It's Beginning To Look a Lot Like Christmas...

I'm still struggling a bit with really feeling Christmasy. I mailed my cards today, with the traditional Christmas letter for those who aren't up on some of the latest family news. The cards we've gotten are hanging above the fireplace, making a banner between the stockings hung to each side. Various handmade Christmas things I've been given as gifts over the years sit on various surfaces around the living room. And, with less than a week to spare before the arrival of the Big Day, we did put up a Christmas tree following the traditional argument between the sons over which one to choose at the tree place.

Decorating the tree has become less of a big deal over the years, as the sons have grown. This year, the husband was jet-lagged and slept soundly on the couch while I strung the lights on the tree. He did wake up when I yelled to the sons who were upstairs that I was starting to hang the ornaments just in case they wanted to help. They did, and each hung some ornaments that are special to them. These included two that they each made in the first grade they attended at a local religiously affiliated school. (You'd never see Christmas-themed costumes in a public school around here.) Younger son is no longer the angel he once was, though older son is still known to wield a stick from time to time. When the husband and I first got married, he started stitching a star on plastic needlepoint canvas for the top of our family tree. His mother came to visit, saw it lying there, and finished it for him. He was a bit perturbed about it at the time, but I don't think it bothers him now. At some point when the sons were little, older son realized that one of their stuffed primates could sit atop the tree thanks to a zippered opening on its back. To this day, each year, the Christmas ape sits atop the tree and wears the star as a hat. As for the tree in all its glory, it's far from a designer tree given that most of the ornaments are handmade, many by small children. There's a story behind almost every one. I'm embarrassed to say that the pile of presents under the tree does not constitute all that we have. Some of the sons' presents to their father are too large to put in the small corner allotted to the tree, so they're sitting in the foyer. We'll pull them into the living room to be opened on Christmas morning.

Other Christmas traditions here include the Christmas Eve service at the church some friends attend. That comes after the Christmas Eve dinner that I have do nothing for. Some years, it's take-out Chinese; other years, the husband and sons cook. Before we leave for church, I'll make a double batch of dough for cinnamon rolls. The dough will do its first rising overnight in the refrigerator. On Christmas morning, the sons will sleep in while I get the rolls rolled, sugared, cinnamoned, and otherwise ready for the second rising. We'll open presents while the rolls rise and bake. The rolls will have to last everyone until dinner, though I typically serve Christmas dinner in the late afternoon. Most years, I manage to fit in a soak in a bubble bath with one of the books I get as gifts. The other tradition is the male-oriented movie that I annually present to "the testosterone trio." They already know that this year it's the remake of "The A Team." The sons and I saw it in the theater; now it's the husband's turn to experience the mayhem. How can you not like a movie that contains the line "overkill is under-rated"?

After Christmas Day, the tree stays up until New Year's Day. I'm usually the one taking the ornaments and lights off it and packing them up for next year. The husband cleans up the needles the tree leaves where it stood and on its way out the door. The sons are all too happy each year to hack the tree apart with whatever sharp implements they fancy at the time. Some of our traditions are a bit far up on the banks of the mainstream, but they're just that--our traditions--and what makes this holiday one I genuinely treasure year after year after year. If you celebrate it, Merry Christmas! If you observe another winter holiday, Happy Holidays!

A Mom Moment

I took younger son to the local airport this morning. I asked him if I should just drop him off or go into the terminal with him. Noting that the short-term parking lot was not too crowded, he said why not come in with him. I did, and watched him confidently present his government-issued ID and obtain his boarding passes. I accepted the hug he offered, wished him luck, and told him I'd see him on Wednesday. We shared "love yous" as I felt tears start to roll down my cheeks. "Just a Mom moment," I told him. Having seen them before, he nodded, turned, and headed for the security checkpoint. I turned for the door to the parking lot, not trusting myself to watch him walk away.

Younger son is 20 though within spitting distance of being legal to imbibe. Five months from college graduation, he's sitting comfortably on one good offer of a good job. He's flying to Seattle today, picking up a rental car, and driving to Redmond, where tomorrow he will interview with Microsoft. Tomorrow night, he will red-eye back east, for two class presentations on Wednesday. Thursday, he will apparently (details still being arranged) fly to Mountain View, California for a Friday interview with Google. He'll get home Saturday, to the break he says he's looking forward to more than he has any other.

When did my kid grow up and get so confident and self-assured? I tell myself one moment that I must have done something right along his path through childhood and adolescence and the next moment tell myself that it must have been all his father's doing. I tell myself one moment that I could never have done what he's doing and the next moment remind myself that I did do similar things at a similar age though in a different world and time. One moment I want to hold him close and never let him go or go too far away, and the next moment I can't wait to see what he accomplishes next.

Being a Mom is like that, I guess.

A is for Anniversary; B is for Bras

It is December 12, one month since my last post to this blog and two months since my father died, a subject I will write about here once I feel ready. So much for the Anniversary side of this post. As for Bras, they can be made into great purses, as I have blogged before, here. The purse shown in that post went to my stepmother. I made another one for the woman with whom I partnered when I earned my black belt in Myo Sim kendo; unfortunately, I forgot to photograph that one before I presented it. I have since made three more, and after being asked on Facebook about photos, decided to post photos and the story behind them here.

Several years, ago my dad and stepmom relocated to DeLand, Florida. As the years went by, a social group evolved of my dad, my stepmom, and three of her friends, all widows. They dined out together most Friday nights, saying that it was "Jerry and his harem." During the last week of Dad's life, when he was in the hospice, two of these friends saved me from having to make early (as in 4:00 a.m.) trips to the airport shuttle, first with my brother and sister-in-law and later with my aunt. They were at the house the day after Dad died, with dinner, wine, and empathy when all were needed most. They had previously admired the bra purse I'd sent my stepmom, so I thought bra purses would be one way to thank them for their love and attention, then to both of us and now, to my stepmom.

As it happened, I already had three bras in my stash of fun things, in ivory, purple, and black. The purple and black ones might better be termed "luggage" than "purses" being 46 C or D, a size I have never known not even when pregnant or nursing. I wanted each purse to be different, but I also wanted them to share something. For this, I chose one set of three embellishments--purple and green flowers with black stems--that actually reminded me very much of tattoos. I put one of these on each purse. Not looking ahead, I took no photos as I made the purses, but I did photograph them in their finished state, hanging from a hook on my porch. As I said, I wanted each one to be unique. The ivory one actually got nipples thanks to a pair of thrift-shop earrings I knew I could use for something somewhere sometime. The embellishment shared between the three purses provided really the only color against the ivory. While the ivory purse had nipples, the black purse had fringe. The shared embellishment can be seen at the top. Finally, I ended up putting, quite unknowingly, a face on one side of the purple purse. The "mouth" is the shared embellishment.

One fun thing about making purses out of bras is trying to use different parts of the bras in the construction of the purses or, to put it another way, limiting the non-bra used. Although it can't be seen in the photo, for example, the hooks and eyes that hold the purse closed are actually the pieces that would ordinarily hold the back of the bra closed. The bow on the side, which was put there to hide where the two halves did not meet exactly, was crafted from the side panels of the bra. The bow at the top of the ivory bra was made from the back straps of the bra.

Did the recipients like their gifts? Well, it certainly looked that way to me in the e-mail and photos they sent.

To Every Place There Is a Season

Or, as I've been thinking lately, to every season there is a place. It is fall in the northern hemisphere now, and I can honestly think of no place I'd rather be than at home in Virginia. The air is so crisp in the morning you can almost hear it snap in time with the crunching of the leaves under your feet. What leaves are still left on the trees blaze with color, mocking the monotonous green they bore all summer. I was in Florida for almost two weeks of October (possibly the subject of another post here, when I'm ready to write it), and I worried that I might miss the best part of fall. I did not, and am reveling in it now. I would offer photographic evidence if it weren't for the large bandage on my right hand, from which only my fingertips emerge for typing. Another possible blog post, but not today's.

Fall will segue into winter before I know it, and I shall dream of being in northern Iceland, looking out on a sea of white. There was something so magical about northern Iceland in the winter last year that I would not have been surprised had an elf or troll made an appearance however brief. The cold solitude inspired a feeling of strength, of survival, of possibilities. To be complacent would be to freeze and die. The shortness of daylight is more than offset by the night's auroral possibilities, a ceiling of color over the white floor.

In a world of wealth, spring would call me to Asia, to the streets of Hue or the temples of Angkor. I would doff the cold of the north and don the heated blanket of the south. I would trade the movement required to keep warm for the stillness required to endure the heat. I would savor the smells and sounds of the market even if not enamored of the excessive attention given to a Western visitor. I would try to draw the rooftops of the city as the clouds rolled above them before a rain and find music in the cacophony of car horns.

What does it say that my summer place sits at almost the same latitude as my winter one? I would love to spend a summer in Norway, making the most of some of the best Mother Nature has to offer without the hot flashes she offers places such as Virginia. My energy would stretch with the daylight, and I could forego my usual inclination to want to go to sleep the day before I must awaken. I would love to hike through some of the mountains while leaving the hang-gliding off them to younger son. I would love to dabble my toes in the cold of a mountain stream or wash my face in a waterfall.

Awakening from daydreams now and returning to the mundanities of the day. At least it is fall and I am where my soul needs to be in that season. Yes, life is good.

National Book Festival 2010

I never seem to be able to put up a post about the National Book Festival anywhere near the time it actually happens. It's been more than a month now, but at least we're still in the month immediately following the one in which the festival happened. This year's was the tenth National Book Festival, and my third. I went to my first one two years ago, with older son, and it rained. I went to my second one last year, with a friend, and it rained. This year, I went with older son and the friend from last year, and it did not rain. It was, however, unseasonably hot, close to the 90s(F) if not in them. The Washington Post, one of the main sponsors of the event, estimated that there would be 130,000 people at the Festival (compared to the 30,000 at the first one, in 2001). I would not be at all surprised to hear that they were right. This one definitely seemed more crowded than the last two. I'm sure the lack of precipitation helped. One tent at the book festival always serves as the Pavilion of the States. You can get a map that serves as a passport and then circulate among tables representing the 50 states, the District of Columbia, and U.S. territories or other possessions. Each table has various swag--bookmarks, posters, stickers, maps, tourist pamphlets, rulers, toys--to pop into the free festival bag. If you get a stamp/sticker from all the places, there's even a prize, which this year was a memo pad complete with pen. As for all the swag, it's great if you're a teacher or know teachers. I sent mine to my cousin-in-law who homeschools one of her children and whose family members are all very prolific readers.

In terms of speakers, we caught several authors with whom at least one of us was familiar. One of my choices was Elizabeth Kostova, author of The Historian and The Swan Thieves. One questioner began by telling Kostova that Kostova's grandmother was the librarian who has planted and nourished her love of reading. Kostova noted that the same grandmother had read all of Jane Austen aloud to her by the time she turned 16. One question concerned the writing process Kostova used. In fact, Kostova noted, her writing process was very different for each of her two books. She wrote The Historian as you would read it, in order, with no deviations. She wrote The Swan Thieves, a more psychological novel, in sections, which then took her a year to stitch together.

Older son suggested that we check out Jonathan Safran Foer, whose latest book, Eating Animals, concerns vegetarianism. He wrote the book to try to explain to his children where meat comes from. In this regard, I couldn't help but think of one rental property in which I lived as a grad student. It was a cottage on a farm and the landlord's young daughters eagerly gave me a tour of the farm shortly after I moved in. Upon coming to the rabbit hutches, they eagerly introduced the rabbits by name; the only name I remember was Napoleon, not surprising since their mom was French. I asked if all the rabbits were pets. "Oh no," they assured me, "we eat them!" While I do eat things with faces, I'm not sure I would want to eat something I had named. Finally, among the facts Foer noted was that 18 percent of college students describe themselves as vegetarian, meaning that there are more vegetarians than Catholics on college campuses.

Older son also suggested we hear Peter Straub, an author about whom I knew nothing. I loved hearing Straub describe his "hunger to read" as a small child. He noted that he was really bummed that there was no reading in kindergarten, just cutting out animals with baby scissors. Even in first grade, what reading there was, was Dick and Jane. He said he "spent a lot of time being really angry as a kid" until he discovered the school library, a situation to which I could personally relate. One of the questions asked Straub concerned the two books he had co-authored with Stephen King. The question was whether it was possible to tell who had written what parts. Straub noted that he and King had played tricks such as attempting to write in the style of the other, and that only one person had demonstrated to him a consistent ability to tell which author wrote which passage. I'll put the name of that person--it's another author--at the end of this post in case you want to try to guess who it is.

Finally, as with previous festivals, there were a number of costumed characters. If you're still working on a guess as to the author who could distinguish between Straub's and King's sections of their books, don't start scrolling yet, because I'm putting the answer right after the last of three photos.

Ready for the answer? The one person who can consistently distinguish between Peter Straub's and Stephen King's contributions to their collaborations is Neil Gaiman.

Is there a fourth National Book Festival in my future? Probably! It's an event not to be missed if you're in the area on the right day. I am still amazed that there is no cost with any of the activities. Yes, you can purchase books by the festival authors, but you can also bring your own copies for signing. Or you can just go and enjoy the experience, which is how we did it this year and may very well do it again next year.

Falling Up and into the Studio

There's a crispness about the mornings, and last night I put on a sweatshirt over a long-sleeved polo shirt (a real, for-true polo shirt, with a logo of horses, riders with mallets, and the name of a polo club) upon leaving the gym. Yes, it is almost fall and as the child of teachers, I view these few weeks as the start of a new year.

Even apart from the feeling of a new year, having my own, dedicated studio space is like turning over a new leaf. I can run in and do little things, big things, just about anything I want to do. I recently pulled boxes of batik strips, cut years ago, off shelves and whipped up this little quilt top hanging on the closet door. It still needs a narrow strip of black around what you see here, and then a border which will, I think, be strips of the blues, greens, and purples but not the oranges and yellows. I'll get to that when I finish the current quilting project, which is quilting the top you could see hanging, again, on the closet door in one of the studio shots in my most recent post here.

I took a break from that quilting this past week to make a new sword bag. For years, I've wanted to have a different sort of bag for my swords. I tried knitting and felting large pieces but never came up with anything even close to an appropriate size to use. Some months ago, I purchased some Japanese fabrics from my favorite online merchant for such things, planning to try to use them for a sword bag at some point. When I set up the studio, they went into a plastic bin labeled, what else, "SWORD BAG." Last Sunday, the zipper on the bag I've been using, a real, designed-for-swords, bag purchased from a martial arts supply house broke beyond repair after years of use by three different people. The need for a new bag trumped the usual "I'm working on other things and can't do that now" argument, and between Sunday and Wednesday I managed to craft a sword bag that was quite commented upon at Thursday night's class. I couldn't have done it without the studio space in which I could work in a flurry.

If you've seen the fabric rolls in which chefs carry knives, or knitters carry needles, that's what I was aiming for as a sword bag--a fabric case that held swords in pockets and could be rolled up for carrying. For fabric, I had a dark blue Japanese canvas with ivory logos printed on it. This became the outside of the bag. For a lining, I used an ivory Japanese lightweight cotton fabric that had dark blue dragons printed on it. Here they both are, sewn together, and laid out so that I could figure out how to configure the pockets. Here it is after I've pinned some pockets into it. Before I sewed the pockets I'd pinned, I came up with a plan for buckled straps to hold the roll shut as well as a strap for carrying. My plans had to be modified a bit by not being able to obtain as much of one kind of strapping as I planned to use and only being ably to find one kind of buckle of which I could buy four. Even given all that, I managed to come up with something that seemed as if it would work. Lots of pinning, sewing, unpinning, and sewing later, I had a finished bag with four buckles into which I could put all my various swords as well as a jo staff, roll up, buckle, and be ready to go using the handy shoulder strap. The small bag you might notice hanging from the outside of the sword roll holds my black belt. It's now residing in the kit bag in which I carry my gi, tape, notebook, and other necessities.

I must admit that I do like the new bag or roll better than the bag I had been using. Several people in class Thursday night suggested I should make more and try to sell them. I pointed out that the market for sword rolls is likely a very limited one. I did admit that were I to make another, there were some things I'd do differently to make it even better. Upon hearing this, younger son suggested I should make another, new and improved one and then give the first one to him. He also suggested that I could make the second one using the raw silk he got me as a Mother's Day gift in Vietnam in 2009. I have to admit that it's an idea worthy of consideration. First, though, I have that other quilt to finish...

Where Has All the Summer Gone?

So much for the New Year's resolution to blog more or blog more regularly. Here it is August 21, and my last post was on July 9. What's happened since then? Just a few things. Here, in a whirlwind, with photos, is a summary.

It being summer in Central Virginia, we've had storms, some of which have taken trees down. We tried to save the beehive in this tree that came down on the edge of our yard, but were unsuccessful. We couldn't get the tree far enough off the ground, and it didn't take long for ants to invade and take over the hive. If you've never visited us, here's our house, from the rear, in a photo taken from where the tree came down. We've done some cooking out on the deck you can see on the left, which lets us get up close and personal with the regular visitors to the hummingbird feeder there.
Sadly, we said good-bye to our 17-year-old cat, Maxwell II, and to our 14-year-old dog, Marburg. They said good-bye to us within two days of each other and are buried together in the woods beside the house. I miss both of them deeply.

The husband and I went to a wedding in Chicago. Guests were asked to wear festive summer clothing that was pink and/or orange. The husband got by with a tie that had some pink in the paisleys. I used it as an excuse to buy new shoes and a purse handcrafted by a friend in Australia. The shoes are Vibram Five Fingers. I now own three pairs and basically live, including running, in them.

Younger son worked in Pennsylvania for six weeks, but his return brought such exciting things as life imitating art, well, advertising, in seeing if it were possible to cook a frozen waffle using an iron. Guess what ... it is.

Much of my time has been spent re-arranging rooms in our basement. For the six years my mom lived with us, we used one basement room as a combined sewing room and study/office. When the stairs got too much for my mom and she moved into a condo, we got the chance to reconfigure the space. While the basement as a whole remains a work in progress, the first new room, a studio in which I can pursue my creative urges, is done. Here's the view from the door, and here's what it looks like from the back wall. The room outside the studio door, where the empty bookcase is, will be the new study/office. After that will come a guestroom in what used to be the sewing room/office, a library/reading room in what used to be a family room, and a workout room (including the 70-pound hanging bag I got for Mother's Day) in what used to be a sun room. Getting all those configured should see me into fall. Speaking of fall, if you looked closely in the first photo of the studio, you can see the top of one of my "quilts of summer" hanging on the rear wall. The bins of fabric around the sewing machine are contributing to another one. With luck, the next time I post will not be when both of those are finished and ready to be presented.

The husband just reviewed this post and said that I had to explain the fluffy white dog sitting atop the bins to the left of the first studio photo. His high-faluting name, were he real and registered, would be Gruffles Guardian of the Green, though he goes quite nicely by just Gruffles. Fluffy white dogs have been firmly embedded in the family history ever since a Cambodian one bit me. This past week, I tested for and earned my green belt in Myo Sim karate. Rather than just present me with the "legacy" green belt he once wore, elder son handed me said green belt tied around Gruffles and told me I'd have to fight him for it. I did, and Gruffles is now wearing a blue collar in recognition of the blue belt I'm now working toward. In an interesting footnote, while one of the two remaining family cats views Gruffles as just another one of her humans' stuffed animals, the other cat is quite convinced that Gruffles is real to the point that she arches her back and hisses at him before running for cover. Just one more surreal thing that passes for life around here.