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Earth Angels

Going to Earth Angels HeArt of the Winter Art Show has become a tradition for the Art Is You girls. Last year, we stayed at a B&B and had a leisurely two days to see the show and visit all the cute boutiques in town, as well as have tea at Charlotte's Tea Room and several trips to the very hip coffee house.

This year, we were happy to get there at all, what with everyone's busy schedule.  We left a little later, were yakking so much in the car that we overshot the exit by about 30 miles, got there almost 90 minutes late, had to take my dear Oz girl to lunch because the stress of being the driver and lost had taken a toll on her usual unflappable sunny demeanor, and we had to use a bathroom that was as cold as ice.

But once we all had lunch and cups of Paris tea and caught up with everyone, we had our usual blast. I  took wonderful photos with Mr. Pom's new camera I gave him for Christmas. Hopefully, he'll find the cable for uploading so I can show you the photos before next Christmas. 

However, I could not say boo to the man about that because when I was at the show, I walked upstairs and fell head over heels in love with a painting by that wild girl, Laurie Meseroll. I mean head over heels, people, full on burning love.

What's a girl to do?


So right now, in my dining room, I have a new little girl. I haven't decided what to call her yet, but she is the sweetest thing. She knits, you see, she knits by the sea, a pink, glittery mermaid dress to be exact, and she is  waiting for her Captain to come back from his voyage.

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Grand Knitting Mermaid

How could I not buy her??

She just rests against the wall, knitting and sparkling. Her skin is soft and luminous, her little house is warm in the background. She is life sized and sweet and winsome and rich with color and texture. As soon as Sal and Kathy helped me prop her against the wall, it felt like she had been waiting all this time just to be adopted.

I have to tell you, it's quite overwhelming. Every time I walk into the dining room I have to stop and pinch myself. I can't believe what it brings to our house. I knew I had to have it when I realized that it would hang right where you would see it as soon as you walked in the door, and that this painting would be the affirmation of who I was as an artist. 

I have only bought one other original painting before this. It was at last year's show, a gorgeous frieze of flowers by Jennifer Lanne.  I had quite an emotional response to purchasing that painting, also. Jennifer is exactly who I would like to be as an artist. Just as Laurie's is.

But that I don't mean that I want to imitate them; I mean that their work is full of those elements that mean everything to me: saturated, rich color; playful compositions; rich texture; elements of collage; strong narrative work.

They are women making a living as artists.

When I grow up, I would like to be half the artists they are, and I would hope to find a patron as generous and passionate as Jen O'Connor .

Thank you, Jen, for bringing the Earth Angels together, for hosting these amazing art shows where we meet the artists and greet them each year like the long lost friends they have become. I love it all, from the little whimsies, the large, serious pieces, each of them contains the same exuberance of spirit and passion. 

As soon as we get a sunny day, I will take a photo of it in situ - it's a big piece - 36 X 48!


Friday Exhale


We've been lulled into thinking it must be at least March

because winter has dragged on for a long time, it seems, and the temps

have been rather moderate

    UNTIL TODAY!


14 degrees on the Mini thermometer this morning, folks! Because

guess what: it is still January - heart of the winter!


People in my office are getting a

little nutsy about it. There's a lot

of sighing and dragging of feet in

the morning. Sweaters are getting

older and rattier. Uggs are being

worn with skirts. RUNNY noses are

the norm. And there's lots and

lots of chocolate and carbs

being consumed.  


Winter is bleaching the life out of 


us!



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To combat the life-draining,

monochromatic

challenge of the whitest season of the

year, 





 Your Post Today Is Brought To



You By the Color




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Untitled-1
 

.

  Did you know


that RED was 


invented

precisely 


for  midwinter by 


St. Valentine who 


wants you to have


a drop of




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crimson,vermilion,

cochineal, bloody red



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RED?


Surround yourself with RED this weekend. Drink it in your wineglass, rouge it on your cheeks, even color it through your hair if you dare. Put on a red dress, red shoes, red scarf, and definitely a red beret.

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My work here is done.

Have a very reddy weekend!

And check out Jane's post about red!


Spa Day

Saturday was my kind of Spa Day. I could never sit still long enough nor feel justified to spend money on pampering myself with mannies, peddies, and massages, but a day of art in not one but two lovely settings, plus a catered, delicious lunch, and the company of some of the loveliest women I've met, including my two buds, The Art Is You Ladies, to quote the TV commercials: priceless!

