In remembrance of Joey, October 2000 to September 2009
Making the decision to put an animal down has to be the single hardest thing in life to do. I've done it three times. And each time, it's more heart breaking than the time before.
We've always had our Goldens in pairs. First came Al in 1989. A few years later, Bob. Five years after that, we lost Bob, but within months, we gained Joey. Al went to doggy heaven in 2001 and has now been joined by the puppy who once gave him so much grief.
John always reserved the right to name the dogs. That right has been revoked when the next Golden takes up residence with us. Al? Bob? Joey? I always felt like I was calling kids into dinner when I hollared for one of them. Still, I guess that's what made them unique to us.
Of all the boys, Joey was the one with the most personality. He was a rowdy guy, with unbounded enthusiasm and an equally unbounded appetite. He was one of 11 in a litter born to Ben and Lucy and was quickly named Fat Boy by the breeder for gaining weight faster than the other pups. He came to live with us at seven weeks, no where near house broken but somewhat eager to learn.
What WE didn't know was that Joey had a recessive Marley gene. As we worked to integrate him into the household, his name became "Joey-NO." That's all we ever seemed to say to him.
My other two boys never chewed shoes or really, anything. Joey didn't chew -- he digested. Doc Maarten sandles (one pair), dog beds (three), tennis balls (numerous), seats on the exercise machine (two) and more books than any of us have read in a lifetime. It's not that we left temptation in his line of sight. He could just smell things he knew he wasn't supposed to have.
I was working full-time when Joey came home, so the dogs were left to their own devices outside during the day. Al was still with us, but aging and having some issues with arthritis. John didn't want Al laying on the hard cement all day long, so he purchased a soft, cushy (read: expensive) dog bed. Joey ate it out from underneath him in a day. John purchased another dog bed. Joey ate that one too. Not to be outsmarted by a puppy, John built a wooden frame, layed a big chunk of foam inside, covered that in chicken wire (nailed to the frame) and enveloped the whole thing in a nice soft blanket.
Joey moved the blanket, peeled back the chicken wire and started eating away at the foam padding. With Al in the bed.
The outside water bowl became another problem, especially when the weather got warmer. Joey would upend the bowl and parade around the dog run with the bowl in his mouth. Several days, we came home to find the bowl bone dry and upside down in a pile of bark dust. John ended out bolting and chaining the bowl to the foundation of the house.
About this time, our neighbors next door brought home Blue, an Alaskan Huskey who quickly became Joey's new best friend. They would run the length of the fence talking to each other, and eventually, Joey had to check out how his buddy lived. We kinda suspected he was digging holes when the neighbor kept appearing at the door with our dog on their dog's leash! John finally poured cement in all the holes to keep Joey in his own space. We had to have that section of fence repaired last spring and you should have seen the look on the guy's face when he encountered all that cement.
After we lost Al, Joey flew solo during the day. Things began to go missing in the garage. We discovered Joey was climbing up to the work bench, helping himself to whatever was there and dragging it out to the dog run to take out his agression at being left alone. Nothing was sacred. It still makes me laugh to recall the night we found the strap to John's bowling bag hanging outside the dog door. The bag was still in the garage -- Joey had drug a 16-pound bowling ball across the garage but couldn't get it up through the dog door.
Joey always hated suitcases. He knew that meant somebody was leaving. He reserved a special pathetic face for when he saw them come in the house. And with the amount of time John and I spend on the road, they're in the house frequently. While we were gone, he'd pout and sigh and sometimes, boycott food.
He always slept in the hall at night, where he could see the bedroom doors and down the stairs. In the morning, he'd lay on the bed and watch while everybody got dressed for the day. He loved the hose -- anybody's hose -- and would wander yards to see if somebody else had water better than his. When John fired up the sprinkler system every spring, Joey would run through the water with the wild abandon of an out of control toddler.
We've always been a vet's nightmare in the treat department, but these last few weeks we repealed the ban to let Joey have people snacks again. Cracker packaging could wake him out of a sound sleep. The bread wrapper brought him running. And if somebody took food downstairs, he'd patiently sit in front of them and drool.
Joey never had a bad day. He loved unconditionally and he had a happy tail that wagged continuously. Everybody was his friend. There is nothing more endearing to me than the face of a Golden Retriever, but Joey's always possessed a sort of smile. He was a happy dog, but he gave us so much more.
