Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 2

Things we never dream of doing

Yesterday's block is now firmly adhered in place.

Considered as I hand-applique Lucy Boston blocks early in the morning. (Or, lol, raising chickens.)

I always wanted to write fiction. From my early teens that consideration never wavered. I proclaim that because this post is about enjoying things I hadn't previously pondered, hoped for, pined over. These things are very different.

Like quilting, lol. And of course those chicks, who conveniently posed in a makeshift group yesterday afternoon for my husband. Owning chickens was NOT on my list of Wanna Do's, let me make that perfectly clear.

Owl in the forefront, Camilla to the left behind her, the rest of the pullets poking about the grass.

But the sewing, oh my goodness! I can't fathom my life without that treat, as dear to me as crafting novels. Initially I started sewing by machine, then came English paper piecing, and now Kawandi-inspired projects. Like treasure from heaven are these methods of fashioning various items, and now so intrinsic within me, I truly wonder what will occur if the day comes that I can't stick a needle through fabric!

The quilt to raise all this hub-bub is equally spontaneous, why I scribbled the first sentence yesterday morning while appliqueing blocks onto the front of a cozy that already has a middle and back. Kawandi suits me perfectly right now, but a Lucy Boston EPP/Kawandi enterprise has emerged and I smile as I type because these blocks aren't made with fabrics deeply beloved. Wholly scrappy and somewhat meh, these prints are from my early stitching days and even as late as last summer, when I pledged myself to complete these blocks, I had no plan to actually USE them. I merely wanted them completed.

Fast forward a few months, when I discovered Kawandi. Then a few more months when the Spirit said, "Hey, make a wild quilt with these!" Wild in that the top is three hunks of solids fabric, two inexpensive and one from Kona. Handstitched together, then laid atop a recently acquired flannel flat sheet but bordered with thin strips of fave prints, hand-stitched together. Then the Lucy Boston (LB) blocks were arranged on top of that batting-included quilt sandwich, with two-inch hexagons basted in a variety of old and new fabrics act as intermediaries between the LB blocks. Pin the whole thing within an inch of its weird-quilt life (using ALL my good safety pins, then breaking into those lesser admired), then applique two, maybe three blocks, a few hexagons, then grow weary of the entire endeavor and toss it onto a bed upstairs, then the office work table once guests arrive. Then after everyone has departed, haul it back to the living room with no firm plan of when to return to appliqueing those blocks securely. Until one morning, when the mood strikes, and suddenly I'm appliqueing a block and a hexagon each morning, finding immense pleasure in said process, which I didn't do this morning but am writing about in detail as if my life depended on it.

Lol.

Because sometimes the unexpected becomes essential and meaningful beyond all expectation. Last summer when I had Covid, stitching the remaining Lucy Boston blocks was a way to keep myself busy and not contaminate more favoured projects. Then it turned into a manner to finally finish those LB blocks that had felt like millstones around my neck! And then.... It evolved into what is the oddest quilt I have ever made, hand-sewn and not super-aesthetically appealing yet charming in an old-schooly way that clamors to be loved on HARD when the temperatures drop considerably, what with that cozy flannel back and its generous size, hehehe.

21 April 2025; the Lucy Boston/Kawandi quilt is underway, covering most of a queen size bed, lol. A WHOLE LOTTA hand-sewing awaits, probably why it didn't last long downstairs until I could properly wrap my head around all that handstitching.

Which has very little to do with why we own chickens, maybe that adventure will always remain a mystery. And mysteries are good, because knowing all the whys and wherefores can strip out the marvelous breezy spirit that permeates surprises. Because sometimes surprises are WONDERFUL.

Like this strange quilt. Like owning chickens. Like so many little and large plot points that emerge in our realms for no apparent purpose other than to make us smile. The things we never dream of doing can proffer enormous satisfaction and joy; may your life be filled with that lovely gift of unpredicted bliss today! 

The state of a dream

The quilt I was working on perhaps at the time the excerpt below was written, May 2015.

On a day when sixty-two years ago Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. gave his "I Have a Dream" speech, as well as the day after two young children were murdered in yet another horrific shooting, I sat to read aloud chapters of a novel first written perhaps a decade previously. I've said many prayers for those killed and wounded in Minneapolis, their beloveds and caregivers too. I've pondered the state of Dr. King's dream, how far away we seem from such solidarity and freedom. And I've smiled at words gifted to me by grace, gathered in a manuscript, and now close to being released for whatever purpose God has in mind.

Here's the chapter I just read. Set in October 1962 at the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis, an Oregon artist and a Polish pastor hint toward the truths of their pasts and how life works in such mysterious manners.

 

Chapter77

 

WhenMarek woke that morning, a mild headache lingered at his temples. It had been avicious throbbing for the last two days, only abating on Wednesday night whenhe’d led a packed service in what to him wasn’t more than prayers beseechingpeace. He hadn’t labored over the short sermon, hadn’t wrung his hands choosingthe few hymns. He had been relieved for a brief respite from that miserableheadache, which then plagued him all day Thursday. And now, Friday morning, itwas trying to decide whether to abate or again pound the back of his brain,cruelly crawling forward until all he could do was close his eyes and pray forhealing.

Ashe got out of bed, then dressed, the ache teased, flashing pain alternatingwith no discomfort at all, making Marek wonder for how much longer could hecope. He also pondered if two world leaders felt this unwell, maybe Kennedy,but as for Khrushchev…. Then Marek berated himself, for it was unfair toautomatically label the Soviet as the villain. The Americans must have provokedsuch an action, but he might be the only one in that small town thinking thatway. Marek smiled, reaching the kitchen, then starting a pot of coffee. He hadconsidered making a cup of tea, but perhaps a stronger brew was necessary.

Heate a light breakfast, the headache coming and going. He didn’t take anyaspirin, for it hadn’t made a dent previously. When Eileen Kenny arrived, healmost sent her home, for he didn’t feel at all like doing pastoral work. Inher anxious eyes he saw the need for some kind of break from the recent week’sgloom. He smiled as the pain began to inch its way toward his temples, whereall week it had served blow after crushing blow. Those men had better decidesome sort of conclusion, Marek thought to himself, or one transplanted Polewould consider drastic measures.