I have been so busy this week with work and art deadlines that I haven't had a sec to upload any photos. So I am shamelessly directing you to other blogs to see the photos and descriptions of the marvelous Saturday House Wren Studio Session that I took with beautiful Charlotte Lyons in her hometown of Irvington on the banks of the Hudson River.

Please take a look at Charlotte's blog to see great photos of our day.

Here's a couple I stole from hers:

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I won this adorable Charlotte Lyons original! Isn't she precious! It says, "You're the best friend I've got".

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Can you believe that Ellen made this incredible hat from a FELTED SWEATER following Charlotte's cool pattern??

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Sallianne's snowman just broke my heart, it was so sweet - just like she is. 

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And, I got to meet Amy, her mom, and sisters, and she taught me how to make these beautiful felt rosettes. 

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That is my little Valentine Snowbuddy (and my hands) and it is on its way to a special friend.

It was a day that I wish I had stretched into many. In another post I will show you pics of the gorgeous house where Charlotte's friend Suzanne lives and where she gave us a beautiful luncheon.

Bear with me for a few more days while I finish up some deadlines and get cracking on some new projects.


The Princess and The Snow

When we spent New Year's on the Cape, there was an enormous snow storm. Two days of snow kept us all housebound and on Monday, when the sun finally came out, The Teen and I had to skedaddle home back to work and school. Mr. Pom and The Princess, however, had some extra days to spend. The Princess and The Boyfriend had a great time driving around after the storm and she captured some gorgeous pictures of a very different Cape than we are used to in the summer. I think she has a real eye and talent and I'm not just saying that cause I'm her Mamma!

CAPE COD IN THE SNOW BY THE PRINCESS



 

 


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CLOSE

FWKS


Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

No one told me when I got older, how much I would miss the old ones.  Oh, don't get me wrong, I was a depressed (and depressing) child and lord knows that I mourned my grandmother 30 years before she died.

But I'm not talking about that. Tonight I am missing the old and all that goes with them. Somehow, the last ten years, my family has flattened out. If you were to graph our ages on a spreadsheet, there's big a flat, broad clump of   40 to 60 year old's with a measly few spikes up to the 70's and 80's and a scattering of entries  from 10 to 25. 

My family has leveled out. Suddenly  my sisters and I and our families are the bulk of it and at the holidays, we can count on one hand the ladies with permanents and navy blue patent leather shoes.

Where are the old ones? Where are the aunts who crocheted anything that stood still, who knitted baby sweaters with arms as long as orangutans? What happened to  the uncles who stood at attention in salute whenever the national anthem played - in their living rooms. Where are the Elk members and the church ushers in green blazers and the women who owned house dresses with zippers that had shiny pink plastic toggles and stockings rolled down around their knees?

We are all so pleasantly alike, my existing family. We have nice, pleasantly decorated homes. We have pleasant gardens and decks and two pleasant cars in the driveways.

How is it that among all 5 of us daughters, there isn't a one with a plaster garden gnome, iron deer, or madonna statue in the front yard?  Why don't at least one of us have flowers planted in a painted tire? Or how about at leat one kitchen windowsill  that holds a lineup of mismatched pots filled with scraggly houseplants that never seem to grow or die?

If I pop in on one of my sisters, I know for sure several things:

  • none of them will have a plastic tablecloth on the table
  • not a one will be wearing a housedress or apron
  • and no one  will have on slippers with no backs
If I rang their doorbell, I would not hear the sound of bedsheets being hurriedly pulled off the couch and chairs and thrown in the back pantry. Nor would my butt stick to plastic slipcovers if it was a hot summer day.

What is this world coming to?

Of course, none of them will be home. They will either be at work; driving kids to and from activities; or at the gym. If I were to catch them in a rare midday hour in the their houses, no one will ask me to be quiet while they watch their "stories".  If we're not home, you can be sure we aren't  at a bridge or a fashion show or playing mah jong.    We don't belong to clubs that require us to sell chances for church raffles or put together baskets of cheer for auction.

And I'm quite certain that their toilet paper is quietly stored under the sink rather than a pink crocheted "poodle" cover with googly eyes and pom pom tail that sits on the toilet bowl tank.  

