Left Behind

I'm sitting here in my craft room, making out my wish list for Close to My Heart.  I don't have a comprehensive list and am sure I need one.

A little bit ago, my son came in the house and asked for permission to ride his bike to the gas station downtown for some jerky.  This is a momentous thing for an eleven year old.  A couple of his buddies were going and even though his dad said there's too much traffic, I felt that he was ready for the responsibility.

I gave him a couple of dollars so he could buy a bottle of water at the store: I knew he'd be thirsty.  It's still about 90 degrees, and it's 8 PM here.

He kissed me goodbye and was off with his buddies before I could see them ride away.

I sent him a text telling him to let me know when they got there and when they were on their way back.  I heard nothing from him, but wasn't worried.  I usually reach panic mode, but wasn't there yet.

Then a bit of red caught my eye out the window.  It was his two buddies riding up the incline on the sidewalk that leads to our drive way.  And I don't see George anywhere.  I watch the boys.  One looks behind him, but the other doesn't even look.  They are on a mission.  Heading home, or to the first boys' house, which they are known to do.

And 30 seconds later, I see my son.
Riding along at his own pace.
And I say a small prayer:
"God, please don't let him feel like I feel for him."
Like he was left behind.

Hot and Cold

Hot and cold used to refer to coolers and insulated thermoses.
Now it refers to me.

Meno-pause.  Mental-pause.  Men-Oh-Pause.

It's wonderful to be over forty.

Right?

Pinterest. Need I say more?

Pinterest.  Now that's a word that no one would have thought about using in daily life even a year ago.  Today, most of the women in my life think about it.  And once they get on it, they get sucked in.  And they come out of the zone an hour -- sometimes more -- wondering what they've been doing for all that time!

And you can lump me into that pot. 

I'm always multi-tasking.  And Pinterest helps with that.

For example, I'm currently posting on Facebook with my cousin's daughter, Morgan.  Talking about living close to your family.  I'm also instant chatting through FB with my Uncle Lonnie.  Chatting about Aunt Mary eating ice cream and me wishing I was there.  I'm also building a wish list for Close to My Heart products.  Their new stamping and scrapbooking catalog will be released August 1.  I want to hold and close a party by August 2.

I'm also texting with Tammy.  Lots going on there.  She's a joy to me.

I'm also creating a log of the CTMH stamps I've already purchased.  You do not want to know!!!  :)

I am also trying to upload a pin to Pinterest and it won't go through.  Maybe the file is too large?  So I figured I'd post it here on Porch Swing and then pin it from the Internet. 

And so I've wasted about 30 minutes here (now I'm also chatting with my sister).  So I'm going to attempt to post the photo of the card I made here.  Wish me luck.

This is the card I created from my Close to My Heart "Friendship Bouquet" (S1205) stamp set.  I sent it to my sister, but I'm dying to use it on a dish cloth!

New Hobby

My mother was a professional seamstress.  At one point in her career, she worked at what my family always referred to as "The Factory."  The Factory was a place where they made bras.  I believe it was -- at least at one point in time -- called Warner's.  At least two of my aunts also worked there, though I'm clear on whether or not they all worked there at the same time.  I think my Aunt Polly was the last to work there.  Aunt Polly and I click.  She gets me.  The Factory is closed now, and time still marches on.

Anyway, my mom not only sewed there, she was a tailor, a designer, and seamstress.  She can do anything.  Reupholster furniture, tear down walls, make baby clothes, quilts, coats, dresses, pants, etc.  The most memorable -- and the tale I tell most -- is the time she sewed for a rock band:

It was the 70's.  I was probably ten, and I remember vividly watching my mom sew this amazing silver fabric with fringe all week long.  And finally, there in my kitchen stood a real-life rocker.  Guys who sang the kind of music that my best cousin would listen to five or six years later.  Guys with long hair--before Bon Jovi was around to make big hair cool.  There they were, in my kitchen, trying on these cool outfits with fringe on the arms that swayed when they moved.  It was awesome.

Because my mom is awesome.

And probably that is why I never learned to sew.

Oh, I took Home Economics in junior high school.  South Junior High School in Belleville, Michigan, thank you very much.  We were to sew several projects.  A bag, using a drawstring closure (my sister has the one she made--and was using it just four days ago!!).  And an item of clothing.  I chose a dress.