Bymid-day, Mrs. Kenny fixed lunch for herself and Marek, then returned to herdesk. Marek had forced himself to eat, feeling sick to his stomach as paingripped his head like a vice. He knew the source and felt somewhat ashamedafter all these years that greed for power, coupled with a stiff dose ofstupidity, could still affect him. He’d been assaulted by similar headacheswhen in seminary as the Soviets took over Poland. They were less oppressivethan the Nazis certainly, but Marek hadn’t missed an iron fist being tightly clampedaround all of Eastern Europe. When he’d fled to Britain, the headaches hadstayed behind; this was the first time he’d been so afflicted outside his homenation. Not even when leaving Maggie had he felt this wretched. Her rejectionhad hurt his heart, he wouldn’t deny that, but the gluttony and blindness ofgovernments seemed to grate on him more, which he knew was a remnant of growingup during the war. To Marek, there had been only one conflict, and regardlessof what waited on the horizon, no other confrontation would ever usurp it. Noteven what Kennedy and Khrushchev were embroiled in, for while a nuclear attackwould be abominable, the atrocities perpetrated on his native soil wereuntouchable for their evil.

Yet,he couldn’t say that to anyone in this country, for it would sound like he hadnever gotten over those days, which he had, even in the midst of a now ragingheadache that nearly made him wish to be dead. Marek needed to sleep off whathe could, then hope when he woke two men, one not much older than he, wouldhave found a reasonable answer to a terrible situation. But it wasn’t the worstthat had happened, if it happened, hereminded himself. The last news he’d heard on television wasn’t promising, buteven while feeling so poorly, Marek knew God was in control.

Marekleft the kitchen, finding Eileen busy behind her typewriter. She gazed up andhe nodded to her. “I’m going to lie down for a bit, see if I can’t get this….”

Beforehe could finish, a knock interrupted. Eileen stood, but Marek motioned for herto remain seated. “I’ll get it,” he said quietly.

“Pastor,you’re in no shape to….”

Hesmiled, which made his head throb more. “No, I’ll just tell them another time.”

“Noyou won’t,” she frowned as another knock resonated. “You’ll….”

Marekstepped away, smiling through the pain, for she was right. He probably wouldn’tsend them away, unless it was Mrs. Harmon, complaining about the depletedchrysanthemums along the far side of the church. Those flowers had bloomed, butnot to that woman’s high standards, and Marek had even instructed the gardenerto add some fertilizer.

AsMarek neared the front door, he slowed his steps. Perhaps whoever had knockedmight turn back, for usually parishioners would enter the church unannounced,calling for the pastor, or Mrs. Kenny if they were there on church business. Itwas slightly odd for someone to knock, but that might make it easier for Marekto excuse himself, which he would if he wasn’t truly needed.

Reachingthe double doors, he opened one, then smiled despite the brutal ache coursingthrough his head. “Eric, hello.” Marek spoke as if no pain existed. “How areyou?”

“I’mfine, but how are you? Is this a bad time?”

Marekshook his head, which didn’t ease the pain, in fact, it made him nauseous. Buthe continued to smile, though he squinted. “No, not a bad time at all. Please,come inside.”

Thepainter loitered outside the doors. “No, you look, well, awful.” Then Ericflashed a brief grin. “You look like Jane did a few months ago when she made usall suffer. I’ll come back another time.”

Marekalmost nodded as a wave of pain engulfed him so furiously, he thought he wouldfall over. There was nothing for him to grasp other than the side of the door,but that would have looked odd. “No actually, come in,” he muttered. Then hecleared his throat, which reverberated like a gong through his brain. Slowly hestepped back, but did grip the edge of the door. “Let’s find ourselves someseats. I’ve been fighting a headache for days now.”

“Areyou sure, I mean….”

Marekblinked, seeing two Eric Snyders standing inside the vestibule. As thosefigures merged into one, the pain subsided long enough for Marek to nod. “Yes,of course. Would you like some coffee?”

“Onlyif you’re having a cup.”

Marektook deep breaths, then smiled as pain smashed into the front of his brain likewaves crashing into the cliffs of Dover. But these waves weren’t fast,permitting the pastor brief snatches where there was no pain at all. Now hissmile was wide as he heard Mrs. Kenny approach, asking if she could make afresh pot of coffee. Marek nodded as Eric requested a biscuit, to which EileenKenny sighed. Then all three walked into the church kitchen, Marek letting theother two lead the way.

 

Tenminutes later the men were seated alone, mugs of steaming coffee and a plate ofcookies between them. The headache continued to flirt at Marek’s temples, butas Eric made small talk, mostly about his daughter, the pain didn’t seem as badas earlier. Marek was pleased to hear that Jane was well; it was a relief toconsider something other than what had gripped the consciousness of nearlyeveryone Marek had encountered. Small children were safe from this horror, aboutthe only ones untouched.

ThenEric cracked his knuckles, which to the pastor echoed like gunshots. The painflared, then launched a frontal assault, but Marek stared at the slightlyyounger man in front of him. “So Eric, what brings you here today?”

Ericleaned forward, taking another cookie from the plate. He munched thoughtfully,then swallowed. “I was gonna paint last night, but it was too dark to see.Lynne thought I’d lost my mind, well, she didn’t say that but….” He smiled,finished the cookie, then sipped his coffee. “It was too late to startsomething, though I did get to a little activity this morning. Haven’t beenable to do much other than stew all week, but I’m sure I’m not the only one.”

“No,you’re probably not.” Marek’s voice was even, but the pain was intense, and heclosed his eyes briefly to no avail. He opened his eyes, again finding two EricSnyders. “I haven’t been able to concentrate either, I must say.”

“Yoursermon on Wednesday would belie that fact.”

Mareksmiled, in part from Eric’s astute tone, and that the pain had diminished.“Well, I didn’t work too hard on that piece, I’ll admit.”

“Isuppose you didn’t need to.”

Thesilence following Eric’s last word hung like a thick mist in the kitchen. Marekfound it hard to breathe, although his head didn’t ache. He wasn’t sure if lackof oxygen was the reason, yet as he tried to draw air into his lungs, his brainwas still pain-free. He marveled at this until he choked. Then the painreturned, as did breath into his chest.

