Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 3

Early afternoon (via moonlight) musings

There's a full moon under all that glow. And yes, a little star to the left. Keep an eye on that star in the next picture!

It's been a longish day. I was up early, but I got to enjoy the moon, although snapping a decent picture of said moon is a crapshoot and today, well.... It's an okay shot, and a few minutes later I went outside again with a different phone that didn't give me anything better, lol. And now it's ten hours later, and I just finished formatting Home and Far Away: The Enran Chronicles Book Four, which might be one of my all times fave novels I have written. And not to get too distanced from Straight to the Heart, but man, I am one lucky writer to have crafted such tender yet witty tales.

That I considered myself lucky doesn't begin to explain how I feel about this craft. I'd say blessed is a far better adjective, as it's solely by God's grace that I write anything, including this post. But some people aren't comfortable with blessed, and as Paul said in one of his letters to abstain from this or that as not to offend or burden one's brother, I'll leave it as originally stated, and truthfully what I initially thought:

I am one lucky writer.

Why am I lucky, you ask? I'm lucky because I get to write heartwarming love stories that nearly always have a happy ending. Even in a saga, cliffhangers aren't always the end of someone's world. With The Enran Chronicles, each novel acts as a standalone, although the one directly after it proffers a deeper meaning. Home and Far Away doesn't require a reader to have digested Far Away from Home, but it will certainly benefit someone to have read that book previously. Conversely, a reader needs to have Books One and Two read to enjoy Straight to the Heart. But hey, you readers approach my novels however makes you smile.

Now the moon has slipped behind the trees, but that star remains, hehehe!

These books make me smile, springing from places in my heart I didn't know required such faffing around. Five years for The Hawk, and as for The Enran Chronicles (TEC).... The current four books were all written in 2023, but the first chapter of Home and Far Away was hastily scribbled in May 2022, then shunted aside. Yet when I needed a reason to pursue TEC, there was that singular chapter, screaming to be included. And from one random chapter emerged the pulse of a story that one of these days I hope to complete.

Yeah, um, yup. One of these days I'll finish writing this series, God willing.

In the meantime, there's The Hawk, all ten novels of it, LOL! A story teeming with joys, sorrows, surprises, magical realism, and hope. Lots of hope! Right now I need hope, maybe you do too. I need a sense of everything truly is going to be all right. As a Christian, that's often how I feel, but not every day. Some days are darker than others, and yesterday was one of those, where everything felt MEH: We live on a crappy planet where people treat one another like shite. How can anything carry worth when we still belittle each other, still maim and kill and disrespect and ignore and....

Yeah, yesterday was one of THOSE days. I mulled that over a lot as I observed the moon this morning, then gazed eastward, finding no marine layer. Instead the hills emanated this strange orange glow, as though the sunrise might actually appear! Which is truly ironic because rain was forecast for today, and the next couple, yet the morning began as though no rain was waiting, nothing bad could happen. I saw Venus and Jupiter, in addition to our beautiful moon, giving thanks to God that it was a new day, and for a brief time, a bright one.

I don't mean to again diss the marine layer, but JEEZ LOUISE I am tired of dark, gray mornings. And in returning to my main theme, I am thrilled to have formatted what will be my next release. Because it does have a marvelous conclusion, reminding me that yeah, life can be head-scratching, but love wins out, and not merely because I wrote it thusly. Nature might bat last, but nature is also that stunning moon, that golden eastern sky, the blessed rain falling, making the chickens race into their coop. They strutted around for a while while sprinkles fell, but actual PRECIPITATION sent them indoors. It's kept me glued to my computer chair for much of this day, but it's nearly three p.m., about time to find something else that needs accomplishing. Like making the bed, doing some dishes, giving the chicks new water, and reveling in how blessed is this life despite all that pains.

I was snug under my Kawandi quilt, this shot lit by the provided moonlight, assuring that indeed, everything is gonna be okay (nod to Future Me intended!).