Worst of all, no one has an Italian accent. No one talks over our heads in Sicilian dialect as if we don't know they're talking about a) sex; b) money; c) divorce; d) cancer. No one pinches our cheeks, calls us "bella", hands us dollar bills, or keeps Chiclets in the dishtowel drawer. The best I do is give my  nephew five bucks and a Kit Kat bar for walking the dogs on Saturday afternoons. 

There are no old men with baggy pants and a five o'clock shadow making wine in the basement. I haven't seen a pair of polyester pants and one inch pumps that overflow with swollen ankles walk in my house in ... 7 years.

Who is using all the plastic flower totebags that held pilled sweaters, scuffed "house shoes", and their own rubber gloves case they should do the after dinner dishes? The landfills must be filled with them, along with hair rollers, pin curl clips, and mink stoles with heads and claws. 

And I daresay that were I to open the purse of any of my sisters, or even my 84-year old mother, you would not find

  • a plastic rainhat folded into a tiny plastic sleeve with the name of a bank on it;
  • a clip to use to  hang said purse off of a table
  • a gold pillbox  (maybe mom)
  • a folding plastic drinking cup
  • a handkerchief (ok, mom has that), or
  • a tiny gold pen for keeping score at bridge

Estate sales must be stuffed with them.

Our dining room drawers do not contain 50 years of matchbooks inscribed with the names of brides and groom, or Canasta scorecards, plastic swizzle sticks, or sterling flatware.  I've never seen a hatbox in the hall closet even at my own mother's house.

If we were to drop dead tomorrow, our children would not be finding wads of cash in the mattress, the coffee can under the sink, or the freezer in the basement. We use banks. We do not keep lists taped to the freezer door with an inventory of chicken legs and sausage and the dates when interred.  We run to the store after work each day to buy dinner or take out.

We all own luncheon sets, given either as shower gifts or inherited. Sadly, they gather dust in our own dining room servers.  We do not give crocheted afghans to cousins at baby showers.  We do not refuse to drive or allow our husbands to drive after dark. We lack maiden daughters to cook meals and be our companions. We don't have stores of homemade cookies in giant plastic tubs in the basement. We don't have the neighbors over for dinner, go on cruises with the Jaycees, or put together tables for dinner dances.

None of us could dance at dinner dances.

I feel the sorriest for the younger generation.  We're all they have.  There are no "safe" houses for them to hang out in for the weekend where old ladies will make homemade pizza for them or teach them how to make taralla cookies or allow them to look through the basement for interesting family artifacts. We now own all those interesting artifacts.

The best they have is . . . us. The sisters who talk too much and too loudly and share the same expressions. The uncles who tease them or coach them at ballgames.  Cousins who shuffled sleepovers like dealing a deck of cards each weekend.  It's all they know so they think it's enough.

We're the ones who suffer, who yearn for one more gift of scratchy crocheted slippers (there was a lot of slipper-ness back in the day, no?),  for a glimpse of a dyed black jet head of hair with widow's peak, or a the sound of a Cadillac as big as a boat pulling up in front of the house, the door opening with a delicious blast of air conditioning and cigar smoke.

Perhaps its just my refusal to relinquish middle age status. It's hard to be "middle" when the buffer between you and the grave is reduced to one.  I don't want to roll up  to the starting gate - or is it the finish line? I don't own a plastic totebag and if I were to wear a mink stole, the dogs would attack it. I hate polyester, but I have been thinking about crocheting some granny squares. Of course, mine would be done in vibrant, contemporary colors and they are all trendy now.

And my husband did give me a pair of slippers for Christmas, but they were bright green frogs. None of the brothers in law smoke cigars or make wine, but there is the crazy uncle who serves lobsters as big as tunas for Christmas Eve dinner.

Perhaps I can interest  two older sisters in some plastic totebags and an old mink stole?


A Splattering for Saturday

It's late evening on Saturday and I've been lying on my bed for several hours.  But it's not what you think - I had about fifty yards of fabric all over the bed while I pulled luscious reds for a new mixed media piece.

After making a huge mess and throwing Cucciolo off the bed where I found him each and every time I went into the art mess room to find something, I decided that the background fabric needed to be painted.

Being a totally impatient artist and completely winging this project (so what else is new), I got out my Goldens fluid acrylics, a toothbrush, and an old stencil brush, a take out container of water, and right there on the bed  I began splattering.