I chose this lovely, perfectly-purple knit fabric.  I wanted a dress that looked like T shirt, with a belt to tie around the waist.  But I was terrified of a pattern.  Terrified.

And I remain that way today.

In junior high I used STITCH WITCHERY to hem my dress.  It's this product that lets you iron together pieces of fabric.  My teacher was not impressed.

So, here I am.  Sitting at my computer ninety minutes after I entered my craft room to begin work on a quilt. But I'm terrified of a pattern, and I can't figure out what a selvage is.  Pathetic.

What I wonder is: when my mom was creating all those magical things with her Singer, why wasn't I paying attention to the how-to?  Instead, I was dreamy eyed by the creative end!

So, instead of sewing, I'm typing.  Cause I love to write.

But I'm determined to love to sew.

Wish me luck!

Disappointment

I’ve always known that God has a sense of humor.  Which surely must be why I come from Disappointment Hollow.  And why Disappointment is the place my heart calls home and the place I would most want to spend my vacation.  I was born miles from Disappointment in Barbourville, Kentucky, and most of my family still lives in that area.  The house my mother grew up in is nestled back in the holler, and I spent many summers of my youth visiting my grandparents there and roaming the hills searching for adventure. 

Sometimes It's Not the Journey that Matters...

Sometimes, it's important to just get in, get it done, and get it out.

My son is ten.
My husband is 4...let me use the calculator....my husband will be 49 in May. 
This year they got a dog.  

Seriously late.

Is it possible that it's been an entire year since I posted on my blog?  Seriously?

In my mind, I'm writing posts all the time.

But I stop by today to check out the look of my blog because I vaguely remember that the blogdesign I used before wasn't working last time I stopped by. 

And wham! That date of January 2011 was mocking me.

Time to get it together.

Seriously.

Frisked or Frisky? a.k.a. Too Stupid to be Concerned

Seriously.
On that same trip to Washington, D.C.

Self-FILLINTHEBLANK

Self-loathing.
Self-deprecation.
Self-defense.
Self-destruction.
Self-determination.
But self-editing?

Did you ever think you'd live to see the day when "'Excuse Me, Margie'" would self-edit?  Neither did I.

Actually, that's not true.  I've been self-editing for, well, forever.

I used to long for the moment when I could be completely honest with my thoughts, my writings.
But in the beginning it was a diary.
And then it was computers.
And special diary software.
And then a PDA.
And then the internet.

But all of these options have flaws:  they are not secure.  Despite what you think, even using an alias, it's always traceable.

I read long ago, "if you wouldn't write it and sign it, don't say it."  That holds true for simply writing it.

Because somewhere, somehow, someday if you've written it those you love will read it or hear that you've written it.

And so I've always been careful, always self-editing, because even though I have this tremendous need to share my thoughts and to get things off my chest and to think out loud (on paper) and organize my thoughts in writing I cannot shake that in the back of my mind my mother, my sister, my husband, my children, my loved ones may one day come upon something I've written and be hurt by it.

And the potential pain for them is not worth the freedom for me.

I remember once I spent the night at my cousin's house.  She lived about 90 minutes from me and it was a treat to visit her on weekends or special occasions.  During the week, however, we would write letters to each other.  I've always loved writing.  And I've always written just the way I speak.  It's like "being there". I also always kept a diary.

My cousin, on the other hand, struggled with writing letters.  She'd write one pagers and I'd write volumes.  She once complimented my ability to write and express feelings just as if I were standing next to her.  I encouraged her to try keeping a diary.

But one night I'm at my cousin's house and she's in the bathroom getting ready--or sneaking a cigarette or something--when I open up the drawer or something next to her bed.  In it I find this diary entry or letter, I can't remember, but in it my cousin is complaining about the length of my letters.

I wasn't hurt, really, just surprised.  Because I longed to receive a letter like the ones I sent to her.  But I've never forgotten that.

Another time my mother found my diary.  And not only did she read it--she WROTE in it.  Not as an editor, but as a commentator!  It's funny to me still.  And shocking.  But I never read my daughter's private thoughts.  I was never tempted to go snooping around, either.  I always felt -- and still do -- that she's entitled to her feelings about me: good or bad. 

And I never wanted her to have to choose:  their potential pain or my freedom.

Seriously.

Stiltz or a Professional Ladder?