And he's sorely missed.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
The City Girl and the Farm Boy
John and I hosted some interesting house guests recently.
We didn't have to entertain them. They arrived without luggage and I didn't have to lay out fancy soap in the guest bathroom.
But they overstayed their welcome and invited all their relatives.
I don't deal well with critters that have more legs and hair than I do.
Mice and spiders make my skin crawl.
I suspected we were running a Rodent Bed and Breakfast after I discovered one had been living quite comfortably in a 30-pound bag of dog food in the garage. Not much good can come from a canine breakfast served with a side of dead mouse.
I'm not sure what caused its demise -- but it doesn't say much for the nutritional value of fat-dog dog food. Maybe it was smashed by the weight of said food. Either way, it wouldn't be spreading the word about good eats at our house.
Admitting you have a rodent issues is like confessing the crazy relative you keep locked in the attic is on the loose. And you can't hide what's going on when you shop where people know you.
A large bag of grapes and a four-pack of mouse traps through the checkstand and you have no secrets.
I was raised a city girl. Wooden mouse traps are a little out of my range. No matter, I managed to set the trap without losing a finger, leaving a generous cube of cheese as bait. I moved onto peanut butter when the cheese kept disappearing leaving the trap unsprung.
I live with two men convinced I have no survival skills. I know they set me up just for the laughs. They snickered while I spooned peanut butter under the cheese scented pad, but never told me I was doing it wrong.
John finally decided to bail me out. He could only take my manic cleaning and sniveling for so long.
He went to the feed store, where we don't know anybody, and brought home a metal box trap.
"This is more humane," he said, dropping peanut butter into a corner of the box. "The mouse gets in but can't get out. Then, we'll take him to the field at the end of the street and let him go."
"Won't it come back?" I asked.
"Annie, mice aren't that smart," exasperation showing all over his face.
For several days, we moved that box trap from one part of the family room to another.
I was getting frantic. I smelled like bleach 24/7 and was quickly becoming a candidate for an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder Intervention.
John told me to be patient. He spent his childhood summers on his family's farm in Deer Island. He was manly and knew how to deal with this.
Until the day Pixie and Dixie's brazen relative walked right past the trap in broad daylight. It didn't actually walk. It ran -- within an inch of Joey's nose. He didn't even flinch.
John bought another box trap. Guess he figured if one piece of equipment didn't work, he needed two.
I was less than trusting, so I doubled my own efforts. I redeployed newly baited wooden traps in every room near ground zero. The place was a mine field. The smell of peanut butter was overwhelming.
The next day, one of my traps was upside down in the bathroom, a skinny unmoving tail sticking out into the hall.
City Girl, 1. Farm Boy, 0.
We didn't have to entertain them. They arrived without luggage and I didn't have to lay out fancy soap in the guest bathroom.
But they overstayed their welcome and invited all their relatives.
I don't deal well with critters that have more legs and hair than I do.
Mice and spiders make my skin crawl.
I suspected we were running a Rodent Bed and Breakfast after I discovered one had been living quite comfortably in a 30-pound bag of dog food in the garage. Not much good can come from a canine breakfast served with a side of dead mouse.
I'm not sure what caused its demise -- but it doesn't say much for the nutritional value of fat-dog dog food. Maybe it was smashed by the weight of said food. Either way, it wouldn't be spreading the word about good eats at our house.
Admitting you have a rodent issues is like confessing the crazy relative you keep locked in the attic is on the loose. And you can't hide what's going on when you shop where people know you.
A large bag of grapes and a four-pack of mouse traps through the checkstand and you have no secrets.
I was raised a city girl. Wooden mouse traps are a little out of my range. No matter, I managed to set the trap without losing a finger, leaving a generous cube of cheese as bait. I moved onto peanut butter when the cheese kept disappearing leaving the trap unsprung.
I live with two men convinced I have no survival skills. I know they set me up just for the laughs. They snickered while I spooned peanut butter under the cheese scented pad, but never told me I was doing it wrong.
John finally decided to bail me out. He could only take my manic cleaning and sniveling for so long.
He went to the feed store, where we don't know anybody, and brought home a metal box trap.
"This is more humane," he said, dropping peanut butter into a corner of the box. "The mouse gets in but can't get out. Then, we'll take him to the field at the end of the street and let him go."
"Won't it come back?" I asked.
"Annie, mice aren't that smart," exasperation showing all over his face.