Butoddly, Eric didn’t ask if he was all right. He took another cookie, dipped itinto his coffee, then ate the whole biscuit in one bite. Marek watched thoseactions as though he was standing outside of himself, observing how Eric didn’tmake eye contact, chewing with his mouth closed, while the man across heavedair in and out of his mouth. Marek was that man, attempting to place oxygeninto himself, but still it was difficult. Then he noticed that again Eric wasgoing to crack his knuckles. For some reason, Marek didn’t wish to hear thatsound. Slipping back into himself, he grabbed Eric’s hands before the painterhad a chance to do so.

Theystared at each other. “Does that bother you?” Eric asked softly. Then hesmiled. “It drives Stanford nuts, like I’m purposely ruining my hands.”

Marekshook his head, then he grinned. “It’s just that I have this awful headacheand….” Suddenly the pain was gone. He blinked several times, releasing Eric’shands, then placing his own along his temples. They didn’t ache, they didn’teven twinge. They felt as usual, no tenderness or throbbing of any sort. Mareksmiled widely, clasping his hands in front of him on the table. “Actually, tryit, cracking your knuckles I mean.”

“Areyou sure?”

Mareknodded.

Thesound resonated through the kitchen and Marek could hear Eileen pause hertyping. Yet there was no lingering effect within Marek other than a brief flashas though from thousands of miles away Stanford Taylor could sense what hismost talented client had just done. Hopefully not, Marek chuckled inwardly.Stanford was probably ruing the possible catastrophe.

“Areyou all right?” Eric’s voice was still soft. “Pastor?”

Againtheir eyes met, but this time Marek Jaworski didn’t see Eric Snyder. He saw hisfather, or was it his mother? Perhaps it was his older brother Dominik, hisyounger sister Ania, or…. A momentary pain seeped all through him, for in thosebrief seconds, Eric’s eyes reminded Marek of Klaudia. Then Marek smiled, forthat memory was so faint, as if he had willed it into non-existence. Hisparents and siblings’ images were strong, those of other relatives too. Henever forgot them; their lives were woven all through his. He carried the hopesand dreams of so many, his entire extended family wiped out in one stroke, butstill living within the guise of one man. Strange that he didn’t get theseparalyzing headaches more often, he wondered, fully aware he needed to giveEric an answer. It was only Eric sitting across from Marek, no one else stillalive whom Marek loved.

“I’m…fine,”the pastor answered slowly. Then he shook his head, but no ache accompanied.“Actually, I’ve felt awful all week. Right before you arrived, I was going totry to sleep.”

“Oh,I’m sorry.” Eric scooted his chair away from the table. “I’ll go now, let youget to….”

“No,it’s passed, the pain I mean.” Marek leaned forward, then shivered, he couldn’thelp it. Yes, the pain was gone, but something, or someone, had been placedlike a ghost at his feet. Eric’s eyes were suddenly a reminder to a momentMarek never considered. He stared at the painter’s face, but Eric looked nodifferently than the last time they had spoken, which wasn’t on Wednesdayevening. Perhaps it was last Sunday, before this whole crazy business with Cubabegan. Or was made known to the public, Marek allowed.

“Whatdo you see, what’re you looking for?” Eric asked.

NowMarek smiled. “You remind me of some…one.” Was the resemblance to a person or athing, Marek wondered. Or perhaps both.

“FromBritain or….” Eric paused. “Poland?”

“Definitelyof home.” Marek took a deep breath, then smiled widely. “So Eric, what broughtyou here today?”

Thepainter glanced at the plate of cookies, then to his coffee cup. Finally he metthe pastor’s gaze. “I spent much of last night staring at the painting of you andJane.” Eric sighed, then nearly cracked his knuckles again, making both menlaugh. Eric stood, pushing his chair to the table. He leaned against the farkitchen counter, then moved to the open door. Closing it most of the way, hereturned to his spot along the counter. Then he stared at the pastor. “Iwondered about your sermon on Wednesday. It was perfect, you know.”

“Well,thank you. Again, I didn’t spend much time on it.”

“LikeI said, you didn’t need to.” Briefly Eric gripped himself, then shook out hisarms. “I painted that one of you and Jane like I do all my works, or most ofthem. I put what I feel onto the canvas, then later I see what’s there. Andsometimes I see even more after a few weeks or months have passed. Last night,last night I saw….” Eric hesitated, then continued. “I saw what happened to youin Poland. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude on your past, but I saw it andwhen set alongside all that’s happening now….”

Mareknodded, unable to speak, but deep relief flooded his heart. No one knew, otherthan one Lutheran minister back home, for Marek had barely been able to speakof that day, or not fully. Over several months Pastor Nowak had slowly drawnthe truth from a traumatized teenager. But one concealed element that Marek hadnever shared with anyone now lingered on the tip of his tongue.

Steppingto where the pastor sat, Eric pulled the closest chair away from the table. Hesat down, but left a few feet between them. He started to speak, then seemed toreflect upon what he had planned to say. Then Eric took a deep breath as ifgathering the necessary courage. In those seconds, Marek wondered to which partEric would inquire first. If it was to his lost family, perhaps that would beeasier. If it was to…. If somehow Eric had discerned that other point, Marekwasn’t sure how he would react. But Marek couldn’t talk; if Eric wished tobring all of this into the open, he would do it alone.

Marekbegan to chuckle as that thought ran through his head, then laughter spilledfrom him. The typewriter again stopped, then footsteps could be heard rushingdown the corridor. Marek gazed at the closed door, which was then opened, withthe befuddled secretary staring at him. “Are you all right Pastor?”

Ericturned around as Eileen tapped her foot, sounding much like her typewriter, orwhen Eric had cracked his knuckles. But instead of making Marek’s head pound,his laughter broadened, for it was true what he had seen that day twenty yearsago. It had saved his life, which now led to this day in America, sitting nearthe only man who might understand. Yet how was that possible, or were they allmad? Then Marek had one more belly laugh. Madness resided in Washington D.C.,in Moscow, and in Cuba. In that simple church kitchen grace reigned, no otherway to describe it.

