Look, Look, A Finished Project!

Remember the alpaca yarn scarf I blogged about way back last September 8th? (What?? You mean my critically important feeble-brained ramblings aren't important enough to occupy a vital spot in your mental data base? Hrumpf.)

It was only a couple of weeks ago that I managed to get to the yarn shop to purchase the second skein of yarn that I needed to finish it. With that in hand, for the last few nights I've spent our relaxing time before bed cozied up in my recliner with needles click-clacking away. And last night --- drum roll, please --- I finished it, with about two yards of yarn to spare. (Good time to decide it was long enough.)

Here I am modeling said scarf. (Ugh. Does anyone like to have their picture taken? I mean other than maybe Cindy Crawford? I asked my husband to model the scarf but he just gave me a really funny look. And I couldn't get the dog to hold still.)

I tried to get a shot that would show the braided, twisted cable effect of the pattern, but not being a competent enough photographer had to settle for this. Really looks much better in person.

But, hey! I've got something done AHEAD of time . . . it's not even scarf wearing weather yet.

The Hurrier I Go, The Behinder I Get

Years ago, I wrote a regular column for a locally published magazine put out by women, for women. In one issue, the publisher posed a question for all of the writers and contributors: If the world stopped for a period, and you could spend the time doing anything you wanted to do, what would you do?

I remember my answer. I said I would most likely spend the time making lists of what to do when the world started again. Even at the time, I knew how pathetic that was.

We all know of the person who wishes her life away. She's never satisfied with the present but is rather always wanting it to be sometime in the future. "I wish it was vacation time." "I wish winter was over and it was spring." "I wish the holiday season was here." "I wish I was retired.”

I struggle with the opposite. I'm wanting and wishing it to be sometime in the past. In the fall, I wish it was still summer because there is so much I had intended (and wanted) to do that I didn't. So I don't enjoy the here and now of the wonderful fall season because I'm struggling to do the left-over summer tasks while berating myself for not getting them done when the weather was more favorable. And wishing I had spent more time in the hammock reading and getting a tan.

When spring comes, I'm not ready for it because I didn't experience the illusive "long, slow winter" in which to relax, rejuvenate, revel in a slower pace of life. I spend the winter "catching up", doing all those inside chores that went by the wayside when I spent my days out-of-doors in summer.

The holiday season comes and I don't fully enjoy it because there are a myriad of things that cause me to experience that screaming "But I'm not ready!" feeling. In December, I want it to be September again so I have the time to make those special gifts, fill the freezer with holiday treats and meals, make plans for entertaining.

So, what's the solution to my big, fat, hairy dilemma here? First and foremost, I need to make some changes so that I'm living in, and enjoying as much as I possibly can, the here and now. The past is gone forever, and the future may never be. Sure, I can have wonderful memories of the past and exciting anticipation of the future, but my actual, living, breathing life . . . is now. Now is where the most intense joy, happiness and well-being should (can!) come from. It has been said that you can never have a happy ending to an unhappy journey. (I think Eeyore said that.) Or perhaps (to sound less depressing and gloomy), it's not the destination that counts, but rather the journey itself. My life shouldn't be a race to see how much I can get done or how fast I can accomplish my goals. I have to learn to let in as much joy, fulfillment, happiness, love, and contentment each and every day as I possibly can.

Boy, that sounds good! I can do it. I'm GOING to do it. (Do you think a frontal lobotomy will help?)

Peeling, Paring and Slicing

I still have a bunch of early apples that won't keep a whole lot longer so I decided to do an experiment.

Several years ago, finding myself with an abundance of Macintosh apples, I made and froze about a dozen apple pies. Whole pies. Not only did the pies take up quite a bit of freezer space, I wasn't happy with the end product. No matter if I put the pie in the oven frozen or let it defrost partially (or entirely) on the counter before baking, the bottom crust was always really, really soggy. Think paste on the palate. Yuck.