For several days, we moved that box trap from one part of the family room to another.
I was getting frantic. I smelled like bleach 24/7 and was quickly becoming a candidate for an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder Intervention.
John told me to be patient. He spent his childhood summers on his family's farm in Deer Island. He was manly and knew how to deal with this.
Until the day Pixie and Dixie's brazen relative walked right past the trap in broad daylight. It didn't actually walk. It ran -- within an inch of Joey's nose. He didn't even flinch.
John bought another box trap. Guess he figured if one piece of equipment didn't work, he needed two.
I was less than trusting, so I doubled my own efforts. I redeployed newly baited wooden traps in every room near ground zero. The place was a mine field. The smell of peanut butter was overwhelming.
The next day, one of my traps was upside down in the bathroom, a skinny unmoving tail sticking out into the hall.
City Girl, 1. Farm Boy, 0.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
House Guest Essentials
New kitchen table
$6.99
New chair
$6.00
Personal storage and new linens
$10.00
The House Guest?
Priceless
$6.99
New chair
$6.00
Personal storage and new linens
$10.00
The House Guest?
Priceless
Monday, June 29, 2009
On another note
After two weeks of hell -- for everybody -- Joey lost his plastic fashion accessory over the weekend. The beast has butted heads with door frames, furniture, walls, etc., so many times, that the collar was no longer round. It was time for it to go away.
Amelia came to visit for a few days, approximately 48 hours after Joey's surgery and was initially, rather wigged over what became known as Joey's "hat."
We've always been a vet's nightmare in the dog treat department. Our other Goldens were frequently treated to DQ children's sized soft ice cream cones. So it was no surprise when John promised Joey an ice cream cone when he regained his neck freedom. Only, John didn't buy a child's cone.
Considering what happened to the dog, an ice cream cone seemed rather cheap. As Megan put it, "If he'd been a girl, this whole thing should have demanded a Tiffany box."
Amelia came to visit for a few days, approximately 48 hours after Joey's surgery and was initially, rather wigged over what became known as Joey's "hat."
We've always been a vet's nightmare in the dog treat department. Our other Goldens were frequently treated to DQ children's sized soft ice cream cones. So it was no surprise when John promised Joey an ice cream cone when he regained his neck freedom. Only, John didn't buy a child's cone.
Considering what happened to the dog, an ice cream cone seemed rather cheap. As Megan put it, "If he'd been a girl, this whole thing should have demanded a Tiffany box."
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Feng Shui
Okay People. Help me out here.
I've read a little about Feng Shui over the years. I know that if you walk in the front door and the back door is dead ahead, you're gonna have issues. "Issues" being the capture and rotation of positive energy, or Chi, within the house.
To offset the potential that all that wondermous Chi will escape out the back door, Feng Shui advocates placing some form of wall decoration inside the front door to keep the Chi moving away from the back door.
Witness: the grandfather clock. A swinging pendulum. How better to move positive energy?
First of all, I must confess, I didn't put the clock on that wall years ago because I wanted to rotate the family Chi. I did it because that was the only place the clock fit. Secondly, in order to truly utilize the pendulum/Chi movement theory, don't you need to wind the clock regularly?
I ask this because it suddenly occurred to me that maybe my lack of clock winding diligence is the reason why 2009 has sorta sucked so far! John: two surgeries in three months; the death of a very close friend; the winter from hell in general; and now, playing Nancy Nurse to a one-eyed 90-pound Golden Retriever with a plastic fashion accessory.
Sorry. No photos. He does have some dignity left.
We found out a week ago Joey had a cancerous tumor in his left eye. Labs and x-rays revealed no other cancer presence so the solution was to remove the entire eye. He'd probably been loosing his sight gradually for a while, even though we had no clue, so this wouldn't be a hard adjustment for him. And hopefully, solve the medical problem. The poor guy loves to ride in my truck. Between our vet and the veterinary specialist appointments, (yes, Virginia, I hauled Joey into a Veterinary Opthomologist) he was beside himself over so many car rides.
And look what I did to him. Still he's been my shadow these last two days and hasn't yet found the energy, apparently, to get really po'ed and pee in my shoes.
Ya gotta love a Golden.
I've read a little about Feng Shui over the years. I know that if you walk in the front door and the back door is dead ahead, you're gonna have issues. "Issues" being the capture and rotation of positive energy, or Chi, within the house.