Yes blessed, and yes pains. But as I try to relate in my stories, a broken heart that has healed is capable of much more love. I know this from experience, but sometimes I forget. Today I remember, and today I am grateful. I'm a writer of hopeful fiction, and I'm deeply loved by more than my husband and family. May you know that peace too.

Straight to the Heart

It's always a PLEASURE to announce a new release! Straight to the Heart: The Hawk Book Three continues the saga of Eric and Lynne Snyder, as well as their best friends Sam and Renee Ahern. Add Stanford Taylor, Laurie Abrams and newcomer Marek Jaworski to the mix and this women's fiction/magical realism/historical fiction drama proffers joy, intrigue, and heartbreak all in a tightly knit 90K. And best of all, it's FREE!

(Unless you get it on Amazon; then it's ninety-nine cents.)

Set in spring of 1962, Lynne and Eric are about to realize their biggest dream, as parenthood knocks on their door. This thrill isn't theirs alone; Renee and Sam share in their exuberance, until Sam's sister Frannie makes a startling announcement. Meanwhile, Seth's continuing status in Minnesota stirs concern in his cousin Laurie, who doesn't believe Seth is being fully honest. As Eric and Lynne draw closer to their new pastor Marek Jaworski, truths surface about that man's past in his home nation of Poland. Eric discerns some of that background, but as he does, the entire world is thrown into chaos when the Soviet Union places nuclear missiles in Cuba.

Certainly you will enjoy this tale if you've read the first two novels; Give Her My Love and Brave the Skies. The Hawk emerged over a decade ago, taking me five years to complete. In re-releasing it now, broken into ten novel-length books, I feel a circle is closing. Or nearly a third of a circle, lol. But yeah, it's good to have gone through this tale, giving it a proper send-off. Which opens the door for the next book on the block....

LOL! Always something up my sleeve. (PS: find more of my books here!) I'll talk more about that next week, as well as give a review of my first new release on Draft2Digital. (Heads-up: I submitted this book at eight a.m. Pacific Daylight Time on Friday, 5 September 2025. It went live to Smashwords and other outlets at 2 a.m. on Saturday 6 September and I have contacted D2D to ascertain if this is typical.)

With this novelistic success, which I hope you enjoy, here is the first chapter, albeit numbered fifty-four. This saga is an investment, yet its prevailing hopeful nature is a tonic to current events. And special thanks to my youngest, who took the cover photo.

 

 

Chapter 54

 

Earlyon Wednesday, St. Matthew’s secretary rang the Snyders, apologizing profuselyfor disturbing them at that hour. Pastor Jaworski had been called away onchurch business and wouldn’t make their appointment later that morning. Lynnewas pouring pie filling into the crust as Eric spoke to Mrs. Kenny, and he wasoff the phone as Lynne set the timer. “Well, no Lutheran pastor this morning,”Eric said. “Guess that pie’ll be just for us.”

“Ohwell, another time.” Lynne sighed, then gazed around the kitchen. The flowersfrom Monday were still fresh and Eric had swept last night, uncertain as towhere they would gather. Then Lynne smiled. “Actually, I was looking forward tomeeting him, but that does mean more pie for us.”

Ericstepped to where she stood, then stroked her face. “Well, it could. Or I couldcall Sam, see what he’s up to today.”

“Goon,” Lynne laughed. “I’ll make a pot of coffee and we can celebrate, oh, Idon’t know, an early St. Patrick’s Day.”

Ericchuckled, then kissed her cheek. “I think Sam’s already bought the corned beef.Do you remember if Renee has to work that day?”

“Ibarely remember my name, thank you.” Lynne started the coffee, then leanedagainst the counter, grinning. Then she caressed her belly. “Someone’s takenall my brain cells. I’m surprised I made pie without reaching for the recipe.”

“Theday you need a recipe for pie is the day I’ll start to worry.” Eric approachedthe phone. “Shall I tell him to come in an hour?”

“Hecan come over now if he’s free. I’m gonna sit on the sofa. You men can tend tothe rest.”