“I’mjust fine Mrs. Kenny. Sorry for interrupting your work.”

Shegazed suspiciously at him, then at Eric. Then she slowly walked away, althoughMarek could still hear her footsteps. When those were gone, he stood, closingthe door firmly. He retook his seat, then glanced at the painter. Those eyes,how had Marek missed those eyes? Perhaps Jane had precluded the pastor fromseeing anything else, or the paintings had stolen his attention, or…. “Howlong,” he said quietly. “How long have you known?”

Erictook a breath, then let it out. “Like I said, I saw it last night. I felt alittle, well, dumb, though perhaps it wasn’t something I truly wanted to see.”

“Notmany do, too much for most to take.”

Ericnodded. Then he allowed the hint of a smile. “And Pastor, what do you see?”

Fora second, Marek flinched. Then he chuckled, inhaling deeply. He let it out,then leaned toward Eric. “I see something in your eyes, something very familiarto me. Have your eyes always looked this way?”

Thetone Marek used was gentle, also probing. To his surprise, Eric didn’t cringe.“Not always Pastor. Sometimes they’re very different.”

Mareknodded, gazing down at Eric’s feet. Since he’d met this man, Marek had taken aninterest in him, his wife, and of course their beautiful baby. But now Marekstudied Eric’s left foot, then his right. The shoes were the same, but the wayEric turned his left foot inwardly, it was as if he was trying to obscuresomething.

Thenthe men’s eyes met; Eric nodded, then smiled. “My left foot was damaged when Iwas young. My father caused it. But it, well, it’s been healed.” Then Ericlaughed. “That was the beginning of my search for faith, though I didn’t knowit at the time.”

Marekdidn’t inquire about the cause of the deformity, but he smiled. “Sometimesfaith needs a long dormant season.”

“Indeedit does. And sometimes it springs forth without warning.” Then Eric chuckled.“Like daffodils. Yours didn’t bloom for months.”

“Yes.I thought Mrs. Harmon was going to haul me to the police.”

Bothmen laughed. Then Eric spoke. “Your words on Wednesday. Maybe they took littletime to craft, but to me they were significant.”

“Muchlike your paintings.”

“Indeed,”Eric smiled. He leaned back in his chair, straightened his legs, then bent hisknees at an equal stance. “Pastor, I just wanted to….” Eric stopped, thenstood. Then he leaned against the counter again. “I just wanted to thank youfor Wednesday, for what you said. No matter what happens, we’re all in God’scare.”

Marekgazed at the man across from him, then again peered at Eric’s eyes. “Please,call me Marek.”

Itwas all the pastor could say, but Eric nodded. “Marek it is. Well, I should begetting home. Lynne’s probably wondering what happened to me.”

Thosewords hung in the air, what Eric hadn’t asked outright, but perhaps now itwasn’t necessary. Would Marek ever inquire about the painter’s eyes; he wasn’tsure. But every time Marek gazed at this man, that would be between them, notas a secret but some other binding force. Maybe they never would speak of it,or maybe…. “I’m sure she’s aware how time slips away.” Marek’s tone was light.“Or maybe she’s making one of those delicious pies.”

“Ifshe is, shall I call you with an invite for supper?”

Mareknodded without thinking, then smiled at himself. “Please do, unless it would bean imposition.”

Thepastor expected the painter to smile politely, but Eric wore a thoughtful gaze.“Your presence at our table would never be cause for concern.”

Alump formed at the base of Marek’s throat, although it wasn’t painful. Itharbored a portent that if accepted might significantly modify the relationshipbetween the parties. Marek stared at Eric’s eyes, seeking reception of such anaccord, which would be more lasting than what would hopefully be reckonedbetween America and the Soviet Union. Eric’s hearty nod gave Marek his answer.

“Wellthen, consider it a deal, unless Mrs. Snyder has other plans.”

Ericsmiled brightly. “I’m sure Lynne would absolutely agree, not to mention Jane’sendorsement. I think she’s missing her Polish lessons.”

Marek’sheart throbbed just a little, then he smiled warmly. “You go home, then let meknow. If another evening’s better….”

“Let’ssay six tonight, or would earlier be….”

“Whateverworks for you all.”

“Allright,” Eric chuckled. “Let’s say five, then we can spend more of the eveningtalking. Or maybe the mood’ll strike and you’ll find yourself posing again withmy daughter. That portrait of you both won’t be around much longer. I thinkI’ll need another to take its place.”

Marek nodded, pleased not only for theinvitation, or the opportunity to be painted. He eagerly wished to be includedin the Snyder family for a multitude of reasons, the main being the chance tobetter understand exactly why God had spared his life and the irregular mannerin which he had done so.

Making peace with slow revisions

Where I left off yesterday with Straight to the Heart....

Pondered while languidly cutting fabrics for another quilt (while listening to the soundtrack for Life Stories: The Enran Chronicles Book Two, see here for that playlist)....

Well, yeah, slow revisions. Past Me is probably wondering what the hey I'm on about while Future Me nods in appreciation. Yup, slow revisions, uh-huh. SLOW REVISIONS. How slow? Well, I'd planned to publish Straight to the Heart: The Hawk Book Three ten days ago. If I can finish the revisions by the end of this week I'll be thrilled. Then there's a cover to fashion, blurbs to craft.... Plenty to do when releasing a novel but first the novel needs to have all the i's dotted and t's crossed. And while Past Me could do all that by the twinkle of her nose, Present Me just doesn't have it all that together.

Such is aging, such is life. Makes me grateful I only answer to me, myself, and I when it comes to the writing, let me also say. No one breathing down my neck that a book has to ready RIGHT FREAKING NOW. Not even I do that anymore, LOL. At fifty-nine years old, I have grasped that all things happen in their own good time. And that is JUST FINE.

I also felt that recently when pressing fabrics for some autumnal project that might not begin with me throwing squares onto the quilt wall. These fabrics could first be employed by beloveds planning a visit next month. Which is VERY EXCITING, also again letting me know that a heap of collected squares probably have a purpose beyond one quilt. Well, I have considered after machine stitching a quilt top for this year, what about using those squares for a Kawandi version perhaps with a 2026 completion?