To offset the potential that all that wondermous Chi will escape out the back door, Feng Shui advocates placing some form of wall decoration inside the front door to keep the Chi moving away from the back door.
Witness: the grandfather clock. A swinging pendulum. How better to move positive energy?
First of all, I must confess, I didn't put the clock on that wall years ago because I wanted to rotate the family Chi. I did it because that was the only place the clock fit. Secondly, in order to truly utilize the pendulum/Chi movement theory, don't you need to wind the clock regularly?
I ask this because it suddenly occurred to me that maybe my lack of clock winding diligence is the reason why 2009 has sorta sucked so far! John: two surgeries in three months; the death of a very close friend; the winter from hell in general; and now, playing Nancy Nurse to a one-eyed 90-pound Golden Retriever with a plastic fashion accessory.
Sorry. No photos. He does have some dignity left.
We found out a week ago Joey had a cancerous tumor in his left eye. Labs and x-rays revealed no other cancer presence so the solution was to remove the entire eye. He'd probably been loosing his sight gradually for a while, even though we had no clue, so this wouldn't be a hard adjustment for him. And hopefully, solve the medical problem. The poor guy loves to ride in my truck. Between our vet and the veterinary specialist appointments, (yes, Virginia, I hauled Joey into a Veterinary Opthomologist) he was beside himself over so many car rides.
And look what I did to him. Still he's been my shadow these last two days and hasn't yet found the energy, apparently, to get really po'ed and pee in my shoes.
Ya gotta love a Golden.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Spring Fever
I adore spring. It's my favorite time of year. These are also the only months I don't get cranky rolling out of bed at 7 a.m. Course it's tough to sleep any later, since our bedroom faces the east and sunrise is like a persistant toddler telling you to get up.
Still, spring is invigorating. The actual desire to dig in the dirt and fuss in the yard. Cleaning and window washing -- oh my. Those look easy at the moment, since I've spent the last two weeks purging a storage shed in the backyard and as of Tuesday, I will no longer be a slave to an actual pay-by-the-month storage unit. This alone should be cause for naked cartwheels down the middle of the street but let's talk again when the garage sale is over.
Unloading the storage unit seemed like a good idea at the time. "Rent" paid for an oversized off-site garage, a black hole where out of sight meant out of mind. We've had the damn thing for a good nine years, mostly because every move my mom made the last few years of her life meant downsizing HER stuff. Well, mom's been gone for five years. And most of that STUFF has since been donated, dispersed or dumped. Sadly, I will say it was an emotional trip I didn't expect a week ago, when I hauled the last two boxes of my mother's things up to the house for a look-see. I found scrapbooks from her high school years, my parents wedding album, letters my dad wrote before they were married while he was stationed in Texas with the Air Force and well, other things I wasn't prepared for. It was an odd feeling to realize that that's all that remained of my family -- two boxes. But it's done.
Still, unloading the storage unit didn't turn out as simple as I'd planned. I had to have somewhere else to put this STUFF. Mostly, holiday decorations and other schmutz I hope my kids enjoy pawing through some day. So, I turned to the storage shed in the backyard, normally a place I wouldn't go near if my hair was on fire. I mean, the lawn mower's out there and the minute I learn how to use that, it will become my job as well.
No matter, I got brave and decided to clean it out. If I thought the storage unit was a black hole, then the shed was worse. I started hauling things out of there, holding them up to John for "aye" or "nay" approval.
Typical conversation:
Me: "What car do these tire chains (TWO sets) belong to?"
John: "I dunno."
Me: "Do we have to keep these? They don't go to our current rigs."
John: "Yes, we need to keep them. We might need them someday."
Me: "But what kind of car do they fit?"
John: blank stare.
I didn't admit I knew of two other sets of tire chains in the garage, which also don't fit the cars we currently drive. Trust me -- at least two sets are garage sale bound.
Here's another one. Picture please I'm holding three, THREE, military-issue ammo cans. We used to use them when we white water rafted since they float. Umm, note here: John sold the raft eight years ago.
Me: "Okay, do we need the ammo cans?"
John (looking horrified): "YES!!! We're overdue for an earthquake."
Me: blank stare
Why is that if guys can't find something, they just go buy another one? I won't discuss how many cans of Thompson's Water Seal, Wood Sealer and (dear God) freon I found out there. Metro's Hazardous Waste Disposal Event got a lot of that and all the left over paint as well.