Of course, I had a drop cloth under it. I did one piece that was turquoise, quinacridone gold, blue, red, and yellow and it's gorgeous but it would compete too much with what I am going to quilt on top of it. I tried over-dying it with more of quinacridone gold in the bathtub, but it was starting to muddy it all up (since I was too impatient for it to fully dry) so I rinsed it off and let it dry. Then  I did another with every green I have and a little turquoise and a straw yellow and it's perfect. 

What else?

Oh, I loved the strong emotions that my post about The Help inspired. It's that kind of book. I went on Itunes to choose my next audiobook and decided on Edgar Sawtelle because I've checked it out of the library twice and not had time to read it. I can't start it right away because I am in the middle of listening to a set of audio classes for my continuing legal education credits that have to be completed every two years for licensing. I have two classes left for that, but can't start them until Monday as a colleague is just finishing them. So that means tomorrow I can listen to it all day while I sew my wall hanging.

In the meanwhile, let me tell you about three new books I've read, each one as different as the last.

Mm

A Brief History of Montmaray is a wonderfully quirky novel about an impoverished aristocratic family who is holding on by the skin of their teeth to their life in a crumbling castle on a deserted island in the middle of World War II. Elements ran through the novel that reminded me of I Captured the Castle, but the story is its own and wonderfully compelling and whimsical in its own strange and sometimes violent way.  

Slant

I found out about A Certain Slant of Light on someone's book blog. I'm sorry that I can't remember whose. Don't you love that about the internet? You can spend an evening following a trail of links as convoluted as a Rubik's Cube and end up at a great place and have no idea how you got there. Anyway,  In A Certain Slant of Light,  Helen is a spirit who is earthbound to a "saint" who is a teacher and she looks up one day from where she is floating invisibly in the corner of his classroom to realize that a very handsome male student can see her and is smiling right at her.  After fleeing in terror, she learns that he can see her because he, too, is a spirit, but he has taken possession of a body of a young drug addict. They end up  in a passionate love affair, despite their 130 year age difference, but in order to do so, he first has to find her a "vacant" body to possess. Unfortunately, it ends up being the body of the only daughter of a Christian fundamentalist.  I liked the book a lot - it made me wonder if Audrey Niffenegger had read it before she wrote Her Fearful Symmetry because it shares some similar themes although they are very different stories.

Fa

I am about a third of the way through Penelope Lively's Family Album: A Novel. This novel should have everything I adore: it is about a large family who lives in a sprawling mansion named Allersmeade, in a wealthy suburb of London, and in differing points of view, tells the bittersweet history of the family from the 1970's to the present. Lively skewers each member of the family very deftly and tells the real story of families, warts and all.  I am not falling in love with it,  though,  at the moment. I think the shifting narrative point of views is putting me off as well as the arrogance of some of the characters, but I will finish it and see if I connect more with it.

In the TBR are some doozies: Wolf Hall, Brooklyn, How to Paint a Dead Man, Love and Summer, the new Rebecca Wells, finishing Olive Kitterridge, The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane, The Paris Review Interview, Vol 1- 4 (!) and several of the Isabel Dalhousie mysteries. I think I'm cool to Valentine's Day...

Tell me what you have on your winter reading piles.


The Help

I can drive for hours as long as I have something to listen to. I tend to get a CD and play it into the ground. If you play that "Brooklyn" song one more time (Avett Brothers), Mr. Pom warns, I'll jump out of the car.

Hmmpf.

So I use the Ipod, figuring if it's okay to have a Bluetooth on in the car, why isn't it okay to have earphones on? Besides, I usually wear only one.

So I started downloading books on Itunes. The first one, couldn't stand the narrator and it put me off the book. The second one, Shanghai Sisters, was interesting and the narration was pretty good, but the story never seemed to end. I decided to listen to Pillars of the Earth. The Princess was anxious for me to read it but I had a feeling I was never going to get around to it. Listening to it in the car sounded like the perfect solution.

Problem was, I couldn't keep track of all the devious political machinations and cast of characters while driving. I would daydream and miss entire chapters. I had to go back several times, which is not easy while driving. I finished it, but I swear I can't tell you too much about it. I really didn't enjoy it.

I'm a Reader. I need the book, the pages, the smell, the font, the paper quality, and for god's sake - the cover art!  I enjoy listening to books in the car, but it's always been a poor substitution for actually reading the book.

And then I downloaded The Help.