LOL! That's me, always thinking, why I get into good trouble with so many novels, etc. Because as soon as I wrap up Straight to the Heart, then comes Home and Far Away, Book Four of The Enran Chronicles (the first chapter of that story is available at the end of Far Away from Home). That novel's release is currently slated for sometime in September, and I am *SO HOPING* to make that happen. Future Me isn't giving anything away concerning that plan, merely giving me a glance as if to say, "Cool your jets honey. One story at a time."

Future Me could also be referring to quilt projects, haha. Here's another Lucy Boston block in the process of being appliqued onto a quilt. I try to do one block per morning, tedious sewing but still rewarding, especially once the block is affixed!

I'm fine with her admonitions. I'm also fine with my own dreams. I'm fine with a stack of fabrics waiting to be ironed, but I can only do so many a day because after a while my right meniscus gets cranky, so I then have to sit down. Because I'm not in my forties anymore. I'm pushing sixty, 'nuff said.

Well, almost enough said. While cutting fabric, I was listening to the playlist noted above, reminding me of when I started writing The Enran Chronicles. Reminding myself how sagas emerge from nowhere, The Hawk the same. How sewing popped into my life while vicariously shopping with my eldest in Joann eleven years ago. How life changes every day, and making peace with those changes is as important as celebrating the changes themselves. Because making peace in this life MATTERS GREATLY.

Okay, now enough has been said. Enjoy a beautiful Wednesday!

Dorothy's quilt Part Two

The original albeit augmented quilt laid out as I affixed the back, the first part of the Kawandi process! Notable tears and rips are visible, why this quilt required a complete overhaul.

This is heavy on pictures as I want to illustrate my Kawandi process. Because once I decided how to upcycle Dorothy's quilt, I got right to work as visiting summer beloveds allowed, hehehe.

The outer perimeter is attached! I had to be careful NOT to stitch the quilt to the bed, hahaha.

I write that due to the fact I started refurbishing this quilt in early May, then it lay dormant for nearly all of June and part of July. When I returned from keeping an eye on the grandsons on this sixth of this month, I dedicated most of my sewing hours to this effort, although the project feels more drawn out than those few months suggest.

Rounds accumulate to the point I could sew in the living room, always a pleasure! Especially fun is watching the changing nature of the quilt, although I was slightly aggrieved to erase all of Dorothy's AMAZING EPP.

Perhaps like I said in the previous post, the length is due to how long it took me to discover the best way to alter this beautiful quilt, both the actual process and my releasing an English paper piecing treasure to whatever it was meant to become, a Kawandi-style cozy.

How precious is that EPP star? And yet soon it would be obscured by new prints....

Have I done any patching on it since we moved to Humboldt County? I truly don't know. If I haven't, that's four years of it falling further into tatters, the poor thing! However, once I discovered Kawandi quilting, the answer to this quilt's resurrection was clear.

Adding new rounds occurred on my work table in the office. And after a while, I tired of straight pins poking me so I switched to safety pins.

Make a new back for it, then begin from the outside perimeter, going in. And don't forget the fabric love, lol.

Progress report! By the middle of July, I had reached this point, but all those patches made for tricky decisions and stitching, a great time to set this aside while the grandsons visited, lol.

Fabrics are a mix of Kaffe Fassett, Anna Maria Parry (AMP), Rashida Coleman-Hale, and Moda Grunge. The rounds are a Fassett/Coleman-Hale/Grunge mix followed by Parry, with a helping of Tilda because I had a fat quarter collection eager to be incorporated. Then there are the patches....

Working the patches in became a stop/start procedure. The required concentration was more than I had assumed, wondering how to include this and that scrap. Ultimately I am VERY HAPPY with my decisions.

I tried to save those large enough and ones that carried a heft in my soul. The center of the quilt is almost all old patches, other than two AMP squares, one from her new textile line and another from her Free Spirit days. As in my first Kawandi-inspired quilt, most of this is sewn by hand. And I mean nearly all of it, hah!

The orange scrap with cream flowers in the center of this picture is from my second quilt, stitched back in 2014. And yup, it was SAVED.

Hand-stitching is my jam now that tinnitus makes using my sewing machine an earplug and noise cancelling headphones effort. Having said that, I am planning a quick-in-comparison machine pieced quilt as my next shiny because I gave away my autumnal quilt earlier this year to a group collecting quilts for LA fire victims.

The back was made from a couple of lengths I was happy to use for just this purpose. The bottom print is from Joann, a nice tie-in within my mind.

And despite it being the end of August, in Humboldt County autumn is nearly here! Which is why I so desperately wanted to finish Dorothy's quilt to lay at the end of my side of the bed. And now it's done. Currently dwelling downstairs because yes, it is still summer, and sometimes a heavy-ish lap quilt fits the bill. One steeped in colour and memories, and filled with the awesome handiwork of a woman named Dorothy.

Draped over my rocking chair, where I used it this morning! If you love hand-sewing, I wholly recommend researching Kawandi quilting. It's truly how I want to make every quilt, but I am still grateful for a machine, hehehe.

Wherever you are, my quilty friend, thanks for a tremendous gift that will outlast both of us. 

Dorothy's quilt Part One

27 January 2018; two patches already applied by machine. Yet the interior remains untouched, albeit compromised.

Amid reading aloud Straight to the Heart: The Hawk Book Three, I did a little photographic research to discuss my latest quilt finish. To my surprise, I found I've had this quilt, pictured above in January of 2018, since the previous summer. That's eight years, my goodness! Where has the time gone?

The quilt was already in need of repair when I received it. Yet to cloak the gorgeous stitching took time for me to admit. (Future Me was probably rolling her eyes, fully aware of what awaited this quilt, lol!)

Yet this post isn't about time's fickleness, lol. It's about a beautiful English paper-pieced quilt made by a woman named Dorothy, her last name starting with S, inked on the back of the quilt in two places. She deserved such recognition because this diamond star pattern is GORGEOUS. Well, it was gorgeous. Now it remains as one snippet of what has become a Kawandi-inspired cozy by yours truly.