People, there are four of every size picnic cooler known to man. A boat anchor, but the boat's been gone for at least six years. There were mulching blades for a lawn mower we haven't had since we moved from our old house 12 years ago. And don't even get me going on the golf clubs, golf bags and pull carts.
After two long days, I'm proud to say the storage unit is pretty well empty and all the STUFF I hauled home is either in the pile destined for the garage sale or neatly put away in new homes. It's been an essentially solo project, since John's only a week out from shoulder surgery and Christopher's been battling a bum knee.
I've done a garage sale every year for the last six years. I keep thinking I'm getting ruthless in my purging, but apparently I didn't. The pathetic part is that I'll probably do another one next year and will still find more STUFF. Where does it come from?
Still, spring is invigorating. The actual desire to dig in the dirt and fuss in the yard. Cleaning and window washing -- oh my. Those look easy at the moment, since I've spent the last two weeks purging a storage shed in the backyard and as of Tuesday, I will no longer be a slave to an actual pay-by-the-month storage unit. This alone should be cause for naked cartwheels down the middle of the street but let's talk again when the garage sale is over.
Unloading the storage unit seemed like a good idea at the time. "Rent" paid for an oversized off-site garage, a black hole where out of sight meant out of mind. We've had the damn thing for a good nine years, mostly because every move my mom made the last few years of her life meant downsizing HER stuff. Well, mom's been gone for five years. And most of that STUFF has since been donated, dispersed or dumped. Sadly, I will say it was an emotional trip I didn't expect a week ago, when I hauled the last two boxes of my mother's things up to the house for a look-see. I found scrapbooks from her high school years, my parents wedding album, letters my dad wrote before they were married while he was stationed in Texas with the Air Force and well, other things I wasn't prepared for. It was an odd feeling to realize that that's all that remained of my family -- two boxes. But it's done.
Still, unloading the storage unit didn't turn out as simple as I'd planned. I had to have somewhere else to put this STUFF. Mostly, holiday decorations and other schmutz I hope my kids enjoy pawing through some day. So, I turned to the storage shed in the backyard, normally a place I wouldn't go near if my hair was on fire. I mean, the lawn mower's out there and the minute I learn how to use that, it will become my job as well.
No matter, I got brave and decided to clean it out. If I thought the storage unit was a black hole, then the shed was worse. I started hauling things out of there, holding them up to John for "aye" or "nay" approval.
Typical conversation:
Me: "What car do these tire chains (TWO sets) belong to?"
John: "I dunno."
Me: "Do we have to keep these? They don't go to our current rigs."
John: "Yes, we need to keep them. We might need them someday."
Me: "But what kind of car do they fit?"
John: blank stare.
I didn't admit I knew of two other sets of tire chains in the garage, which also don't fit the cars we currently drive. Trust me -- at least two sets are garage sale bound.
Here's another one. Picture please I'm holding three, THREE, military-issue ammo cans. We used to use them when we white water rafted since they float. Umm, note here: John sold the raft eight years ago.
Me: "Okay, do we need the ammo cans?"
John (looking horrified): "YES!!! We're overdue for an earthquake."
Me: blank stare
Why is that if guys can't find something, they just go buy another one? I won't discuss how many cans of Thompson's Water Seal, Wood Sealer and (dear God) freon I found out there. Metro's Hazardous Waste Disposal Event got a lot of that and all the left over paint as well.
People, there are four of every size picnic cooler known to man. A boat anchor, but the boat's been gone for at least six years. There were mulching blades for a lawn mower we haven't had since we moved from our old house 12 years ago. And don't even get me going on the golf clubs, golf bags and pull carts.
After two long days, I'm proud to say the storage unit is pretty well empty and all the STUFF I hauled home is either in the pile destined for the garage sale or neatly put away in new homes. It's been an essentially solo project, since John's only a week out from shoulder surgery and Christopher's been battling a bum knee.
I've done a garage sale every year for the last six years. I keep thinking I'm getting ruthless in my purging, but apparently I didn't. The pathetic part is that I'll probably do another one next year and will still find more STUFF. Where does it come from?
Sunday, February 22, 2009
A Sister in my Heart
Shelley Bailey
Feb. 12, 1952 - Feb. 4, 2009
Shelley's ringtone on my cell phone is a song by Jimmy Buffett called "Fruitcakes." Part of the chorus goes like this:
"Fruitcakes in the kitchen, fruitcakes on the street.
