Vicki Lane's Blog, page 532

Airing the Quilts - Part 2

Here are the better pictures -- the ones I found in a forgotten scrapbook. 

The quilter -- whose name I either never got or failed to remember, was quite shy and posed for her picture a little reluctantly.
I would have loved to have gotten to know her but though she answered my questions about the quilts, I could tell she was a little puzzled about my intentions.

And though she didn't live much more that four or five miles from me, when I mentioned the names of some of my neighbors, she'd never heard of them. 

But, oh, my, what a treasure trove of quilts! I wish I knew where they ended up.
With someone who appreciates all the work that went into them, I hope. But here's to you,  Miss Lady in the stone house and your quilts -- you made my day all those years ago.
Gone, but not forgotten.

I'm Back . . .

 So, not only was Blogger down for quite awhile, but we've been without Internet for about 24 hours. We had thought it was a service interruption due to a thunderstorm but  John  just now discovered a loose wire under my desk -- where Maggie hid yesterday to escape that same thunderstorm...Anyway, this is just to say I'll do the second part of the quilt post tomorrow -- and try to do some visiting today.

Mid May

Old-fashioned Rose Spicebush Swallowtail on Poison Ivy
Peony
Clematis vines
Bearded Iris
Dead Luna moth -- presumed victim of heavy rain
Kousa Dogwood

Airing the Quilts -Part 1

From OLD WOUNDS:

What is it? Is it a carnival or something? Can we stop? In the side yard of a small green house overlooking the road, bright colors of every description flapped and danced in the wind. Pa slowed the truck and Rosemary realized, with some disappointment, that it was just a bunch of quilts, hanging from clotheslines stretched between big trees. A slender woman in a blue housedress was adding yet another dazzling rectangle to the last empty space. Pink stars spun on a green background as the breeze lifted the quilt. The woman stepped back as if to admire the spectacle then, catching sight of their truck, she raised her hand in a friendly wave.
These are pictures from maybe fifteen or twenty years ago -- pre digital, for sure. I was on my way to the grocery store when the bright colors slowed me down. Back then, I didn't carry a camera all the time so, when I got to the grocery store, I bought a disposable camera.

On my return trip I stopped and asked the lady of the house if I could take pictures of her quilts. She was surprised but  agreed and showed me the different ones. This below was what she called her 'pattern quilt' -- examples of the various squares she had made, all fitted together in a glorious jumble.

The quilter and her quilts are long gone -- someone  else lives in the little stone house now.  But she's commemorated in the above excerpt (the house was changed to green to tie it to a chapter in ART'S BLOOD) -- and the stone house became Nola Barrett's house in IN A DARK SEASON. A memorable stop that day.

And speaking of memorable, I just remembered where the rest of the pictures are -- the much better ones that show the quilter and all of her quilts -- in a dusty scrapbook on the top shelf of my workroom.  It's late now -- I'll post them on Saturday.

Wordless Wednesday - Except for Captions

Clematis
Cat
Ferns and Comfrey Korean  (Kousa) Dogwood
Culinary sage 

FAQ - How Do You Find the Time?

Q: How do you find the time to write? A: I know, I answered this one back in January. But as I struggle to reclaim the garden from weeds (the pictures are blueberries I've been spending some up close and personal time with) and research the next book, I realize that something is going to have to give.

  Beginning Thursday, I have two weeks to turn in a six thousand word (more or less) chapter in a group novel.  The first three chapters will have been completed by three other writers from the region -- when the book's completed, there'll be twelve chapters in all. That's all I can tell you now -- but this is gong to be a fun and exciting project.

And then I have to really buckle down to my next book.



I'm not going to stop blogging -- but I'm going to reduce the time I spend at it.  I plan to make every other day a 'wordless ' post -- just pictures.  And I invite you not to comment on these  because on those days, I won't be visiting other blogs and commenting.  That's where all the time goes, I'm afraid.

Oh, I'll still be checking in to see what you're up to -- just not everyday. And I hope you check on me too.

I may even try getting up at dark thirty to write.  After working in the sun much of the day, I'm finding myself falling asleep over the keyboard.  


We'll see how it goes ...
 

Blooming...

For years I thought of amaryllis as slight tacky plants -- in Florida our neighbor had a row of them in front of a hedge and they bloomed in blowzy profusion.
But here in North Carolina, where the big tender bulbs must remain in pots to be carried in for the winter, they seem more like exotic pets. . . slow-moving, to be sure, but fun to watch.
Or perhaps the unfolding of the bloom is more like a lovely ballet. . .
What seems like a single dancer alone on stage in a pas seul begins to move and separate . . . now there are two . . . or three . . . or four. . .
The music? Bolero, of course. Perfect from the small still beginning all the way to the blare of horns at the end.

 

To Mothers Everywhere...

*^*^*^*^*^* *^*^*^*^*^*
 

Good Books

A friend was so eager for me to read it that she sent me this copy of The Year of the Hare, a  quirky little novel that, translated from its original Finnish, has become an international bestseller.
The novel tells the story of a journalist who, having hit a young hare with his car, stops to attend to it... and winds up quitting his job, leaving his wife, and spending a year wandering about Finland with the hare.

The novel is very low key and  seems to hover just on the edge of allegory. It's been compared to Life of Pi, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, and Watership Down. Well, yes and no -- to me it seems very much its own charming self. I have a feeling I'll be re-reading this soon.

Calvin Trillin is the funniest food writer around.  Feeding a Yen catalogues some of his favorite local delicacies -- local if you happen to be in Ecuador (ceviche,) Nice (pan bagnat,) Louisiana (boudin,) Galicia (pimentos de Padron,) to name a few.
I've followed Trillin's eating adventures for many years, ever since my first encounter --Alice, Let's Eat and his other two classics --American Fried and Third Helpings. 

Guaranteed to put a smile on your face, make you wonder what's in the fridge, and maybe send you in search of some local delicacies.

I've tried to think what that would be in our neck of the woods -- local and indigenous -- and what I come up with is cornbread -- made with freshly milled white corn and slathered with home-churned butter. 


On the other hand, local delicacies of my childhood in Tampa would include Cuban sandwiches, black beans and rice, mamey sherbet, deviled crab cakes, and any number of  Cuban delicacies. . .

Don't You Hate It When...

It's been happening all too often -- I'm getting mail and phone calls obviously intended for my late grandmother . . . or someone much older than I. Yesterday's mail brought this large print solicitation from The Scooter Store, with a helpful (and FREE)  Personal Mobility Assessment just for me! I mean, it had my name right there. It said I could complete it on my own or with the help of my caregiver or family member.

Care giver! What I want is a gardener. And though my knees are creaky, the scooter isn't going to be a bit of help to me unless it has four wheel drive and a dump bed. 

Oh, wait -- we have one of those.

I'm just being cranky -- but I resent the assumption that because I'm 68, I need large print, a scooter, and may need my caregiver to help my decide stuff.

Then there was the phone call on Tuesday -- a woman with a charming, motherly-sounding voice wanted to know if I was taking my diabetes meds daily.
What? I said. Why would I do that? And she muttered something and hung up.
This wasn't a wrong number -- she called me by name.  Again with the assumptions --  a person in my age group may well have diabetes. I suspect that had I said, Yes, I take them every day, she would have been quick to offer me a better price on meds.

If I had a cane, I'd hit someone with it. Instead, I'll quote Dylan Thomas --DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

As the old man in Monty Python's Holy Grail said, when they were trying to toss him on to the cart full of corpses. "I'm not dead yet!"