Ericchuckled as Lynne left the kitchen. By the time she reached the couch, sheheard her husband offering the invite, which seemed to be eagerly accepted.

 

Thatmorning Lynne didn’t do more than sip decaf, then nibble on pie. The mencarried the conversation, which centered on Eric’s introduction to the Lutheranpastor. Sam didn’t know him personally, but had seen him around town. MarekJaworski had been leading the Lutheran worship for nine months and even did aservice in German. Eric and Lynne were stunned by that, although Eric noted thepastor’s fluency in English, and not only American English. Sam laughed, thenwent for more pie. When he returned, he stared at Lynne. “What’s wrong? You’vehardly touched yours.”

Sheshrugged. “I don’t feel that hungry, though earlier I thought I’d make a pig ofmyself in front of the pastor, which wouldn’t have been a good firstimpression.”

Ericgrasped her hand. “Honey, you okay?”

Lynnenodded, then sighed. “I don’t know. I feel a little tired, well, more tiredthan usual. Maybe I’ll take a nap and leave you two to chat.”

Ericstood, then helped her from the sofa. “Well, that’s a good idea. You might’vebeen excited for our guest, but a nap now wouldn’t hurt either.”

“Andwhat am I?” Sam asked in mock indignation.

“Family,”Lynne smiled. “You know my kitchen as well as I do.”

Samchuckled as the couple took the stairs. Eric came down a few minutes later,then sat on the couch. He gazed at Lynne’s half-eaten pie, then collected herplate, finishing the slice. Sam smiled, then sighed. “She’s nearly due. She’sgot this look I’ve seen plenty of times. Frannie always seemed exhausted rightbefore and I always wondered how in the world she was gonna have enoughstrength to have the baby, but she always did.”

Ericnodded. “How’re they doing?”

“Ohfine, I mean, okay.” Sam sat up, then spoke quietly. “Between you and me, Iwouldn’t be surprised if Fran calls to tell us she’s, well….”

“Inthe family way,” Eric grinned.

Samrolled his eyes. “She’s in her mid-forties, bless her. But if God wants them tohave another baby, so be it. Louie won’t be able to complain because I’ll tellyou, one immaculate conception is all this world’s getting.”

“Wellif she does, tell her I’d be happy to do another painting. She was so beautifulthat day, I’ll never forget it.”

“Frannie’sthe best looking of us Aherns,” Sam smiled. “Sally’s grown two or three inchessince you saw her last, looks like she’s nineteen instead of fifteen. AndHelene, my goodness, she’s just like Fran, big wide eyes and….”

Samcleared his throat, gazing at his empty plate. He picked up his coffee cup, butit too was depleted. “More joe?” he asked Eric.

“Yeah,thanks.”

Samnodded, then stood, retrieving Eric’s mug as well as his own. Then Sam headedinto the kitchen, whistling a tune as he went.

 

Bythe time Lynne woke, Sam was gone. She was surprised he hadn’t taken pie withhim, but Eric said that while he had pressed, Sam had refused. The men had madeinnocuous small talk after Sam had returned with their refilled coffee cups, yetEric didn’t note to Lynne the conversation’s distinct change. As she got out ofbed, Eric only mentioned Renee did have Saturday off, Sunday too. The Ahernswould bring corned beef and cabbage for Saturday’s meal and maybe someshamrock-shaped sugar cookies. Eric laughed as Lynne used the bathroom. “Ithink Sam’s got a sweet tooth too, any excuse to make dessert.”

“We’llprobably still have pie then, did you mention that?” Lynne called.

“Idid and he didn’t seem bothered in the least.” Eric loitered outside the mostlyclosed bathroom door. It was just past one o’clock; Lynne had slept soundly,but he assumed she would now be hungry for lunch. “Shall I cut you anotherslice or do you want something more savory first?”

Shedidn’t answer, but the toilet was flushed, then the faucet ran. Eric steppedback from the door, but Lynne didn’t immediately come out. He waited a fewseconds, then approached the door. “Honey, you all right?”

