Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 4

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.

Life layers

My patches amid what's left of an EPP masterpiece.

All that dwells under the re-quilting....

Now back in my stitchy-novelistic realm, I spent late yesterday afternoon and early evening adding another round to the Kawandi-style lap quilt. It's hard, in one way, re-covering this particular cozy because its original design is a gorgeous EPP diamond star pattern. However it's been in disrepair for a long time, sporting patches adding by yours truly, and in desperate need of an overhaul. Kawandi is the perfect vehicle to upcycle it; even if the beautiful English paper piecing is obscured, the quilt itself remains a viable (if not weighty) blanket for many years to come.

Decisions about what patches to save, as well as if I choose to salvage any of the EPP, make for slow work in adding new inner rounds. I did half of the current round, then required a break to gather the mental acuity to move forward. Sounds like an apt metaphor for life in general, lol, which is why this post exists at all. Metaphors have their place in this world, layering new atop withered, adding beauty to decay. Not stripping off that which pains, but gently placing pretty fabrics accordingly, with the knowledge that the original marvel could only last so long before fraying into oblivion. That is sewist's language for it, patches not able to withstand further laundering. Something about this thrift store gem that my sister-in-law discovered then gave to me tugs at my heart, in part for all the painstaking effort put into the EPP, as well as a history unknown but deeply embedded within the cotton fibres. I don't know jack about the woman who made it, inking her name into the back, but Dorothy, wherever you were and now are, I so appreciate all the fabric cut, papers basted, shapes sewn into such a magnificent whole. And I hope if you're floating around beyond the veil, you don't want to rip my throat out as I stitch modern prints over all your hard work.

Where I stopped last night, for better or worse LOL!

The layers I am adding represent my current fave cottons stitched in an ancient method hearkening to hundred of years in the past. These layers cover other favourite fabrics I used on it, so even my efforts are being set aside for this new endeavor. I'd love to have time to write something new, but chickens are currently muscling their feathered ways into the book life. Summer brings treasured moments with grandkids, further pushing away endearing pastimes. Breathing deeply, I allow all these varied enterprises their allotted spaces, turning me into the person I am evolving into with every passing second. Not that writing or sewing will disappear, nor will my family fade into the mist. Only that there is time for all things, necessary layers that emerge as a surprise or are eagerly anticipated with such longing I ponder how did I exist prior? I don't need to ask Future Me or Past Me, I merely inhale the joy and wonder, slapping another five-inch square or equivalent scrap onto a quilt I hope will long outlive me. Did Dorothy wish for the same? If she did, she's getting that desire met in a manner she never dreamed.

Another layer of life for another snippet of August. Wishing you peace and joy on this ninth day of the eighth month of the year!

And now it's August

Some GORGEOUS Anna Maria Parry fabric that HAD to be included. How it fits is shown below, past the chicken photo.

Hard to believe it's already the eighth day of the eighth month of the freakin' year! I don't mean to malign 2025, but dude it feels (at times) like a year from, well, some back and beyond era that I thought was over.

And then there's chickens.... Thankfully they remembered me after a five-day absence while I hung out at my daughter's residence, keeping an eye on those grandsons. My husband had chick duty, but yes I came back to pullets who still respond to my chicken voice, admittedly not as cute as my youngest grandson's chicken voice, but certainly familiar enough that last night one jumped from half a hay bale onto my shoulder! And it was a chicken that doesn't even like being picked up, whoa!

Chicks this morning in the run. 

It was sunny here today, in the mid-seventies Fahrenheit in our neck of the North Coast, and I soaked up some of those rays, but mostly I ran a bunch of errands in the morning, then spent the afternoon washing dishes, doing laundry, working on a Kawandi quilt. I've stopped for the day not merely to write this, but in that I've reached a tricky spot in the quilt and it's now five-ought-four in the late afternoon. For all that I've accomplished as an abuela over the last couple of weeks, I've been itching to get back to a few aspects of life that spell W-R-I-T-E-R and Q-U-I-L-T-E-R. And other adjectives that describe me too.

But something I pondered while playing cards, watching boys thrash about on a trampoline, etc, was this: Am I a writer who quilts or a quilter who writes? And then, what difference does it make?

Pinned nearly within an inch of its beautiful life. How the row concludes remains up for debate.