Strutting naked in the crosswalk in the middle of the week."
First of all, we never strutted naked anywhere. But I'd bet the gray in Dan's beard is from the fear that we could have or might have.
Shelley was the fruitcake in my life. She was the fiber and spice that held those of us around her together and kept things interesting. She taught me not to sweat the small stuff and inspired me to laugh, smile and smell the flowers every single day.
Years ago, when Dan introduced John to Shelley, I still hadn't met all the people associated with John's job. John came home from a meeting in Medford and said, "Wait till you meet Bailey's wife." I said, why? He said, "You will have met your soul-mate." I've often wondered if John was surprised to find my clone, or if he just had a lot of empathy for Dan, whose wife was so much like his own. But John was right. Shelley was my soul-mate.
Our friendship was a never-ending conversation. We could talk for hours about anything and everything. If life got in the way and we didn't talk for a few days, we could pick up where we left off without skipping a beat. She showed me that life is an adventure, filled with humor and to enjoy each and every moment.
And we had plenty of moments -- depending on Devon to teach us the ways of an iPhone; bargain hunting at Nordstrom Rack with Debbie Stonebraker; and the joys of becoming grandmothers within months of each other.
There's an antique mall in Lincoln City, where I'm sure management groaned every time we walked in the door. Shelley and I knew enough about antiques to be dangerous, but we prided ourselves on giving the impression that we really knew what we were doing. A few years ago, we both took interest in a yellow Bauer mixing bowl. A discussion ensued over who saw it first. She said it matched her kitchen. I said it matched mine. She said it was a good buy. I told her that without me, she wouldn't have known it was a Bauer piece to begin with. We wandered that mall for a long time, but she never took her hands off the bowl. I think she thought I would steal it. She ended up buying it, but we spent months debating who it really belonged to.
Shelley loved the beach. It was where she found peace and the space to collect herself. Last summer, when Dan and John went to Ann Arbor, we took a road trip to Lincoln City with Devon. To this day, I'm still not sure if the purpose of that trip was to needle the antique mall owners, support the Indians or just get away. She was a wonderful traveling companion -- easy to play with and never flying with an agenda. My favorite part of that trip was sitting at the picnic table outside our hotel room in the morning, drinking coffee. At least that's what Shelley called it. She used two packages of grounds and brewed what could only be described as mud. I love my morning coffee, but that stuff curled my hair and left me shaky half the day.
Shelley was a fighter and one of the strongest people I have ever known. She was also independent and knew her own mind. The word "impossible" was not in her vocabulary. If something needed doing or fixing, she did it. If there was an issue in her family, her work or even her own health, she thought it through and forged ahead to resolve it. As a friend, she was fiercely loyal, non-judgmental and loved unconditionally. And she had style -- with her tiny purses and shoe fetish. She was one of the few people I knew who could wear a tank top with Bellagio in rhinestones across the front and wear it well.
Shelley never took life with much seriousness. In fact, she would consider our tears over her passing to be drivel. She would much rather see us telling stories about the times we shared with her and she would probably add her two cents about all of us as well.
Jimmy Buffett's song goes on to say:
"Fruitcakes in the oven, fruitcakes on the bus.
There's a little bit of fruitcake left in every one of us."
My life is richer because of that little bit of fruitcake.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Therapy
I first became smitten with arts and crafts when I learned how to make pot holders on a metal loom as a kid. My grandmother, bless her, was always delighted to get MORE pot holders for gifts and probably could have cloaked a small country with the numbers she had when she died.
When I got older, and my horizons expanded, few had any faith I would ever be able to do something like sew. My mom taught me the basics in middle school and I did make some worthwhile shirt dresses at the time. In Junior High, my best friend's mother was our Home Ec teacher. Our class project was a dress. God, I can still see that hideous green flowered fabric. I really had no business intending to wear said garment, since I was short and overweight for my size. I know how to sew, I thought at the time, so I paid little attention in class and did what I thought I already knew. The front of a dress is always placed on the fold of the fabric, so there is no seam. I promptly cut the dress up the front. Oh it got worse. I ended up putting in the zipper upside down, in the hem at the back of the dress.
So when John decided to buy me a sewing machine for Christmas the year I was pregnant with Megan, my mother recoiled in horror and tried to change his mind. Mostly self-taught from that point, I went on to make Halloween costumes for the kids (my favorites being Donald Duck and Snow White), summer jackets, holiday outfits and down vests from Daisy Kingdom for everybody I knew.