This year, I got to wondering why I couldn't make and freeze the apple filling. So several days ago, I mixed up the apples, sugar, cinnamon, etc. just as I would if I were going to make an apple pie. But I then put the filling in a freezer bag, and threw it in the freezer for a couple of days. One night, I took it and two crusts (I try to have a batch of pie crusts - the balls, not rolled out - ready in the freezer) out of the freezer and put them in the refrig overnight to thaw. Next morning, I made the apple pie.

Three taste-testers pronounced the pie juuuust fine! It was great --- tasted like I had started from scratch. I think I had feared the apple filling would come out too runny or applesauce-like or some such thing. But, happy to say, the experiment was a success, so you can guess what I did today with those early season apples.

Here are the prepped apples piled in a pie plate.

Next I put them in a bowl and added the sugar, cinnamon, etc.

Then they went into a gallon freezer bag.

Eight bags of pie filling ready to go into the freezer. I still have more apples, but I got bored peeling, paring and slicing. (An audio book was good for a couple of hours, but when I started trying to have a conversation with the dog, I knew it was time to quit.)

Here are some of the bags laid out in a single layer in the freezer. When frozen solid, I'll stack them all together like cards.

A good morning's work, if I do say so myself . . . and it sure did make the kitchen smell good . . . and my hands turn brown . . . and the dog wonder what was wrong with me.

Sunday Morning Ramblings

We slept in this morning. Seven a.m. by the time we became conscious enough to get our feet on the floor. We're still recovering from a late night this past Friday. Can going to bed at 2 a.m. be deemed a late "night"? More like going to bed of an early morning! No matter, we're getting back on an even keel.

It's another gray, misty morn. We've been in a prolonged period of this damp weather, but the temps have been staying warm. In the 50s overnight which is unusual for our territory when nearing the middle of October. Even the fall colors have stayed with us longer than usual this year. How much more pleasant can it get than that?

Psychologically, it's been keeping me out of the garden though. Still lots of clean-up to do but because the mild temps are allowing a few things to keep growing, and the rains are making the soil wet and glue-y, I haven't been able to make myself don mud boots and tear into it all. Still haven't dug our potatoes. Sure would like the soil to dry out before we have to do that. Hate dealing with muddy potatoes all winter.

The impatiens in my window boxes are looking about as bedraggled as they could and still be blooming. But I really need to pull them out, layer the boxes with pine boughs and set small, bright, happy orange pumpkins on top. Also time to get the Halloween decorations up in the house. Yupper, I'm gonna do both those things today. I am. I am. I really will get that done. Uh-huh.

Something else I'm going to do as soon as I finish typing this is switch my summer clothes for winter garb. We don't have ample space to keep all our clothing in closets or drawers, so twice a year I have to make the switch. Off-season clothing gets packed in plastic boxes up in our attic-like storage area. It's a pain hauling the 4-5 boxes back and forth, but doesn't really take that long once the project is started. It's the thought of doing it that seems undesirable and keeps me putting the task off.

I've still got those apples to work up into fillings for winter apple pies. Geesh. Every day I say I'm gonna get that done, but I want to be able to devote a block of time to it, and my days seem to get cluttered with all kinds of other little jobs that wreck any blocks of time.

I have chicken meat and chicken broth defrosted to use as a base for some Chicken Noodle Vegetable Soup that I want to throw together this morning. We butcher and put our old hens (and roosters) in the freezer once they've aged beyond the egg-laying stage of their lives. Then I stew them, long and slow, bone them and freeze the meat and broth for future use. Will make one heck of a goooood tasting soup for a misty day like today.

Perhaps if I'd get off my rusty-duster now, I could get some of these things done. 'Nuf rambling.

A later P.S.: Pictures following will show I did get a bit accomplished this morning. Do I get a gold star on my chart now?

Lots of green grass and lovely foliage still out there.

The above is a handful of a clump of mud in the potato patch. Yuck.