“Eric,come in here please.”

Heopened the door, then looked at his wife, who stood trembling. Then he scannedthe floor, where a large puddle waited. “Lynne, are you….”

“Mywater just broke, right after I washed my hands. When I was peeing, I feltsomething, I think it was a contraction.” Lynne’s voice had quivered, but nowshe smiled, glancing at the floor, then back to Eric. “I think you better callDr. Salters, then Renee, then Sam.”

Avoidingthe puddle, Eric stepped close to his wife, stroking her face. “Oh Lynne, ohhoney!”

Shenodded, tears falling down her cheeks. “I think that’s why I wasn’t hungry thismorning. Or….” She giggled. “Maybe last night was our last time.”

Theyhad made a slow and gentle love right before falling asleep. Eric nodded, thensmiled. “Maybe it was. But it was very good. Hopefully it’ll last us till May.”

“Mygoodness, don’t say it that way.” She giggled, then winced. “Oh Eric, that onehurt!”

Nowhe laughed. “Well, you knew it wasn’t gonna be a walk in the park. Here, let’sget you back into bed and….”

Sheshook her head, but did step over the puddle. “I do not wanna get back in bed.That’s one of the reasons I wanted to have this baby here. As soon as a womancomes in the labor ward, she’s shaved, then made to lie in bed for hours onend. I wanna take a walk, it’s a beautiful day outside.”

“Awalk, are you crazy?”

Shesmiled, gripping his hand. “I’m having a baby, not dying. Let’s call Dr.Salters, then the Aherns. Then you take me for one last walk around the garden.I won’t be getting out there for a few days once this baby joins us.”

Ericnodded, then kissed her. Lynne responded with vigor, then she moved away,chuckling. “Too late for that now,” she whispered. “But Eric, I love you somuch, I love….”

Heset a finger to her lips, then nuzzled against her brow. Then he helped herinto dry clothes for one last walk for two around their garden.

 

Dr.Salters arrived a few hours later, by which time Lynne was having regularcontractions. She checked Lynne, finding she was a third of the way dilated,which pleased the Snyders, but also gave Eric pause. “Renee won’t be off tilleight tonight,” he said. “Will that be too late?”

“Probablynot,” the doctor smiled. “I wouldn’t expect this baby before tomorrow at theearliest. As long as Renee’s here the rest of the week, there shouldn’t be anytrouble.”

Thedoctor advised Lynne to remain in bed and that she would stop by in anothercouple of hours. Once Lynne’s contractions were five minutes apart, the doctorwould stay, but by then, Renee would in attendance as well. Eric wasn’t sosure, but Lynne smiled, patting his hand, or squeezing it if in the middle of acontraction. “It’ll be fine honey. My mother was in labor for two days with me.Hopefully this baby won’t take that long, but she’s not gonna be born beforeRenee gets here, I can assure you of that.”

Ericwalked the doctor to the kitchen door, then headed right back upstairs. “Hey,”he said to Lynne. “You’re supposed to be in bed!”

Lynnestood at her dresser, brushing her hair. “I am not gonna lie down the nextseveral hours. Labor’ll progress more quickly if I’m up and around.”

“Thedoctor said you needed to be in bed honey.”

Lynnesmirked. “Well, if she wants me in bed, she’ll have to tie me down. Now, I wantyou to help me downstairs. There were plenty of daffodils out there and I wanta vase of them where I can see them when I have this baby.”

Ericthrew up his hands. “For God’s sake Lynne, you need to take it easy!”

Sheapproached him, stroking his face. “Now what kind of bohemian are you? Don’tyou want your first child to enter this world to the scent of freshly cutdaffodils? Goodness Eric, we probably conceived this baby in the studio. Allthe more reason to bring some of the outdoors inside.”

“Whoare you and what’ve you done with my wife?” His voice was soft but teasing.

