busy schedules to throw a surprise party for a guy they hadn’t seen in years. Sole Deo Gloria!

Until next time, Gentle Readers,
God bless,

~ℛ~

Crafty Corner | “Briar Rose,” Part Three

BriarRose, Part One
BriarRose, Part Two

Admittedly, my enthusiasm for this project fizzled out after a while. Part of it was due to being sick of the whole quarantine malarkey (heh, me and everyone else in the wonky world, I daresay), but another part was an odd reluctance to tackle re-drafting my princess-seam pattern.

It didn’t make sense that I’d have kept my bodice pattern, but not the full-length dress. And what about all the different-shaped neckline supplements I’d labored over? Had I tossed them, too? ’Cos I sure couldn’t find them, either, despite looking through both supply closets in the sewing room. It irked me, to be honest, that I’d have (apparently) been stupid enough to toss a pattern made specifically for my somewhat odd proportions. As my Elven characters are so fond of saying, it is not wisdom.

Fast-forward to sometime in mid-May. Mom and I were sorting through our various pillow-forms in one of said supply closets—determining just how many pillows we really need in this house—when what should come crashing down on Mom’s head but…my princess-seam dress pattern! Complete with neckline supplements!
Quoth I: “Where was this six months ago, when I searched every inch of these closets for it?!” (Well, obviously not *every* inch, LOL)

That’s the good news.

The bad news is…I just don’t enjoy sewing that much. I love the design process—possibly my favorite part of any creative endeavor, TBH—and it’s exciting when the construction phase gets to that “hey, it’s starting to look like something!” point.

However, cutting out fabric (especially in complex shapes) has always scared me, and frankly, my skills just aren’t on the same level as my vision. I can do basic sewing pretty well, but the more formal garments I’ve made myself always turned out looking like a fifth grade Home Ec project (back when schools actually taught sewing classes, oy).

And of course, once you’ve cut a piece of fabric, there’s no going back. It’s not like yarnwork or beaded jewelry, where you can just disassemble the thing if it doesn’t work out. I mean, you could re-cut the fabric into something smaller, but…yeah. I decided I didn’t need that kind of stress in my already stressful life.

Another fact I had to admit was that I’m not as fond of pink as I once was (haven’t been for the last decade, really), and a solid-pink dress just seemed like a bit much. A bit too girly and floofy, especially with white lace trim.

We’d toyed with the idea of putting the roses on a white dress—even thought of refashioning Mom’s 1970’s-style wedding gown!—but vetoed the idea, as white is hard to keep clean, and frankly…who wears white dresses these days, save brides?

Fast-forward again to this past Wednesday, when Mom and I spotted this white tunic/short dress at the local Goodwill.

It’s made of an interesting knit fabric, which we thought would go well with the crocheted roses. While it’s too short to wear as a dress (for my taste, anyhow), it’s a graceful length for a tunic with fitted trousers, or even a flared A-line skirt. I may even wear my old pink mock-up (featured in Part One) under it.
It’s fitted, but not skin-tight, and the material is soft and stretchy enough that it’s easy to move around in. I love this flared style, and the vertical lines are quite flattering on me. Really, my only beef is that the “stripes” aren’t quite centered. *ERGLE* Aw well, can’t have everything. :-P

Imagine vines between the blossoms,
and more leaves and flowers, and....

I played around with what colored motifs I had, and I must say, I’m quite in love with it, overall. The pink and green on the white background is so fresh and clean-looking.
I’m not 100% sold on the lower arm design; the Rosebud and Half-open Rose don’t quite feel right, and the Full-blown Rose seems a bit much. I may work up a miniature version of the hem border….

Also, the area between the hem and the waist looks a bit bare, and I’m not sure I want an actual “belt”/girdle at the waist.

That said, I love the large rose and cascading leaf design at the sleeve-head and neckline, and the Rosebud at the shoulder. Will probably tweak the Half-open Rose and leaf placement once I get the Vine made and sewn down.
I’m also debating whether to decorate the back of the tunic or leave it relatively plain.

So yeah; I still have a bit of work to do on this project—mainly crocheting a few more flowers, and lots more leaflets—but not nearly as much as when this was going to be a full-on party-frock! >_< I think this approach will be more realistically achievable, and be more comfortable to wear in Real Life. Let’s face it; the long dress would only have been suitable for square dances—which I didn’t attend very often even when they were still a thing (darn you, COVID!). A tunic is still elegant and feminine, but less formal and potentially costumey.

I am so looking forward to finishing this project!

Until next time, Gentle Readers,
God bless,

~ℛ~