Then came scrapbooking. Quilting. Tole painting. Card manufacturing. I now have a room devoted to nothing but what I call my "therapy." I love creating something handmade. I wish I could say this passion is cheaper than somebody's couch in an office, but I fear it's not.
So I thought I would share what I've been doing with some of my "spare time" lately.
This is a recent birthday present for a friend. Your basic unpainted wooden cigar box, which I covered with vintage paper. The fan ornament on the outside of the box is an earring I picked up at the Goodwill for $2.00 for the pair. The stationary inside the box was also handmade, using just double-sided scrapbook paper cut to standard notecard size.
I'm working on one of these presently, which will also be a birthday present. This one was actually a bridal shower gift a couple years ago and contained a fussy, umm, "sweet nothing" for the bride.
I'd love to see what anybody else does!
Monday, January 26, 2009
This is a test.....
Happy Monday.........
John's "needs" are on the right, Joey's on the left. Yes, all three bottles belong to the dog. The plastic bag is actually an IV bag we tie over the bandage on his foot every time he goes outside.
For those unacquainted, meet Joey -- our 8-year old Golden Retriever. The green bootie and neck ornament are courtesy of the vet, after a late afternoon emergency run. Joey was chasing a ball down the stairs and managed to leave an entire toe nail behind on his way down. Should probably mention that John also had surgery on Friday.
John's "needs" are on the right, Joey's on the left. Yes, all three bottles belong to the dog. The plastic bag is actually an IV bag we tie over the bandage on his foot every time he goes outside.
My "need."
Thursday, January 22, 2009
The Gods must be crazy
I know we have no reason to complain about the weather at the moment. We're not freezing in subzero temperatures and we're not digging out from underneath a mountain of snow. Well, that may change, according to the National Weather Service.
But I'll think about that tomorrow.
Living in the eastern 'burbs of Portland, we're more than accustomed to what is commonly called the East Wind. Commonly, I say -- not fondly. It's a bone chilling wind that whips down the Columbia River Gorge capable of freezing puddles, pipes and nose hairs. It's legend that folks out here put bricks on their garbage cans so they don't have to replace the lid. We KNOW wind.
Several years back, one of the TV stations had a contest to name the East Wind. It was a big deal, hyped everywhere and there were some rather creative names submitted. I don't recall if there was any sort of prize for winning, other than bragging rights, but entries poured in.
Anyway, they awarded the honor to some yahoo on the west side, who came up with the name Chinook Wind. Obviously, this person never spent a winter out here, or he or she wouldn't have thought of something so ordinary. I mean a Chinook is a fish -- a very determined fish -- but not a hostile animal. And the winter wind out here is hostile.
This past weekend, the wind was beyond hostile. It fell more into the wicked category. John has a weather station on top of the house that clocked nearly 60 mile an hour gusts. (how the instruments stayed anchored on the roof is still a mystery) I've lived out here over 30 years and never, repeat never, seen, heard or felt wind like this.
I tried three times to post about the storm, but we had numerous bumps in the power, which of course always coincided with my being online. I did discover that one outlet in my power strip fried during a bump and well, the computer itself has been rather touchy ever since. So besides replacing three sections of fencing (which fell like dominoes), guess a computer upgrade will be forthcoming as well.
From the deck, this is looking to the north, If you look toward the top of the photo, where the tall shrubs are, you can see our neighbor lost a whole section of his fence too.
Also from the deck, this is looking toward the south. The wind blew through both fences and actually upended and moved the swing. The fence panel in the foreground was torn completely off the hinges attached to the gate.
That's obviously the dog's house. Used very little since he's mostly an in-house kinda guy anymore, but it weighs a ton and was tossed around like a Tinker Toy. The humor in this is that the dog now has the run of about four different yards that he normally has no access to. And of course none of the owner's of those yards have dogs. The neighbors who share the fence in the above photo used to have a dog when we got Joey as a pup 8 years ago. The animals became fast friends and would dig under the fence so they could play in each other's yards. To keep Joey in his own space, John poured cement under the bark wherever they dug holes. I've been having nightmares about replacing the fence in the spring and having to dig out all that cement.
For the moment, all is calm. But this winter has been so strange and unusual that I'm far from trusting that we'll just return to good old fashioned rain until spring.
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