“I’mthe wife of a brilliant painter, if case you’ve forgotten. I may not be havingthis baby in our bed, but I’m gonna have spring as close as I can get it. Eric,this was why I didn’t wanna deliver in the hospital. I wanted as natural of asetting as possible.”

“You’recrazy, you know that?”

“Iget it from you,” Lynne giggled. “But don’t tell Renee or she’ll throw a fit.Now, downstairs we go. You cut the daffs while I get some pie.”

Theyhad reached the landing, but Eric stopped abruptly. “You want pie? I thoughtyou weren’t supposed to eat anything now that labor’s started.”

“There’ssome very healing properties in that pie, if I remember correctly,” Lynnesmiled. “Besides, I’ll probably be in labor for hours still. Sam’s bringingsoup, isn’t that what he told you?”

“Wellyeah, but….”

“Oncehe’s here, he’ll be spooning soup into me, which also has special propensities.But in the meantime, I’m craving pie. I knew I made it for a reason.”

Lynnestarted down the stairs, pausing as she reached the last step. Eric was rightbehind her as a contraction hit, but it was minor. After it was over, sheshooed him outside, telling him their baby was waiting on daffodils.

 

Samarrived at four, a steaming pot of vegetable beef soup in tow. He gentlychastised Lynne for being out of bed, then laughed as she had a longcontraction. After that, she was escorted upstairs by Eric, who returned towhere Sam stirred the soup. “Well, I think that one did it. She’s lying down inthe nursery, says she might take a little nap if she can.”

“Good.Babies should be born in hospitals if you ask me.” Sam adjusted the flame tolow, then put the lid on the pot. “Renee said she’d try to get someone to comein early. If she can, she’ll call. Otherwise I’ll go get her at eight.”

Ericnodded, glancing at the clock. “Dr. Salters said she’d be back around now, butif Lynne’s asleep, I’m not sure if she’ll be able to check her.”

AsEric said that, Sam coughed. Eric laughed. “What, too much information?”

“Alittle,” Sam said.

“Yougonna stay for the duration?”

“Iwas, but hmmm….” Sam gazed at the phone. “You called the New Yorkers, right?”

“Idid. Laurie said he’s gonna look into the next possible flight. Not sure ifStanford’ll be with him, but….”

“He’sgonna fly?” Sam had lifted the lid to stir the soup. Instead he placed the lidback on the pot, then stared at Eric. “Are you serious?”

“Heis and Lynne was happy to hear it,” Eric smiled. “Of course, I’m thinkingLaurie means the next available flight once she’s had the baby. But my guess is he’ll be here in time for corned beef,which might be his actual plan.”

Samrolled his eyes, then cracked his knuckles. “Eric, I don’t mind staying, Imean, you might need, well, you will need the extra body. But I dunno know, Imean, I’m just not sure.”

Ericstepped toward Sam, leaving a foot between them. “Lynne understands. She wantsyou here because you and Renee are family and we don’t have much of that.Which’s why she doesn’t mind if Laurie comes sooner rather than later. If he’swilling to brave the skies and a crying baby, what the hell?”

Ericlaughed, then patted Sam’s shoulder. “Lynne’s a little, well, wary, for you andRenee. We don’t wanna, you know, make this an imposition.”

Ericsaid that slowly, then cleared his throat. “Whatever you wanna do is fine withus. We both wanna share this as much as you and Renee wanna take part. Don’tfeel you have to be here continuously. You did that for me and I’ll neverforget it, I mean that. This with Lynne’s a little different and….”

SuddenlySam grasped Eric. The embrace was reciprocated, then Sam stepped back. “I’dlove to be here when that baby makes his or her appearance. I might be outside,unless it’s the middle of the night, but Eric, it’d be an honor.”

Ericsmiled, then pumped Sam’s outstretched hand. The men embraced again, but it washalted by a loud shriek. Eric tore up the stairs as Lynne let out anotherscream, making Sam chuckle. A knock on the kitchen door caught Sam’s attentionand he opened it to Dr. Salters. “You’re just in time,” Sam smiled as Lynne’sloud groan resonated throughout the house.