Because of that Kawandi element, I've decided to wax lyrically in two posts about one quilt that came into my possession rather by accident, or what appeared at the time innocuously. But does anything in our lives truly happen by random accident? I don't think so, hence my need to blather about this quilt in my usual rambling style. Because...this quilt could very well have been a huge inspiration into my journey of English paper piecing, which I didn't take up until 2018. Did staring at it make me think, "Hey, I could do this!" I will say in staring at it, I found how fragile it was, especially after I began to love on it hard, and wash it with impunity.

Less than two weeks later, on 9 February 2018 the patching process had begun. 

Washing it began to unravel fibres whose origin I do not know. Washing it produced a need to patch said fibres, which began in January of 2018. I didn't know squat about Kawandi sewing back then, hadn't even began to dabble in EPP. All I knew was this amazing quilt required treatment. And so started a journey that ended late yesterday morning.

Some of these patches are preserved in the quilt, but I couldn't save all of them.

I snuggled under it last night, a beautiful, slightly hefty lap quilt that I am quite attached to, but certainly willing to pass on to whoever might see it and adore it equally. Dorothy's quilt landed in a Wisconsin thrift shop where my sister-in-law found it, so no cozy is safe from being re-homed. Yet that's part of the beauty, how something so precious can be claimed, admired, then turned into something else. I adopted Dorothy's stunning creation, loved it thoroughly, then changed it into a different quilt. What a gift, in my mind, that something so delicately hand-crafted has been re-crafted into whatever this quilt is next to become.

Photographed about forty minutes ago, here is my second Kawandi-inspired quilt. Needless to say, I LOVE IT!

More about my beloved Kawandi-style in the next post. Thanks for listening to my rambles. And thanks to Dorothy, on whatever plane she exists, for stitching such a gem.

A good day for soup and a quilt finish

Most of these scraps were added previously. Under the pink and purple flower is all that remains of the original English paper pieced quilt (white and black stripes and green floral prints).

A couple of days ago I bought the necessary groceries for green bean and sausage soup. I was going to fix it yesterday, but better tasks emerged, and I put it off until today. Which was the perfect day because we started out with lots of marine layer unlike yesterday which was sunny from the get-go.

Yes it's August, but in Humboldt County, most days are good to have soup.

Most days are also good for a heavy-ish lap quilt. Well, many days are right for such a cozy. Last night, with a window behind me open, was the perfect temperature to hand-stitch, and hand-sew I did until I was too tired to stitch further. I really wanted to finish the quilt last night. It simply didn't happen.

The yellow-headed pin marks my stopping place.

This quilt has been taking up sofa space for...months. Not sure how many, as I don't keep track of when a quilt transitions from the sewing room to the living room. It's felt like a LONG TIME, but part of that is how for ages I have wanted to upcycle this particular quilt that I didn't make, but was given by my sister-in-law at least five years ago, a thrift store find she wasn't particularly attached to. Maybe six years ago; it feels like a LONG TIME, but lately time spins its own, well, timeline. Time goes faster than ever in my life, so it's hard to judge unless I look at pictures, but we've lived in Humboldt County for four years and I know this quilt, in its previous form, hung on the line at our Silicon Valley house, so yeah, this quilt has been through the proverbial wringer, but currently it's in the dryer, lol. It's a new baby, so to speak, and I can't wait to display it in full sometime tomorrow.

For now photos are of the last little bit being stitched earlier today. This morning before I started soup, then after said soup was enjoyed for lunch. It was slow-going because the center of the quilt was a little poofy despite being pinned and I wanted to avoid an obvious paunch as best I could. Taking many of the final stitches one by one, I adjusted the gathered fabric, hoping that it won't be awkward after the laundering.

Finished! And as a spoiler, once out of the dryer no paunch remained, woo hoo!

In another half-hour I'll know how successful I was.

In the meantime, I wanted to write about completing this quilt, in that it's always nice to note a finish. Which opens the door for other projects to stretch their wings, ahem. I've plotted out how the Mandolin quilt will be arranged, but I truly need to nail down ALL the edge and corner blocks before starting to sew the whole thing together. Sigh. So I've counted out all the necessary paper pieces, bagged them up, and retrieved the fabrics for said pieces. Tomorrow I'll press those prints, cut them, then start that process, which will eventually lead to another completed quilt.

One after another, like how days, weeks, and months stack up. Like making soup this morning, then I don't have too cook for a day or three. My husband is recovering nicely, in fact he's currently outside, enjoying the garden. I hope he was able to close the door to the chicken run, which really means I hope the chickens made their way into the coop without dawdling. Last night they kept faking me out, going into the coop then turning right around and coming back outside, cheeky chicks! Nadia had been a straggler, during which time I snapped the photo below.

But the dryer just chimed, EEP! Time to go collect a newly refurbished quilt. More about it soon.... 

Mid-week musings

Little Camilla in the run from a couple days ago.

We went away for a brief sojourn, returning home on what's turned into a warm summer's day. Is it late summer already? It's the twentieth of August, and it feels like summer only began. The chickens are eight weeks old yesterday. They seemed happy to see me this morning, also thrilled to be let into their run, lol.

After a day spent shopping for groceries and getting resettled at home, I'm sitting down this evening with the usual thrills; handsewing, baseball, then a visit to the coop to collect the feeder and see if the chickens feel like leaping onto my right forearm. Sometimes life is that simple, sometimes.

Sometimes driving to the San Francisco Bay Area so my husband can have successful skin cancer treatment intrudes. That's what happened yesterday. But twenty-some hours later we're home and he's feeling okay, and the chickens have little or no memory of being in their coop for a day. A neighbor checked on them for us, and all were fine.

From left: Nadia, Camilla, and an unnamed chicken with Welsummer behind them. They love pecking spiderwebs off the door.

Just like my spouse; well, he's a little tired still, taking it easy in his recliner. We're very fortunate that great medical facilities are only a few hours south. And that we left said facility without needing to return thanks to dissolvable stitches, hah! Our daughter spent time with me in the waiting room, what a blessing! I'm still wrapping my head around our whirlwind trip, all it means and how life continues its funny manner of moving onto the next chapter.

Anyways, that's us. Tonight I'm going to sew, see if chickens are feeling feisty, make some tea, and listen to the SF Giants and the SD Padres. And give thanks for healing, safe homecomings, and happiness.