SpacerHelp 

I'd seen it in the stores and read a few reviews. A fellow attorney was reading it in court while she waited for her case to be called. I was hesitant; a reviewer criticized her for being a white woman writing about the black domestic experience in the South, saying she shouldn't put her words into their mouths.

Made me feel white guilt.

Then, one day I just changed my mind as I couldn't find anything else on Itunes that wasn't brainless.

I didn't listen to it right away, not until The Teen gave it to The Empress for Christmas.

I started listening to it on the way up to the Cape on the day before New Year's Eve.

I couldn't stop. I could have driven to Alaska. I resented having to pull off in Mystic and find a restroom. I made the dog hurry up through his mid-trip walk. I found excuses to get in the car and drive just to listen to it.

I was afraid to find out what The Empress thought about it. What if she didn't like it?

But she did. And then I had to warn her not to tell me where she was because I knew she was ahead of me.

First and foremost, the book is wonderful: funny, sad, compelling, suspenseful, tragic, and comic.  This is her first novel and the novel hits perfectly on everything: plot, language, character, drama, and pathos. I laughed out loud constantly, and made The Teen listen to several passages; I cried on the way to court; I was late getting back from lunch because I couldn't shut the car off.

But here's the thing: You must LISTEN to this book. READ it if you want, but you MUST listen to it.  There are 4 narrators and they are incredible. The dialectic and accents are nailed to a T.  

I finished it today, lingering over lunch in my car.  On my way home, I tried to find something to listen to on the radio. Nothing fit the bill. I fumbled in the glove compartment for a CD. Nada. Thought of just listening to my IPOD playlists. Nope.

I miss them: Skeeter, Abilene, even Hillie. But the person I miss the most is Minnie. I have a lot of Minnie in me. And I know a lot of Minnies.

Maybe...I could listen to it again?


Welcome Winter

In the deep, hot days of summer, when I am laid out flat on my back with the fan blowing at 6:00 a.m. and a list of gardening chores to do, I dream of winter.

In the midst of late fall, when the shopping lists for Thanksgiving are longer than my arm and the Christmas catalogues begin clogging my mailbox, I dream of winter.

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Be careful what you dream of.....

The holidays are truly and finally over. The tree, a wizened, arthritic skeleton of its fragrant, bushy former self, was dragged out to the curb and the needles swept up and furniture rearranged.  The miniature nativity sets have been boxed up in the round Twelve Days of Christmas box.  The only remnant of the season is my Vintage Shiny Brights wreath that I bought on Etsy, and only because I hate to put it away and I need to find the right size box in which to store it.

Life has moved on. No more sitting by the sidelines, waiting for the festivities to be over and life to begin again. Like this crazy surfer approaching the breakers even when the beach is roped off due to the storm, it is time to put everything aside and take the plunge!

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So many exciting things!  There are books to be read, projects to be sewn, knitting to be undertaken. There are weekends to stay home with the lamps lit and get into the projects that I dream about all year. 

For this is My Year of Art.

For some reason, I've been holding myself back. I've been postponing taking classes, starting projects, finishing projects, reaching out to other artists, and fully immersing myself in all the opportunities that are around me.

It's been for a lot of reasons, some of which I can mention and some of which I cannot. But this year, finally, I am Just Doing It. Date by date, class by class, canvas by canvas.

Stay tuned!

Or come along and ride the waves!



The Ramblings of a Single Woman

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No, not really. But Mr. Pom and Bella Sera stayed the rest of the week on the Cape. So The Teen and I have been living the high life - no cooking, take out food, hanging out with Cucciolo to all hours watching reality TV (Jersey Shore but I'll never admit to it). 

Mr. Pom was itching to get to his projects and he has been a painting fool  this week.

How weird is it for me to be getting calls all day or emails with photos attached with various thrifting finds and whether I think they can be gussied up. (Love that word "gussied" cause my godmother/great aunt was Gussie.)

So I am in a deposition and my client is being deposed. My phone dings dings dings dings four times indicating emails. Then dings four more. I sneak a peak under the guise of probably an important email from the office.

Do you like this for the TV?

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Uh, no.

Dresser for the little bedroom?

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If you paint it.... but of course!

Oh, yes, this is much better for the TV than a big old oak thing. And I think it was like thirty bucks.

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This little guy is a little too country, but for $6 and a spray of paint, it's perfect for the mudroom.