Still blocks to stitch

One finished side block, another underway.

Despite beginning to stitch edge pieces to Mandolin blocks, other edge pieces remain left to hew together. Sometimes it feels like hewing, lol, but I am grateful to have underway the joining process for said quilt!

Which, as these things occasionally go, might not take as long as I thought because when sewing blocks, be they half or quarter-sized, all those little and large pieces need to be attached in a whole, of sorts, half or quarter element notwithstanding. But drawing all those blocks into a WHOLE is merely stitching edges to one another. And yeah, that's some hefty handsewing, but not quite as much as I thought previously.

So that means this Mandolin quilt top *could* be completed before the end of the year. Which if you'd asked me a few days ago, I'd have shaken my head, smirking. Next year fer shure, I'd have smiled.

Future Me is smiling, I see her almost breaking into giggles. Not sure over what, but something has her in happy stitches. Dare I ask? What the hell? What's so funny, I query.

She calms, chortles, then smiles. Just how certain you are of yourself, then constantly finding how erroneous are your calculations.

Oh My Goodness, she has me (or rather us, lol) pegged perfectly! I am quite often assuming this or that about this or that, and quite often finding I am quite WRONG. Not in an I should have my arse kicked kind of way mistaken, but HOW MANY TIMES do I confidently think or state blah blah blah, then said blah blah blah falls to the wayside.

Don't beat yourself up over it, she smirks. We'll probably do it till we die.

I roll my eyes, then breathe deeply. How old is this version of Future Me, I immediately wonder. No gray hair, other than the few I currently possess right north of my ears. She wears glasses, which I do more and more, although I'm not wearing any in writing this while seated at my computer in the office.

She frowns at me, then crosses her arms over her chest. I might be in the future, she sighs, but I am not without fault.

For some reason that's a HUGE weight off my shoulders. Perhaps all this time I've thought of her as perfect. Perfect Future Me, now there's a LAUGHING OUT LOUD if ever there was one! I smile, then grow quiet. Will I always assume this or that, then change my mind as though all my previous considerations were those of someone else? I'm doing that right now, vacillating about how to quilt the Lucy Boston quilt. I'd tossed aside the Kawandi notion, then hauled it back from the depths, albeit hedged in partiality. Which is better explained in photos than in text, one of these days. Perhaps vacillate is better than assume. I choose one path, then swing wildly another direction, sometimes doing a one-eighty. Is this some genetic thing or nature or....

Future Me smirks HARD. I don't know any more than you do, all right?

Really? (Is she serious, or just yanking my chain?) Oh, uh, well, o-kay, I blurt.

Again she smirks, then tucks brown hair behind her ears. I see the same amount of white hairs as I own now, so maybe she's not that far ahead of me age-wise. Future Me from next week or November or....

I'm far enough ahead to let you know.... She grins, then drops her arms to her sides. Just keep doing what you're doing. Everything is gonna be okay.

Two side blocks DONE! And a third is half-completed, lol.

I nod, feeling a lightness in my chest, not merely due to quilting placement or edge blocks to hew together. The definition of hew is to chop or cut with an ax, pick, or other tool. Sewing needles seem a bit feeble, but I've poked my right middle digit enough lately that it feels more like I'm using an ax! I've been hewing away at this, that, and how many other stitchy projects, and I won't even bring novels into the fray. Yet even if Future Me is only from later today, all is well. Everything is going to be okay is what she said.

I said gonna be okay, she huffs.

Now I giggle, pleased as proverbial punch. Because she's absolutely right. Everything is gonna be okay.

Gonna, she smirks, walking away.

Going to, I whisper.

One of these days, she chirps, then chortles, stepping out of view. 

Summer of the marine layer

It's been a summer of chickens, of guests and revisions. And a summer of the marine layer.