Because sometimes life is pretty damn FINE! 

 

New roost (while still pondering what needs to be done)

 

Roost in the coop.

Heads-up: This is about my belief in Christ, America's further descent into authoritarianism, and how those notions weave in and out of my gray matter. Oh, and a little about chickens, quilts, and books.

It's Saturday morning. Foggy. Gray. Warm for Humboldt County (Sixty-six degrees Fahrenheit). I wanted to write about the QIP (quilt in progress) in my Go Bag, as I'm prepping said quilt for further Round the World installments. But I also wanted to share the great roost my husband built a couple of days ago for the chickens, although they aren't super keen on it, yet. Only Owl gives it nod, again this morning hopping onto it, then reaching the second rung, then jumping to the floor. One of these days all the chicks will be perched on it, and not that far in the future.

Go Bag quilt: Small. Pretty. Peaceful. Necessary.

My heart this morning is torn; Washington D.C. is becoming a different city than what I visited a few years ago, what with the administration's attempts at a takeover still in place. I want to do something meaningful, so I pray for peace and justice. My Christian faith feels so.... Affirmed by what I believe in regard to Jesus Christ and so maligned by how the American government ignores what Jesus Christ truly came to do, which is to LOVE. There is no love in the president's actions in my nation's capital, very little love except for self at all in that man. Many Christians are following a blind guide, which I don't understand and yet all too well recognize. My husband likes to say that some people simply want a strongman despite all proof to his evil intents. As human beings, it appears we don't learn any lessons from the past, merely stumbling along from dictator to dictator while Rome burns.

Camilla top left, Owl top right, Barnevelders watching from the floor.

So first, the roost. We decided to build it because 1) It needed to happen and 2) My husband was in the mood to sort this out. Again the chicks are wary; the first night when we went out to retrieve their feed, all were huddled away from it like it was a silent Godzilla waiting to attack them in their sleep. I actually put Owl on it, then Camilla followed, both pullets climbing to the top rung, then having to figure out how to get down, lol. They walked to the right side, jumped onto the hay bale, then leapt to the floor. Smart chickens! The next day we saw poop on the rungs, so at some point somebody in the coop had tried it out. And as I said, this morning Owl sauntered along it, my bravest chicken, bless her!

Yes, God bless a chicken. God please bless my nation with calm, foresight, and less reliance on greedy, selfish, unGodly (in my opinion due to their actions/inactions) politicians. Since focusing on Lenten Bible readings since March, my peace quotient has risen, which has been GREAT because the shite quotient in America is zooming through the frickin' roof! Not that I want to ignore that nothing is perfect about ANY COUNTRY; America has no claim to be the best. However (again in my opinion) since the 20th of January, America has fallen to depths unseen in my lifetime certainly, and I've been around since before Richard Nixon. Yet as a believer in Jesus Christ, I must balance my fears for America with the better knowledge that a Saviour rose from the grave, righting all wrongs forevermore.

That's a great victory. It's a miracle. It's my truth, and the truth of others, many of them supporting a man who wants to crush democracy for good.

During Lent, and for weeks afterwards, I read Dietrich Bonhoeffer's Letters and Papers From Prison, as well as Love Letters From Cell 92, the letters exchanged between Bonhoeffer and his fiancee Maria von Wedemeyer. I also read a brief biography of the German theologian written by Eberhard Bethge, and was working through the Tegal Prison chapter in Bethge's larger biography until the chickens arrived. After we became chicken tenders (another of my husband's witticisms), I was barely able to maintain my daily devotional readings, yet those Biblical nuggets are ESSENTIAL to keeping my heart safe, my mind too. The wrongs being perpetrated in Washington D.C. and elsewhere in this nation are horrific, although I can't compare them to war zones like Gaza, Ukraine, Sudan, etc. Nor can I align them to what is happening to women in Afghanistan and similar places. There are levels of mayhem, and my goodness, I feel STEEPED in unpleasantness.

Am I supposed to say: Didn't we learn about this from WWII? Why are women and children still so disregarded? Why is the lust for power still so prevalent? Why doesn't LOVE matter more?

In A Love Story: The Enran Chronicles I wrote: Well is a deep subject, but why's even deeper. I have no answers for why shite still occurs. All I can do is what God puts on my heart moment by moment, like writing this post that doesn't proffer solutions, but does express my frustrations as well as my belief that no matter how BAD things get, something better waits. I don't mean chickens or quilts or novels. I do mean life eternal where no death or pain exists. Just weeks before Germany surrendered, Bonhoeffer was hung for his attempts to thwart Hitler, as was one of his brothers and two of his brothers-in-law. Over six million Jews were murdered in The Holocaust. Thousands of Palestinians have been killed by Israel. Millions of Afghani women and children are under threat by a government that cares less about them than my government cares about Americans. Shit happens EVERY DAY EVERYWHERE. Where is God, you can ask. According to Bonhoeffer, Christ is with those who suffer. Christ died for us because he loves us, not to rule over us. I have to grasp that with both hands, and what I do with that, well....

Chickens from about an hour ago, exploring the run before the rain began. My husband said they eventually huddled under the eves, then went back into the coop, tired of shaking off the rain.

Well is a deep subject. So is everything else in this post. Thanks be to God if you waded through all my considerations. Why is, again, even deeper. Off I go to get a shower and maybe ponder some why's if I feel so compelled.

Raising chickens (and wondering what else needs to be done)

 

Nadia Barnevelder in the mood to pose. All photos courtesy of my husband.

As if I'm on the cusp of eighty instead of sixty, ahem....

Well, that's how I felt a few days ago when I considered this post. I've achieved some good sleep in the interim, but I am NOT the woman I was three decades past. This is in regard to spending ten days with my grandsons, finding my energy levels depleted in a weird way that I chalk up to being close to sixty in the general realm. That actually happens next spring, but oh my goodness I felt every one of my fifty-nine years after saying See you later to those adorable grandkids, their mum, and her mother-in-law.