Stuff to consider in August, I suppose. Late July into August. Mid-summer into early late summer, or truthfully here in Humboldt County true summer. Summer really doesn't start here until late July, once the ground is as warm as it's gonna get and the dragonflies have arrived to mow down most of the pesky mosquitoes, blackberries finally getting ripe, blueberries too. Garden green beans proffering a fine harvest, days growing a wee bit shorter than in late June. Kids preparing for school, so for them summer changes into a hot season in classrooms while summer for this grandma will stretch as long as the days are warm-ish and the rain holds off, maybe into late September. The chickens won't be laying eggs yet, but in another six to eight weeks they'll have proper combs, maybe wattles, and if any are chaps, we'll probably be aware.

(We're hoping for all girls you see, but we'll cross that bridge when, um, it reaches us.)

[Because while we think we're in control, it's already August. Can't stop time or change poultry genders or be more than what we humanly are, be that writers or quilters or grandmothers from far away.]

Probably Owl Chicken, captured by my husband a few days back. I suspect it's Owl because she's the tamest pullet, as well as one of three who appears thusly. If it's Camilla, I'd be surprised.

And the playlist continues; Yo La Tengo with "From a Motel 6 #2". I listened to heaps of tunes while driving home on Wednesday. You can peruse those songs here. And you can find my books here. And you can enjoy the blog posts right here! And tomorrow will still be August, ba-dump-bump! 

Sneaking in a post

My hubby has taken the grandsons to the beach this evening. I was up at stupid O-dark-thirty this morning, and while I went back to sleep (and had a half-caff tea at 2 p.m.), I am wholly TOAST now. But (BUT!) I have enough brain cells (barely) to craft this post. Because it's been days since I wrote more than notes to friends while at the same time encouraging my grandsons to write/draw letters for their cousins. And sometimes (SOMETIMES) a little plug-in to one's usual reality means the world.

The week has sped past, as all weeks seem to do. The boys have enjoyed themselves thoroughly, although my youngest grandson is pretty much ready to go home. He's six and a half, could jump on the trampoline for most of the day if permitted. His elder brother could hunt for wild plums and sticks and play cards with me or watch baseball with Grandpa. We had sunny days to start, typical cloudy days for the finish. I drive them home on Sunday, spending a few days with my daughter as well as the chaps, then return next Wednesday. I've had more time with the chickens than I thought would occur, including a nice half hour in the run this afternoon, during which time my husband snapped the photo below of myself and Owl. These chicks are five and a half weeks old; are they still chicks even? I guess, as they aren't officially pullets (maybe a cockerel among them) for another two and a half weeks. But my goodness, they don't seem like the puff-balls we brought home five weeks ago!

Will they remember me when I return is a query I ponder, lol. I hope so. If they don't, well.... I'll cross that bridge when it arrives.

Living in one's home but dwelling in a different realm through the eyes and actions of kids is a funny thing. Snuggles are copious with the six-year-old, yet the connection I have with the ten-year-old is the kind you might accrue with a child much older. That comes via all the card games we've played over the years, starting with Go Fish when he was three. This time we've added Gin to the routine, and, um, poker. We play with Legos as our currency, Five Card Draw. Jokers are wild, sometimes twos, threes, or fours. Little brother plays Go Fish with us, but only holds three cards in his hand at a time, the rest of his cards arranged on his chair. He beat me yesterday, and was still crowing about it this evening.

Lots of blueberries have been eaten from the bushes in our garden, blackberries too. Oldest grandson made a Korean Beef dish on Monday, but the green beans haven't been picked in days, LOL. This afternoon we kicked around a soccer ball and threw the Frisbee, and my meniscus is NOT happy with me, sigh. That's why I'm not with them at the beach. Hopefully my knee will feel better tomorrow, and hopefully I won't be awake at stupid O-dark-thirty tomorrow morning. If I am, well, I'll drink some tea and mull over the exceptional elements of the last seven days. And drink a little more tea while I pack a suitcase and confirm all their treasures are also gathered. Chat with you more next week, plenty of book and quilt hoo-haa to discuss!

Chickens, Amazon, and a break in the blogging action

Seven of eight chicks on a perch my husband fashioned. Their baby chick perch remains a fave spot too, lol.

Nearly a week has passed since we moved the chicks into the coop. Their first few days in a new to them home was steeped in their adjustment to plenteous room, no feed overnight, and us attempting to coax them from said coop to the attached run. They seem to love more space, haven't minded waiting for breakfast (although they cried the first night when we turned off the light, and on subsequent evenings when not under the heat plate when that light was again shut off), and finally braved the strange opening to the outside world that of course is far more exciting than their spacious coop. Getting them back into the coop was a chore, and not for worms or scratch would they head up the ramp. We're still searching for an appropriate treat in which to lure them hither and yon; today I'll try some grated carrot (Update: they couldn't care less about grated carrot, sigh.), as they gobble blades of grass like addicts. Yes, I plan to employ treats to train them, but first I need to find a treat they adore.