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This little number was white when we found it at Salvation Army, but Mr. Pom wielded his spray can and Maine Cottage has nothing on him!  It's my favorite piece.

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I hauled up a little corner cupboard that we bought unfinished umpteen years ago, probably one of the first things we bought for our first house. It was painted a nice Sturbridge blue and yellow with milk paint. Very 90's. I figured it was time to bring it into this century and get a little jiggy with it (yes, children, mom wrote "jiggy".

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I just love this room. I intend for it be my writing room when we don't have visitors (don't ask me when that's going to be) as it has a wall of shallow shelves that are waiting to become our library for all our books on Cape Cod.

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The girls didn't like sleeping in the room without something covering the window, but I didn't want anything dark. I finally found the perfect thing - a fabric shower curtain! 

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A coordinating shower curtain fit the other window. And don't you love those little lamps - they were ten dollars at Christmas Tree shop.

I'm sure some of you are wondering when I will post about something besides this. Don't worry - we're closing up the house for the winter tomorrow, so we won't be back till April. We are very sad about it, but with temperatures below freezing and the threat of the electricity going out, it would be foolish to leave the house open and risk frozen pipes. Foolish, but an awful lot of fun.

So regular programming will resume. You will just have to put up with posts about regular life,  trips to the city, Saturday morning cappuccinos, books read, art supplies purchased, and walks in the woods. Thanks for enjoying our new obsession, dream, fantasy come true. It's been a wild ride, one that much sweeter for all of your enthusiasm and happiness for us.

And here's the fun part for you: I am going to be doing some art retreats on weekends in the spring.  It will be very limited enrollment,  shared bedrooms, family-style meals, excursions to our favorite beaches, walks, thrift stores, book stores, and of course, lots of art making, journaling, and cups of tea.

The first workshop will be in April.  More details to follow!

If you are interested, please drop me a comment.


Home Again Home Again Jiggety Jig

Mr. Pom and I spent New Year's Day toasting ourselves with decaf skim caps (party animals that we are) at our fave coffee place. It was a poignant moment, which was marked with egg and ham on an English, because we had sat at the very table on New Year's Day 2009 and met with a realtor as we formulated a plan to buy a place on the Cape.

And we did.  

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Anyhoo.

This is how our trips go: I tell him I am too busy/tired/crazed to go up there. Then I get enthused as the work week drags on. Then I get cold feet and all whiny as the actual packing and organizing and figuring out who is coming and who has to stay home is sorted out.

I'm happy on the ride up, nervous alone in the dark, quiet house the first night, pissed off at the dogs when they get us up before dark, thrilled that we are there when my feet hit the beach, relaxed the rest of Saturday, then jump up Sunday morning and am packed and in the car to go home by 8:00 a.m.

I hate being betwixt and between, you see. 

But this was the first trip that we brought almost everyone with us. (The respectably employed son had to take a raincheck.) So we finally had the house filled with kids and sister Mar who has accompanied us on all our CC trips since the kids were toddlers.

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I can't tell you how much the house came alive with the family there. We cooked, ate, cleaned, hung curtains, hooked up the TV, bought lamps, moved beds, painted cabinets, and christened the house as a home.

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There was even pepper mill karaoke for after dinner entertainment.

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The house grew a little smaller and a teeny bit of cabin fever set it in when the weather went from this

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To this for two days straight:

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This morning the sun came out and The Teen and I hit the road. We both had unexpected days off from work and school due to the snow. The ride home was sunny and uneventful and the next thing I knew, I was in my house and supremely happy to be home. The Christmas tree and decorations are still up, my narcissus are blooming, and the amaryllis is on the verge.

I love being home when I'm home.  Our house is old, dumpy, cramped, and furnished with 20-some years of mismatched furniture.  But it's home, full of all of us, around the corner from everybody, and the dogs tend to sleep later.

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Off for a cup of tea, a new book,  and lapful of Cucciolo.

Happy Janvier!


And Winter His Delights

Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours,


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And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.

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Let now the chimneys blaze,
And cups o’erflow with wine;

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Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine.

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Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love,

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While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep’s leaden spells remove.

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This time doth well dispense
With lovers’ long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence,
Though beauty no remorse.

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All do not all things well;
Some measures comely tread,

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Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights

- by Thomas Campion (1607)

Photos by Mar & Me