Now that I've been home a full week, I am indeed rested and somewhat relaxed in the grand scheme. The previous post notwithstanding or how Washington D.C. is being enveloped in an evil attempt at a dystopian but all too realistic dictatorial takeover, I am not exhausted or feeling extremely aged. The chickens help; I've spent some calm and sunny late afternoons in the run watching them frolic or sunbathe. Recently when I collect their feed in the evenings, if I get too close to the half-hay bale, they leap toward me, wishing to land on my shoulder! I've permitted them to hop/jump onto my left forearm; Owl did it last night while one of the Clones was the first the previous evening. I want to have a good relationship with these pullets, but I am NOT into them perching on my shoulder.

Owl and two clones (Barnevelders that aren't as hard to tell apart as they were when tiny).

They have been thoroughly enjoying the misty mornings in their run, scurrying about for anything that resembles a worm or other insect-like creature. We might get rain this weekend, which will be a great test for how they act in truly damp weather. Camilla has a prominent yellow comb compared to the other Welsummer chickens Owl and Little Camilla. One of the Barnevelders, Nadia, also has a distinct comb, quite pink, so if they are cockerels, I don't know that we'll keep them. Fertile eggs aren't my jam, even if these two chickens are rather tame. Time will tell, as they are just seven weeks old, another good month before their genders are sufficiently on display.

Sunning themselves near the ramp back into the coop.

What will I have accomplished in those four to five weeks? I'm contemplating a machine-pieced quilt (because I am not very good at saying NO to a project that sparkles brightly), I have The Hawk Book Three to continue reading aloud before releasing it HOPEFULLY this month, ahem. Then there's Book Four of The Enran Chronicles that I want to publish next month.... My artistic license feels expired, LOL! Are the chickens to blame, is it feeling old? What about our horrible government, the awful disasters occurring around the world?  While my faith-life is sustaining (And believe me I am VERY GRATEFUL for that!), the corporeal realm feels so heavy. I think part of my world-weariness is indeed getting older, as I've never approached sixty before, LOL not LOL. I've certainly hefted several novels and quilts simultaneously, but not where I am right now, watching my fifties slip away as every day passes.

Not to sound obsessed with aging, but let me just say that it was one thing to turn fifty, or forty, or even thirty. Sixty however.... DUDE! That's an entirely different kettle of fish!

A year or so ago (10 April 2024 to be exact) I blogged about various hoo haa, then slapped the semi-retirement label amid other markers. I haven't labeled an entry as semi-retirement since October of 2024, six months with eight posts, but then America elected a terrible president, so maybe I was distracted. Maybe I was just trying to keep my sanity. Maybe.... I'll finish this soon, but my husband needs my help with making the roost, LOL!

Yes Nadia, I too wonder about the state of the world.

Okay, outside beams are placed. He's working on the actual roost posts, but lunchtime beckons in another five minutes. I made split pea soup this morning, hence no reading aloud (yet), just writing this blog entry. About aging and semi-retirement and being thankful for peace while wondering if I'm doing enough to sustain calm around the planet. Is that my calling too? Can't I just write books and sew quilts and observe chickens? Chickens; how in the HECK did poultry enter our sphere????

????

I don't know other than that's what was on God's agenda for us. And if I want to conclude this before having lunch, I can't really say much more. That's my life these days; a little bit of me here, some over there, some where Future Me can't even find. Because a huge hunk of myself is cloistered in a safe place where all the confusion can't reach. And now it's really time for SOUP!

A post about Palestine

Twenty-eight-year-old Palestinian journalist and videographer Anas Al-Sharif was assassinated in an Israeli airstrike on Sunday. His team died as well, when their media tent was struck outside the Al-Shifa Hospital in Gaza City. The Israel Defense Forces (IDF) claimed he was a member of Hamas, but have offered no proof as validation, which has been strongly denied by Al Jazeera Arabic, his employer. They counter that Israel is smearing him to justify this murder.

Today's devotion in God Calling begins like this:

Remember no prayer goes unanswered. Remember that the moment a thing seems wrong to you, or a person's actions to be not what you think they should be, at that moment begins your responsibility to pray for those wrongs to be righted, or that person to be different.

A few months ago another Gaza photojournalist, Fatima Hassouna, was killed in a manner similar when her family's home was struck by an Israeli missile. She was touted by the IDF as "a Hamas member involved in attacks against Israeli soldiers." This was refuted by Sepideh Farsi, the director of the documentary Put Your Hand on Your Soul and Walk in which Hassouna was interviewed. Many within Hassouna's family were also murdered in the strike, occurring on April 16th of this year in Gaza City.

The devotion, which I read prior to sitting at my computer, continues thusly: 

Face your responsibilities. What is wrong in your country, its statesmen, its laws, its people? Think out quietly, and make these matters your prayer matters. You will see lives you never touch altered, laws made at your request, evils banished.

I took comfort from that passage, in part that my efforts to repudiate the abysmal works of America's current administration seem ineffective. Yet I am being called to continue those prayers, and other efforts, despite feeling little has changed.

Then I sat where I am right now, in front of my monitor, preparing to read through my current novel. Yet before I opened the manuscript, I clicked on various tabs to check what I find vital, and this was how I learned about the murder of Anan Al-Sharif. Which led to retrieving the sign at the top of this entry, which I displayed at a protest right after Fatima Hassouna was assassinated. The name alongside hers, Josiah Lawson, is that of a Humboldt State student murdered on April 15th, 2017, in a racially motivated attack that was never prosecuted by Humboldt County authorities due to racism.

The devotion continues:

Yes!, live in a large sense. Live to serve and to save. You may never go beyond one room, and yet you may become one of the most powerful forces for good in your country, in the world.

At times I feel absolutely helpless to battle the seemingly insurmountable evils that plague our planet, from wars and genocide to climate change and corruption. Yet my Christian faith compels me to continue efforts visible to few, but meaningful nonetheless. I cannot predict the outcomes for any of these atrocities; equally I cannot be silent both in my missives to God and on this blog.

Those missives ended this morning like this:

You may never see the mighty work you do, but I see it, evil sees it.... Love with me, sharers of my life.

This morning I pray for the liberation of Palestine, for peace in this world, and for strength to continue my efforts to be a channel of peace. May you join me on this road, and may peace be with you as well.