I nearly added marine layer to the previous post of things which you never dream. Lol. I certainly didn't anticipate a marine layer figuring so significantly in my life. Mostly due to not realizing that living along the California coast would occur, nor how some summers that heavy cloud bank claims said coast without thought to those who call the coastal area home.

But yeah, the marine layer wins again this morning.

It's just about time to feed the chickens, 6.20 a.m. currently. If the marine layer wasn't so pushy, I'd get up from the sofa, put on sweats and a hoodie, then collect their feeder, walking to the coop, admiring planets still visible; Venus and Jupiter have decorated the morning sky most of the month, Mercury appearing along the eastern edge, thrilling me completely. Today the marine layer barged in before I spotted the smallest planet in our solar system, blotting out the beauty of larger worlds that shone brightly in a rare clear sky. Now it's 6.25, enough light for me to get off the couch, as those chickens are waiting....

Maybe this will also be a chicken post. It's now seven o'clock; my husband woke shortly after I came back inside and we've chatted, so he's off for a shower. Thick fog now conceals the eastern treeline, but the chickens don't care because once the motion sensor light is tripped as I approach the coop, they begin to not quite cluck, but definitely chirp and peep. I don't turn on their light until I've shoved the small stump away from the coop door, but despite their poor eyesight in the dark, once the light is on (and I've opened the door), I find them gathered right where I need to step inside, lol. The last two mornings Camilla stood on the blocks where the feeder rests, silly pullet. Today I had to shoo her off, then I could place the feeder in its spot and within seconds all had surrounded it, pecking at breakfast eagerly.

Owl looks up, recently disturbed by Little Camilla, on her left, getting huffy at the Barnevelder one over from Owl.

They don't care a whit about marine layers or fog. Only for being fed, and some momentary companionship as I croon good morning to them. Owl looked up, after Little Camilla on Owl's left reached over Owl and pecked at one of the Barnevelders, causing a brief commotion. Then Owl Chicken, who is a Welsummer, stepped away from the feeder, hopping onto the low perch, taking in the morning. She then rejoined her pullet sisters, but on the opposite side of the feeder from previously, perhaps not wanting to share her space with Little Camilla.

Owl is my fave chicken; I love how curious and thoughtful she is.

(Who is so named because she looks just like Camilla, both of those Welsummers a shade lighter than Owl. Little Camilla is the most independent of the group, and DETESTS being picked up for any reason at all.)

I'm getting pretty sick of the marine layer, might I say. Today is funny because not only did it muscle in like a certain chicken I know, but has gripped the landscape with an accompanying fog that acts like Little Camilla. Like the fog wants to peck us into submission, although I'm seated on the stitching sofa, snug under a Kawandi lap quilt, so TAKE THAT fog! A tall warm cup of tea proffers further shielding from the dang fog, alongside my memory of the Big Dipper, Jupiter, and Venus from two hours ago. I swear I saw them, I truly did. Yet the marine layer giggles like a truculent child or chicken, as though I've lost my ever-loving mind.

The kerfuffle of earlier now long forgotten as Owl is back with her crew.

Thankfully the chickens can't attempt such nefarious schemes. And honestly, I know the marine layer is merely the result of nature. Yet at times it feels sinister, obscuring the gorgeous late summer daybreak as though I won't view another. Today is the last day of August, is that possible? I guess so, as the chickens are pushing ten weeks old, dude! In another buncha weeks we'll transition them from chick crumble to layer feed, and while I'll still be getting those early morning steps to ensure they don't starve, no longer will a feeder remain available to them all day long. They were just these tiny puffballs, right? They peeped with impunity, now they attempt to cluck. They'll never outwit the marine layer, nor shall I. But one of these days summer will be past, and the sky will remain clear, though Jupiter won't be visible and Venus will have moved to a different area, the Big Dipper too. The chicks will be hens, laying eggs, CRAZY! And this summer of the ubiquitous marine layer will have altered to the autumn of....

Whatever it's supposed to be. Goodbye August. We'll see you again in eleven months, God willing.

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....