Sad impatiens being encroached upon by fall-colored Virginia Creeper vine.

Just to prove I can keep my word. I did get Halloween decorations up this morning. (Window boxes aren't done yet though. My head is hanging.)

Switching of summer and winter clothing. I did it, I did it, I did it! Whadda jumble.

Proof that I actually accomplished this, too. But I made one little faux pas. I salted the soup (liberally) because my chicken broth is usually very bland. Then I remembered seeing a recipe for chicken soup calling for soy sauce and thought that would add a little zip. Unfortunately, it also added a lot more salt! Now the soup is simmering with a halved potato in it to see if that will absorb some of the excess salt. Whoops. (Hey! Gimme a break here. I've only been cooking for 45 years!)

This Lady Needs Some Help

My caboose is draggin' low today. I'm feeling outta gas and can't find any oompf. Outside it's very gray and blowsy, inside we've got a small crackling fire going in the wood stove. Makes me want to hibernate.

I'm also getting frustrated that I still haven't had time to spend in my quilt room and satisfy my need to get my hands on some fabric, sit at my sewing machine and create. The new fall shower curtain I started weeks ago is still on my design wall, far from being finished. Just haven't found the time to get in there and work on it.

One of the things I want/need to change in my life is to structure it so I do have more time to quilt. It's something that's good for me and is important to me. Last night I was noticing the fall decorations as I walked through the house.

This wall hanging isn't original. Those of you who quilt will recognize the distinctive style as a Thimbleberry pattern. This little bare wall space in the livingroom is where I keep a seasonal wall hanging year 'round. After summer, I used to put up one of fall leaves I made, and then hang this one for a short time before Thanksgiving. But I like it so much that the last couple of years, I've skipped hanging the fall leaves and put my pumpkins up at the end of summer.

In our bedroom we have one wood paneled wall that's big enough to hang a good sized quilt for decoration. The one that I have up now is, I think, my favorite quilt to-date. I know it doesn't show on my picture, but the quilting on it is gorgeous. I didn't do it. (Rats. I should have lied about this.) It was done by a gal in town who gave up her quilting business because she felt she never did a good enough job. (Eee-gods, what we don't do to ourselves!) This quilt is not an original design either. (Hmmm, let's analyze this. Why do I not like my own designs best? Hmmm.) It's a pattern by Kim Diehl. I adore everything she does. I want to be Kim Diehl.

Well, that will have to do for my quilting fix for right now. I will make it into my quilt room soon. It's the only space in the house that is mine alone. Mine, all mine. Mine, mine, mine. It's important to have a space of your own. And to find time to get in it!

A Near Death Experience

I almost died when I was seventeen. By drowning. By jumping off a 100' high tower into a lake. I couldn't swim. It was a near death experience.

Well, okay, the tower probably wasn't quite 100' high. And I could do a fairly decent dog paddle and side stroke for short distances. And I guess I didn't really come close to dying. Unless it was from humiliation.

It was the summer of 1960. My best friend Diane was a pretty blond with an over-developed seventeen year old body. She was slightly ditzy with an off-the-wall sense of humor, was much more adventuresome than I, and a heck of a lot of fun to be around.

One day when she and I both had a day off from our summer jobs, I was given permission to take the family car and drive to The Quarry, which was about 6 miles from where we lived, to go swimming. I had just purchased a cute, little, new two piece, blue and white gingham checked swim suit which I was eager to wear, and we both wanted to work on our tans more than get any exercise swimming.

The Quarry (as the name implies) had originally been a huge stone quarry which had been made into a popular swimming spot frequented by families and young people. It was divided into three sections. Part of the "lake", created in the huge hole left after the limestone was removed, was cemented on one end, two sides and the bottom, almost like a very big, open ended swimming pool. You entered on that end via cement steps into about a foot and a half of water gradually deepening to about four feet where the cement bottom ended at a chain barricade across the lake signifying a drop-off and deep water.

The other two-thirds of the body of water was more like a real lake with sandy beaches on the far end and one long side. On the side, a very shallow area was cordoned off and that's where parents with babies and small children stayed. Across the deep water from this area was a high cliff forming one whole side of the lake. Nearly up against the cliff a limestone tower had been built with a low diving board jutting out into the deep part of the water, a much higher diving board above that and then a concrete platform at the top of the tower. How high was the whole structure? Beats me. Much too high, I can tell you that.

That summer day Diane and I were situated on our blanket on the sandy beach of the deep end of the lake soaking up the sun and watching the activity in the water and on the diving tower. Diane said to me, "We should climb the tower and go off the top platform.”

I looked at her thinking she'd lost her mind. "We've never even gone off the diving boards. Why would we go off the top of the tower?”

"Because it would be fun and then we could brag to everyone that we did it!" Diane said.

"But you know I can hardly swim. And you're not much better. We'd drown," I replied.

"No, look," she said. "It's only a short distance from where we'll enter the water to the chain dividing the other end of the lake. We can easily make it to there and then pull ourselves over to the side. Besides, that really cute lifeguard is sitting right there in his chair," she giggled, "and would be glad to help us if we need it.”

"Nope," I assured her I was not going to do it. "Nuh-uh, not in a million years.”

"Oh, come on! I won't do it by myself and I really, really want to do it. Come on! Please, please, please do it with me?" she begged.

I have absolutely no recollection of how in the heck she talked me into it. It was a hot, crowded day at the lake and there was a long line behind the tower to climb the ladder to the first lower diving board, then on up to the higher diving board and finally all the way to the top of the tower. I did notice that it seemed to be only members of the male species (with the exception of Diane and her incredibly stupid best friend) going all the way to the top. We waited our turn, inching our way to the front of the platform, as one after another person went off. Diane was ahead of me and as soon as it was her turn to go off, she turned to me and said, "I can't do it.”

Picture the whole platform behind us filled with macho guys waiting for these two females to dive, jump, whatever . . . just get on with it . . . so they could have their turn going off the platform. Before I knew what was happening, Diane had done an about-face and was, much to the delight of said male population, side-stepping and squeezing her well-endowed self through them and back down the ladder as those coming up tried to make room for her backing down while making some not so pleasant comments about what the heck did she think she was doing.

Meanwhile I was still standing at the business end of the platform in a state of utter shock. What I should have done was to have grabbed Diane's arm and trailed her back down, no matter how difficult a path that seemed to be. But I didn't. I had panicked. I had frozen. And now the gaggle of guys behind me were starting to heckle.

"Go on, just jump, will ya, babe? You're holding up progress here!”

"Need help? I got an idea. Com'ere, hang on to me and we'll jump together!”

"Maybe she just needs a push. Ya wanna push, sweetie?”

Omigod. The sheer terror of it all. I didn't know what else to do except to jump and end my life quickly. I pushed off the edge of the concrete and went straight down like a rock. A big rock. A big, heavy rock.

When I hit the water my transverse colon came up and smacked my liver so hard I thought I was gonna pass out. I surfaced coughing, choking, gagging, and gasping with water splurting out of my eyes, nose, mouth and who knows where else. I flailed wildly about trying to keep my head above water. I caught a quick glimpse of the hunky lifeguard poised half out of his chair looking as if he was about to dive in to rescue me. The only thing that gave me the strength to collect my wits enough to start swimming a pathetic side stroke over to the chain barricade was the fact that my cute, little, new blue and white gingham checked swim suit top was bobbing up and down in the vicinity of my chin. "Good gawd, please take me now," was the only thought my water-logged brain could form.

Well, Diane and my friendship survived. I survived. I didn't die when I was seventeen. Of humiliation or otherwise. But all these years later, I can still acutely recall the terrible, awful, horrible, terrified feeling I had standing on that platform and knowing I had to jump. And I don't care what anyone else says, it sure felt like a near death experience. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.