It was odd those first few days without them in the garage. In less than four weeks, I had grown very accustomed to them there, to the brooder, to an element of our lives not previously explored. Getting chicks has now evolved into raising chickens, and currently at four and a half weeks old, they are feathered enough to resemble small hawks, which I find quite ironic. They still have access to the brooder, where the heat plate remains, but maybe for another week or so. We'll wean them off gradually, as we allow them to spend more time in the run. And hopefully an acceptable treat will emerge so we can get them back in the coop easily, LOL.

As for Amazon.... Currently I have two series available, That Which Can Be Remembered and The Hawk. Heaven Lies East of the Mississippi was recently added, a standalone love story. Just this morning I began adding Alvin's Farm, my first series originally published in 2011. Boy, that seems like a LONG TIME AGO. Why have I waited so long to put my novels on Amazon? The short answer is Amazon doesn't appreciate freebies. The long answer goes like this....

When I first started releasing my novels independently, Smashwords had a tricky relationship with Amazon, in that Smashwords' president Mark Coker didn't mince words when it came to how poorly Amazon treated indie authors. I found it brave and humorous, and never put my books on Amazon because 1) It was enough to prep them for Smashwords and 2) As I said above, Amazon doesn't permit freebies as a rule. Allegedly if they find a title has been released for free elsewhere, they might match that price. Ultimately, it wasn't worth my time to align my novels to Amazon, and I happily released them at other places.

Fast forward several years, and books, and life changes: In 2025 Smashwords is no longer my distribution point. Their merger with Draft2Digital now includes me as I have been integrated into their system. Which means their good relationship with Amazon permits my inclusion within that outlet through their arrangement. Which meant some serious thought about whether or not to add Amazon to my release wheelhouse. It wasn't about the projected royalties; in pricing my novels at the lowest cost of ninety-nine cents (American dollars), my take through D2D is twenty-nine cents, which D2D admits is a reduced rate in having set the price below $2.99. More to matter was how ethical was it for me to release books on Amazon when I admit they treat writers like.... Well, not nearly as well as we treat our chickens, might I say! Amazon is a behemoth we avoid as much as possible, even before the current administration took office. Why place my novels in such a realm?

I asked a dear friend her opinion, and she told me that my books are an antidote to companies like Amazon. That my novels, steeped in love, could proffer a reader a different viewpoint. I smiled at her response, and thanked her for the wisdom. Then another woman told me how her husband loves downloading ninety-nine cent books, as if at that price point they are free. Maybe there is an audience for my books on Amazon. And if there is, well, I'm glad my novels are there.

At the proverbial end of the day, who reads my stories is well out of my hands. All I am called to do is write, then publish these tales, centered on love and families, healing and suspense, though not in a suspense-genre type of way. I'm not keen on genres, too limiting. As a character-driven storyteller, I allow the cast to propel the action, and to wring any available tears, both from pathos and laughter. More of my books will emerge on Amazon as the weeks pass, especially since I plan to release Straight to the Heart: The Hawk Book Three next month! The fourth book of The Enran Chronicles is slated for September publication, and if I can get my ducks in a row (certainly not those chickens), The Hawk Book Four could appear in December. I've been at this indie author gig for over a dozen years, and I'm trying to exist exactly where I am supposed to be at this moment in time. Currently that's available on Amazon. If the situation calls for me to exit that distribution point, I'll indeed follow my heart. Following my heart is at the heart of all I write, including this blog, which is taking a brief hiatus while grandsons visit. If time exists to pop in with a cute chicken photo, I will certainly do so. Otherwise I'll chat with you in August, chicken, novel, and quilting stories well in hand.

Sometimes an excerpt matters

In reading Straight to the Heart: The Hawk Book Three, I'm astonished at how timely is the message, despite being set in autumn of 1962. Below is a section from Chapter 76, when the Cuban Missile Crisis was in full swing.

