Did you have a good weekend?

Like all Monday mornings, it is the question of the day. It's what polite folks ask to get the day started with others. My Monday work is at home, so I won't be asked this question. But I can tell you for sure that tomorrow when I walk through the door of the little quilt shop where I work on Tuesdays, I will be greeted with, "Hey girl! Good to see you! Did you have a good weekend?"

Well, that depends on how you describe a good weekend. If a good weekend entails waking up on Saturday with two days ahead of watching sports on the television, or meeting friends for shopping and dinner out, a movie, or catching up on sleep or craft projects, seeing the grand kids, then no, I didn't have a good weekend

That used to define a good weekend to me. And it will again in a year or so. Except the sports part. Truly, truly, truly abhor anything sports related. Don't get me started. Saturdays find the MOTH and me eating a good breakfast and donning old work clothes and heavy boots to head down the road to the ramshackle little farmhouse to put two days worth of labor into our dream bank. I'm sure to all who see it, it is  more a nightmare than a dream. And sometimes, when I am doing something I don't particularly care to do, I keep hoping I will wake up and find it all done. Not going to happen. But we soldier on. One nail at a time. One trench at a time.   I think the planned tin roof going on this summer is going to really sparkle the place up. Getting the walls  on the back side will help too. Not to mention paint. And windows.

I got to un-bury and dig out the trench that was dug and buried last weekend. Yeah. Fun stuff this renovating. The only good part about that was watching how excited the chickens got at all that fresh dirt flying about. They pecked and scratched looking for good stuff to eat while I grunted my way through shovels of dirt. If grunting will get the job done, I am the woman for the job. I am a noisy worker. If the work is not too hard, I sing my way through it. If it is really hard, I grunt my way through.I got that little trait from my moma. I think it gets on Jerry's nerves.

Other than ditch digging, there wasn't a lot I could do to help Jerry with what he was doing, so I cleaned out the front half of my chicken coop and built some shelves and some raised bed frames for the garden. I am not a good builder of things and that took a long time. And a lot of drill bits. Jerry, if you are reading this, put drill bits on the Lowe's list. The little black skinny ones. Sorry.

So now I gauge the goodness of my weekends on how much progress is made and how sore and dirty I am when I get home. Sunday evening found me covered in sawdust and chicken dust from the coop and the trench re-covered. Jerry ended up helping. I think he got tired of the grunting and the fussing about having to re-do the thing. It took a lot of soap and a lot of Epsom's salts in the tub to remove the aches and pains, so yeah, I had a good weekend.

In preparation of the move, I have spent the last year or more purging my sewing room. I have had the luxury of a large, mostly all mine room to sew and craft in for almost 23 years. I am down-sizing to a nook. Granted, I am not in high-production mode like I was when I had a growing gaggle of girls to keep clothed, but a nook is going to be a challenge. Over the years, I have dabbled in lots of different crafts. There were the paper crafting years with scrapbook supplies and card making supplies spilling out from every corner not taken up with fabric and yarn. Decorative painting added its smish-smash of mess. Candle making, soap making, just making in general. But through it all, the sewing and knitting have been the two constants. Bins of yarn crown the top of the shelves that house the fabric. Knitting books crowd the shelf for their place amongst the sewing books and patterns.

I think I am on my third purge in the last 18 months or so. Each one is a little more ruthless. It really hasn't been as difficult as I thought it would be, this purging. I am a pragmatic person to begin with. I am really being hard-nosed on this third and probably, final clean out. Very little stays. Except the memories. And what a memory catcher this room is proving to be. I've sewn my way through little girls in flowing smocked dresses, Halloween costumes, adolescents and their scathing criticism of hemlines, proms, recitals, graduations, college dorm room decor, weddings. Grandchildren have ushered in a second sewing flurry of their own, just not so prolific as the first time around. The occasional special request from a grandchild or their mother, doll clothes, baby quilts-it's all by choice now and not economy.

As I go through boxes,  the memories fall into my lap along with the bits and bobs of lace and fabric. I give these things a hard look and decide if it goes into the " keep" or "find a new home for" or the "toss" pile. The keep pile is getting smaller. I tell myself that the stuff may be gone, but the memory is a keeper. I don't need that odd scrap of velvet to remember what my youngest looked like all dressed up for her voice recital. A bit of plaid fabric goes in the toss pile, but not the memory of the night I happily sewed a little coat for a black Scotty dog.I knew putting the coat on the dog was probably a lost cause, but  the sound of the laughter springing from the simple joy my middle girl got from struggling to try it on her unwilling canine was worth the few hours spent pinning, cutting and sewing.  She looked like a four-legged, hairy Sherlock Holmes.The dog that is. And  she wasn't happy about it. Memories of the oldest and how pretty she looked in her senior picture take their place in my head when I pull out a strand of silk ribbon used to embroider the bodice of her formal. I would be less than honest if I didn't say that sometimes things didn't turn out as planned. