A Fizzy Face Study

These are some of my favorite Fizzy pictures...

Fizzy and Grover looking up at the fish in the aquarium tunnel at the Atlanta Aquarium.

I said to Fitz..."Show me your Fizzy Face...

 ...now show me your happy face!

 ...Now show me your smiley face!

 ...Now show me your sleepy face!

 ...Now show me your smelly face!

 ...Now show me your sad face.

...Now show me your laughing face!

I Love these pictures, but this next one is my favorite...

This is his "I love my Papa and Papa Loves me" face. 

Two very content and happy boys and Grover too.

Priceless.

A new elephant in the family

Ever since I finished Swede's elephant and gave her away I've been pining to do another one, only in different colors. "What?" you say, "Another finger piercing, tendinitis inducing, eye straining, hand-needlework project?" What can I say to that? I've already allowed the fact that I have a Serious Addiction that Cannot Be Kicked. (It's not like nail biting, and I should know. I was a dedicated nail biter well into my thirties but was able to quit despite all predictions that 'If one does not quit before one is 20, one will ALWAYS be a nail biter.' That is simply not true, and I am proof.)

But this...THIS is far worse. I honestly think it's genetic and hard wired into me (kind of like me being a girl) to the point that if I cannot pet/cut/stitch, fabric or use yarn/thread and hook or needles, I may well perish, and it would not be a pretty sight. I find so much satisfaction, comfort and relaxation when I stitch, be it with a needle and thread, a machine, crochet hook, or even knitting needles, that I cannot imagine life without it. I've been at it so long that I can't remember not doing it. (Just ask my mother.)

Here are a some clues when looking into at how addicted dedicated a stitcher might be.

• How many pairs or scissors does she have? (Ginghers, Dovos, dressmaker, pinking shears, embroidery, snippers etc...and just plain "I had to have them because they're so dang cute!)
• Does she look at scissors still?
• Does she have a special box for each pair?
• Does she wear them?
• Do you see random pins/needles stuck in her collar or her sleeve?
• Can she talk coherently with pins between her lips and without incident?
• How many pincushions? Are they cute? Does she wear them? 
• Are the pins color coded for each one and/or arranged artfully?
• Does she make and give pincushions as gifts?
• Does she buy boxes of pins just in case...?
• How many sewing machines? Boxes of thread (all kinds)? Yarn?
• A special handmade envelope with labeled pockets for each size of crochet hook/knitting needle?
• Has she been known to use knitting needles or crochet hooks as hair ornaments?
• Do you find yourself picking random threads off her clothes?
• And fabric?...Well, usually it's measured in Boxes, Bins, Shelves and that would take another page of questions: one that might concern the difference between Twill, Toile, and Tulle. 

• And, last but not least, does she have a room dedicated to her addiction hobby?

Guilty, Guilty, Guilty...(but not feeling guilty.) I admit it all happily.

So is it any wonder that I would see a new elephant in my future despite the needle pricks, wrist and thumb fatigue, eye strain and the fact that I obviously don't need an elephant, at least not by the standards of your normal non-addicted stitcher?

 So..here he is: My Elephant. This one is a boy as you can see by the very masculine barbed wire-like border and the earthy colors. I love, love, love how he turned out. I just have to get him quilted.

If Sweeble's elephant were anywhere near she would be instantly attracted.

The Romance of Snow

romance of fresh snow...

The quiet falling of lacy snowflakes is mesmerizing, hypnotic, relaxing. Everything inside me tells me it's a miracle that I need to stand quietly still for, and watch with a kind of reverence tinged with awe. Maybe it has something to do with being raised in the desert where the closest thing we had to snow were beige sand dunes, or a long drive into the mountains in the winter for a brief visit. It wasn't practical for a family of desert rats like us to have snow gear so plastic bags over our shoes and socks on our hands had to do, thus the 'brief' visit. After living here in Utah for 21 years now I still get excited about the first snow, and the second, on through Christmas and even January.

I love how it makes things look fresh and new. I love the crunch of it beneath my booted feet when I take night walks through our neighborhood as it falls. My winter breath hangs in the air, a visual manifestation of life, and if cold enough will crystallize into tiny snowflakes and fall, or waft away on the tiniest of frigid breezes. I love to stand beneath a street light and stare up as the tiny flakes descend, making me feel dizzy because it looks like I'm speeding through space, zipping past a zillion stars, but I'm just standing there, staring up into the light, in muffled silence. I love it's natural luminescence and the stark shadows cast by the naked trees. I love how it makes things quiet, and encourages me to slow down and just 'be'.

 There is just something about the Pre-Christmas snow that brings to mind so may nostalgic pictures...

Who can resist the idea of a sleigh ride? All bundled up with a fur muff and lap robe with hot bricks under your feet with the sound of jingling sleigh bells and the soft rhythmic whuff-whuff-whuff of muffled hoof beats in new snow. I write this like I know from experience, but I don't. Thanks to L.M. Montgomery, Louisa May Alcott, Charles Dickens and a very vivid and romantic imagination I can tell you all about it though.

What about skating on a frozen pond? Or sledding down a hill?

 

The ultimate romantic picture that most everyone I know secretly treasures is this one:

Seriously...I'm not kidding. I'm a child again so excited that I can hardly breathe with butterflies in my stomach and dreams that can be real.

One of the best parts of winter is dressing for it. Sweaters, scarves, boots, fluffy socks, fun hats, colorful gloves, wool, down, cashmere...red, green gold, blue...ahhh. Winter phrases: Snuggley soft, Cuddle up, Hot Chocolate anyone?...all so friendly and generous. Yes, cold is my choice. Granted, I have central heat and double paned windows and enough quilts to keep the neighborhood warm. I don't have to chop wood, or light the stove first thing in the morning, or send my husband out into the cold to shoot dinner. And I'm grateful for that. Very Grateful. I can love my snow, and my winter in comfort so that the romance is still alive.

I think it's time to make some tea and sip it from my red china teacup. I wonder if I have a lemon...

A change of heart

Gianna Jessen. A baby born under miraculous circumstances on an auspicious day: April 6, 1977. When watching the following video that was posted on Facebook a few days ago I was so deeply touched by her story that it has haunted me since.

PLEASE WATCH! Click below.

http://vimeo.com/5387154

For 16 minutes I was riveted to the screen listening to this woman's testimony. For that is definitely what it was: a testimony of Love, a testimony of Life, A testimony of the power of God.

I was shocked and horrified by the inhumanity forced on her before she was even born. I was ashamed by my own attitude on this subject of abortion. But my primary emotion was awe. Awe for this woman who knows, truly knows who she is and why she was born. I love her honesty, her surety, her willingness to stand for truth without equivocation. I love her unabashed acknowledgment of who she really is: A Child of God. She has the courage to call a spade a "spade" and smile while doing it. Without fear that she might be hated for it. Basically she's saying, "I know what I know. So BRING IT! I'm ready. I can take it, because God is my Father."

I've never been a proponent  of abortion. I believe it to be a heinous practice founded in ignorance, selfishness, and greed. But my shame comes in here - my recent attitude has been that, heinous as it is, abortion has been around for thousands of years and there will continue to be abortions until every knee bows and every tongue confesses that Jesus Is the Christ. I just don't want to pay for in any way, shape for form. I don't want my tax dollars paying for it or even supporting counseling that proposes it as an option except maybe in extreme cases, (rape, incest, life endangerment for the mother) but even then it should be a well considered and prayerful option. In a nutshell: What's going to happen will happen I just don't want to be a part of it.

Talk about the beginnings of a hard heart. After listening to her I literally hung my head and cried.

I don't believe in the opposite stance either! Where clinics are burned  and abortion doctors and staff are targeted for violence. No...but I am ashamed at my backseat detachment. If only more people took to heart the scripture in Psalms 56:11

Autn:reference - http://scriptures.lds.org/ps/56/11#11

                   In God have I put my trust: I will not be afraid what man can do unto me. 

Be not afraid to reverently use His Name in public. Be not afraid to acknowledge Him as The Power In Your Life. Be not afraid to be hated for His name's sake. Be not afraid to be outspoken in defense of truth and right. Be not afraid to judge or condemn actions while still loving those who act.

Love. The most powerful emotion in Creation. For it is through love that all good things are created. Even soft hearts.

I will never speak of abortion in such a casual way again. It's shameful.

Apple Pies and me

Homemade apple pies...mmmmm. There's just something about them. Just thinking about them opens the door of nostalgia with visions of Autumn leaves, pumpkins, heavily laden apple trees and an underlying cool crispness in the air that is refreshing after the summer heat and even that tastes like apples. I. Love. Fall. Love, love, love.

I also love Jonathan Apples. I can feel the slight pucker in my mouth as my salivary glands kick in to high gear just thinking about them. Crisp, tangy, the perfect savory blend of sweet and sour. Love them with caramel. Love them in pies, apple crisp, cobbler. Love them all by themselves. Best. Apples. Ever.

Okay, that said...I hate making apple pies. Just thinking about making one makes me very, very tired. My hands begin hurting at the thought. I look at those little apples and feel OVERWHELMED with the peeling, coring, slicing process. (Ouch!) Jonathons are not hefty apples. They're usually on the smallish side so it takes more than six to fill a pie shell, more like 12-15 or even more depending on the size of your pie dish. On top of that the apple tree in my back yard doesn't get sprayed often enough to keep them bug free. Thus there is an extra step: digging out the noxious little beasts that have taken up residence in my small harvest. Ick.

Yet I crave the warm, tart sweetness baked in a flaky crust topped with, if the world were perfect occasionally, homemade vanilla ice cream. *Heaven!* If Autumn could be put in a pie shell it would taste like Jonathan Apple Pie. So, on rare occasions I will make the effort. Today was one such day. We had a bigger harvest than we usually get and they are delicious. I also didn't bottle any peaches this year therefore I didn't get my fill of Autumn domesticity. BUT! This year is different because I have a new friend at my house who was born to core, peel and slice apples. I kid you not.

 This little gadget is Magic! I borrowed one from a friend a few years ago and loved it, then forgot about it until a week ago when I tasted one of our apples and "Apple Pie" came to mind. I went to my favorite kitchen gadget store and plunked my money down and brought this little baby home, in red, to match my kitchen of course. (They did have it in lime green too. It was a tough decision: red, green, red, green.) It's now mine, mine, mine. So this afternoon...with a skip in my step and a song on my lips and without even a twinge of tiredness went to the backyard, picked a bucket of sweetness, washed those little Jons and voila!

 I was so excited about getting my pie into the oven that I forgot to add the little pats of butter before putting the top crust on...eek!

 So I did what any self respecting descendant of pioneer stock would do...I improvised. I am a firm believer in the truism: Necessity is the mother of invention. I dug out an old medicine dropper, washed it thoroughly, melted some butter, filled the dropper, then injected it evenly into my pie while my supportive and loving husband laughed at me, out loud, not even behind my back. He will eat his laughter right along with his slice of luscious apple pie and apologize with a sticky cinnamon kiss, I'm sure.

Forty five minutes later...

I love kitchen gadget stores. Especially when you have a choice of colors.

The "Daisy Spoon" Syndrome

The desire or need to be different, elite or special must be hard wired into us. I can't remember an instance in my experience when the following scenario *wouldn't* turn into a disagreeable incident.

You're handing out Popsicles to a group of children. You have 3 yellow ones, 3 orange ones and 1 red one. Tell me, if you know, (and you DO know instinctively) which color will be fought over, hmmmm....? I'm not saying that everyone will clamor for it openly, but deep down each child will want the ONE RED one.

Why? Is it because everyone has a secret desire for cherry/raspberry/red flavor? No. We know it's not the flavor, nor is it the color of the lone Popsicle that makes it desirable. It is the 'lone-ness' of the Popsicle. Its singularity makes it desirable. The one child who ends up with this unique Popsicle will now BE special. All will look to him/her as extraordinary because they now own something that no one else has. Some will try to befriend this now special child so that they too may partake of this Specialness that comes with being near the Red Popsicle. Some will Ignore the Red Popsicle Person in the hopes that the RPP will feel hurt or snubbed and feel sorry for them and share, or that the adult mediator out there will solve the problem by coming up with another Red Popsicle which will then nullify the specialness of  The One. Then there are some who will be quite vocal and/or physical about the unfairness of That Person getting the Red Popsicle and the war will start. Thankfully, the Red Popsicle will either be eaten, or land on the ground in the tussle and then no one will want it. The specialness literally melts away and is eventually forgotten. 

Thank Heaven. *sigh*

Is this  situation unique to children? (Excuse me while I take a hilarity break... *wiping tears from eyes*)

It is because of this quirk in human nature that I make this post public so that I may insure the future happiness and solidarity of my family now and for generations to come. For my family does not call this syndrome the "Red Popsicle Syndrome", it is "The Daisy Spoon Syndrome".

When I was a teen my mother showed me a catalog with samples of flatware and asked me to choose my favorite pattern. I chose a fairly ornate pattern called 'Brahms' because I like the holes in the design. (See them in the handle?) My mother then began to save her Betty Crocker coupons so that she could purchase place settings for 8 by the time I was 18. I got them for my 18th birthday. Very Pretty.

The flowers in the pattern are "Roses", with a rose prominently displayed between the two openings at the top. See? Well, later, after I was married and had some children my mother decided to send me some extras because pieces get lost in sandboxes and such when you have children. I received a box in the mail with some extra spoons and I think some serving pieces. Thank you Mom. ♥

I made a very serious mistake one evening when eating dinner. I noticed that the spoon I was using had a Daisy on it instead of a Rose and made a comment OUT LOUD IN FRONT OF MY CHILDREN on this difference. *hanging head in shame* I know, I know. I asked for it. I truly did.

Everyone had to see. All the children crowded around to look at this Special Spoon. My husband gave me A Knowing Look. I received it with a sense of dismay. "What have I done?...Oh, what have I done." For we were well acquainted with the growing list of Valid Reasons To Fight With Siblings.

The war began. Every meal where spoons were required (That means first thing in the morning EVERY DAY) was a quick check to see who was going to be Special that day. A smug look, a knowing smile was the preface to the inevitable sing-song announcement of "I have the Daisy Spoon...I have the Daisy Spoon." Loud complaints ensued, "He/she ALWAYS gets the Daisy Spoon! It's MY turn for the Daisy Spoon!!" Outraged huffing and occasional wrestling and spilled cereal and sometimes a child would leave the table with threats of not eating...EVER AGAIN. I have to admit that I took some morbid amusement from the situation. It was just so silly! Steve and I would purse our lips and try not to laugh, while also gritting our teeth in futile frustration.

The battle for possession of  the coveted Daisy Spoon escalated. It would go missing and I would find it hidden away in someone's sock drawer, or the same person would get it over and over and I would realize that it was being brought to the table in someone's pocket or sleeve and swapped surreptitiously with the spoon laid at their place. Cheating...tsk, tsk, tsk.

You may ask why I kept it in play and I can only answer that it just wasn't a high priority, so many other things took precedence. Most mother's can agree that it's about putting out little fires all day long and that was just one tiny fire of many.

The Daisy Spoon has become part of our family history though and for this reason I will say that when I lay this mortal down that I would like The Daisy Spoon to be securely mounted on the lid of my casket with the inscription: "May The Daisy Spoon also rest in peace". Unless, of course, my progeny can come up with a reasonable visitation schedule for The Daisy Spoon in each home. Everyone needs to feel special now and then.

Meander...it's a nice word, just not very easy for me to do.

As an experiment, let these words just roll off your tongue: amble, meander, wander, roam, drift,  mosey, ramble, stroll. Ahhhh...all such nice words. They taste like sun warmed cherries at the top of the cherry tree. They sound relaxed and easy like smooth stones that fit in the palm of your hand and dwell in your favorite jacket pocket and click together in a friendly way as you walk. These words live on beaches and mountain trails and old neighborhoods with houses that weren't 'built' so much as grown from the earth, with rocking chairs on their porches, overburdened rose bushes hanging heavily over fences, and fronted by old cracked sidewalks. They're comfortable and invite friendliness or solitude, conversation or quiet contemplation. I like these words. I would like to be familiar enough with them to invite them into my life more often. I think the fault is on my side though, not theirs.

After church today we decided to take a drive up the canyon. My husband didn't really have a destination in mind and we ended up stopping at White Pine trail head. We looked at the map and saw that there were a couple of lakes along this trail. It didn't look that far, maybe 10-12 inches on the map. (How far can that be?) Of course the lakes looked like they might fit into a thimble... Ughmmm...we headed up the trail looking for the fork that would take us to Red Pine Lakes (maybe 3" up ahead). My 'destination'. My 'purpose for coming here'.

The day was absolutely lovely: sight, scent, temperature, honestly you couldn't have planned a nicer day if you tried.

On up the trail we blithely went. (He went blithely, my steps were a bit more purposeful.) And when I say 'up' I mean 'UP'. I had visions of a sparkly blue lake as my destination with the scent of pine in the air and a whiff of wood smoke. The further we went the more people we saw coming down. Some looked fine, but many looked a bit bedraggled. Those carefree romantic girls who had picked wildflowers on their journey to remind them of the Beauty Of God's Green Earth were now clutching drooping wads and holding onto them as if they were their last hope. Small boys were no longer bounding along and throwing rocks (I know about small boys on a nature walk), they were watching their stumbling feet and had a stupefied look that said, "We'll *never* be there." My goal began to waver like a mirage. I hadn't planned on a rugged hike, I just wanted a nice walk with a beautiful destination. 'Destination' being the operative word here. I like a goal, a place, an objective. It's really hard for me to just go...with no intended target. When I start on a trail I can't just turn around in the middle of it and what...go back? What would be the point?

So...as we continued to 'march forth' my husband says off offhandedly, "So, I hadn't really planned on, you know, a strenuous hike. When would you like to turn around?"

My mind began to work, trying to find a solution to this problem. 'Where? Where should be turn around? What, up ahead, could be my destination? This wildflower bush?  

That's silly. That stunning vista?  

No, I can see the road with cars on it. That's not an 'unspoiled view'. How 'bout this spectacular stand of aspens at sunset?

 Seriously? There are aspens  E V E R Y W H E R E.

We certainly can't go to the lake, the 3" turn off was a 'fer piece' yet, and from the description given by a father-son duo the trail after the turnoff to the lake was 'straight up' and at least another three miles long.' No, no lake today.'

My  right ear began to hurt from the cool wind blowing directly into it and the trail up ahead was definitely 'up'. I spoke with breathless cheerfulness, "You know how hard it is for me to just 'turn around'. I'll let you decide. Just tell me when you want to go back." (Did I give the words 'go back' a deprecating sound? Shame on me.)  I told him about my ear and continued to look ahead of me for a destination and seeing soooo many possibilities 'just out of sight around the bend'. He didn't complain. He didn't moan. He just kept right on marching forward with me. I began to feel guilty. He's so good to me...I just love this man.

Then...in the distance I see a sign!! and I hear rushing water. This! This could be it! We can stop here and pretend that this is what we came to see! Thank Heaven.

Our Destination.

Yes! The turnoff was beautiful.

We stopped and took pictures and I went a bit further up the much narrower and steeper trail and was Sorely tempted.

It was magical. But I resisted and claimed this destination as final..this time.

With a pang of regret I turned around, and in a few moments we were meandering pleasantly downhill to our next destination:

I'm going to work on making those fine, comfy words closer companions. And a few others that were  distinct 'no-no's as a child: dawdle, lollygag and dillydally.  I think it would be worth it, if only for my dear and patient husband. ♥