Whenhe reached the studio, stars twinkled in the sky. Eric could make out thestorage building, and turning back, the house blazed with light. Yet, he neededto set something to canvas, although he didn’t wish to work in the sunroom. Hewasn’t sure what bubbled inside him, other than a sense of purpose. Perhapsthis was how President Kennedy felt, his hands just as tied. Yet Lynne had beenright, it was too dark to work. Again gazing upwards, Eric admired the nightsky, chuckling at himself. Then he walked around the studio, standing in frontof the storage building. Something tugged at him from within, so he pulled thekey from his pocket, opened the door, then flipped on the light. There on aneasel was the portrait of Marek and Jane.

Steppinginto the small building, Eric couldn’t look away from his daughter. She wasn’tthat little now, even if he’d painted this a few months before. Before made Eric shiver, for all thathad occurred since this painting, up to that very evening. Jane was inside,probably being dressed for bed, with no idea what was happening in Washingtonand Moscow. She had no clue as to what others had suffered since, she was onlya baby. She also had no manner to discern all that had occurred to the manholding her, but for the first time, Eric had an inkling, and it made himshudder. Marek’s brown eyes glowed with an eerie knowledge, propelling Eric tostep closer to the canvas. Leaving a foot between himself and the painting,Eric peered at what he had created, but seeing far more than layers of paint.In Marek’s chocolate brown eyes, Eric saw a multitude of horrors, more than anyperson should realize.

Insteadof being repulsed, Eric traced around Marek’s eyes, sensing how such miserycould, over time, become beauty. Eric had translated something similar, yetcarrying much less emotional weight, when he painted the blue barn. Sam,Laurie, and Stanford had asked how Eric did it, and there was no verbal mannerin which to answer that question; Eric had simply picked up a brush, dabbed itonto his palette, then transferred those feelings onto canvas. He had done thesame when painting Marek and Jane, but while Jane’s eyes held only joy, Marek’spossessed a deep well of sorrow hinting to the unmitigated catastrophe thatsomehow that man had overcome. Suddenly Eric stepped back, in awe of suchtragedy having been healed. The loss of Marek’s entire family didn’t prey onthat man’s mind, or within his soul. Marek’s soul was protected by Christ.

Thelast two nights Eric and Lynne had made love, but not as they had been for thelast few weeks. Lynne had purposely used her diaphragm, telling her husband shedidn’t feel the timing was right to actively try for another baby. Her unspokenmessage had been clear and Eric hadn’t argued. The world was still a terribleplace, nothing was certain. Eric had wondered if Sam’s fears about becoming afather would be exacerbated by all that was occurring, but how could thiscompare with previous disasters in human history? If Khrushchev gave the signal,would the destruction of America’s East Coast be worse than The Holocaust inEurope? Would it be more evil than what sat plainly in Marek’s brown eyes?

Forthe first time since the president’s announcement on Monday night, Eric didn’tworry about his family’s future. Perhaps this was another step on his journeyas a Christian, or an artist, or simply as a man. If the very worst occurred,it wouldn’t be the absolute end of the world, for the worst had been recycledtime and again. In just that century, two world wars had ravaged across much ofthe globe, millions of lives lost, so much desolation accrued. But in a smalltown on the West Coast, Eric had fashioned beautiful paintings, he couldn’tdeny that. Assuming Kennedy and Khrushchev negotiated a way out of this mess,by the end of November, this painting, along with others, wouldn’t even bewhere Eric could see them; they would be in New York, then onto London, thento…. Eric smiled, the first real joy he’d felt all week. Making love with hiswife had been a balm, but actual happiness rumbled inside him, in part frompeace and from the truth within Marek’s eyes. If one day Eric heard thosefacts, they wouldn’t be any more vile than what he had implied within thatman’s gaze. Yet, anguish wasn’t the essence of what Eric had portrayed. Lovecovered all that wretchedness, so great a love that grief, loneliness, anddespair hadn’t been able to stay.

ThenEric shivered; whatever had sent Seth to Korea was a similar kind ofdevastation, yet Seth hadn’t been able to fight himself free. Eric wondered ifperhaps as a child Seth had been molested, but Seth and Laurie were so close,had that been the case, Laurie would know. Or maybe not. Then Eric consideredthe figures at Stanford and Laurie’s apartment, sculptures that had beenfashioned by someone with a tremendous will to live and love. Nothing darkclouded those statues, from their hopeful stances to their vibrant hues. Twovivid blues enhanced those figurines; Seth hadn’t made them in the throes ofdepression, but in youthful optimism. But that confidence had been short-lived.Laurie had mentioned Seth wasn’t exactly soldier material, that he’d had a fewissues even before he’d enlisted. What had he thought going to Korea wouldaccomplish, and once there, what had he seen or done that had so tarnished hissoul?

Again Eric gazed at Marek, but not at his face.This time Eric studied how tenderly Jane rested in the pastor’s grasp, almostwith as much affection as Eric held his daughter. Marek had never spoken of alover, maybe a woman had been left behind in Britain or in…. Marek had been ateenager during the war; might he have lost a girlfriend alongside his family?Eric ached to know, then he sighed, feeling chilled. He turned off the light,locked the storage building, making his slow way back to the house with as manyquestions, albeit about different subjects, than as when he had headed outside.

The last of the summer placemats

The Kaffe Fassett collection side.

Recently I gratefully accepted that all my ongoing projects, both in writing and quilting, aren't a burden; right now I couldn't wrap my head around sorting out something new. I preface this post with that realization because it's good to embrace one's limits and other extraneous forces wafting nearby.

Now, to the placemats. I began sewing them in a rather impromptu manner a couple of months ago, having blithely purchased some gorgeous Kaffe Fassett prints. Incorporating my love for Kawandi-style stitching, as well as wanting to use up scraps for the backs, I whipped through four or five, then made my way through three or four more, employing fewer scraps for the backs because that quickly lost its shine, lol. Then I bought a wee bit more fabric (LOL) because my husband actually said he really liked one of the prints, and I found it in three other colourways! And then I found myself with only a few of the original choices left, so I prepped one, stitched it up, then found another I had prepped (Go Past Me!), sewed it, and that left one more Kaffe Fassett print that simply required a back, turning that sudden but pleasant intrusion into my sewing realm into something DONE.

What did I choose for the back? Well, let me tell you a little story about my adoration for certain Anna Maria Parry (formerly Horner) fabrics! I am not slavishly devoted to her creations, but I do like many of them, and maybe five years ago (Where has that half-decade gone???)  I picked up a few from whatever collection she had going at the time. Hindsight was the name of the prints, in two different colours, as well as in a wideback in which the print was smaller. The yellow version was what I chose yesterday, because hording it is silly. Fabric is meant to be USED. So I did. And while these summer placemats are all of a Kaffe Fassett origin, this Anna Maria mat is truly my fave.

The Anna Maria Parry side.

I ADORE the colours. I ADMIRE the design. I am ENAMORED of the whole freaking thing, LOL! I made an apron with some of the wideback, used the other colour scheme in a quilt made during 2020, but this particular print has been waiting for me to.... What makes a quilter hold tightly to their stash? We buy these fabrics because they speak to our hearts, and yet we can't let go of them, so they sit in stacks, buried under other pretties. Yet life is short and summer is too, especially here in Humboldt County. It was time to bring out that BEAUTIFUL print, stitch it sweetly, and now I can stare at it every morning until it's too dirty and goes in the wash, replaced with an equally stunning mat that will be in the rotation until October.

(When I then pull out the autumn placemats, because of course I have autumn placemats waiting....) 

I didn't plan on finishing these mats so expediently because lately that's not how the sewing rolls. Lately projects stack up, making me feel somewhat uncomfortable for all I've started, then set aside, ahem. But as I just noted, summer only lasts what feels like a fleeting glance along the North Coast. And I do love me some Kawandi stitching. And small projects means quick finishes, which feels good when so much of my sewing calls for a long-haul approach. Like writing books for a series, another ahem. These placemats were just what I needed right now as chickens no longer rule the garage, but have landed as of yesterday into their coop, HURRAY! More room for them to putter, or do whatever chicks do, and more room again in the garage, and none of them can now fly out of the brooder into said garage, DUDE! For that I am WHOLLY thankful, about as grateful as having the summer placemats completed. And, lol, for getting three ebooks onto, wait for it....

Amazon.

Yes, I have allowed distribution of one series, That Which Can Be Remembered, onto that behemoth, and no, they are not free because Amazon doesn't play that way. They are ninety-nine cents each, the minimum cost. My take from that is twenty-nine cents, if you are curious. I put them there, after much soul searching, when a dear friend noted that despite how poorly Amazon treats writers (and the planet at large), my books proffer a different world view.

 

Chicks outside the brooder and inside the coop. Now their adventures begin!

More on that in a future post. As well as how the chicks are faring in their new home. For now I won't fret all the other EPP fun that awaits, nor Kawandi quilts aching for my attention, One project is out of the way, allowing more time for others. Nothing new. Seriously. Just taking what already exists, then enjoying it for the goodness it is.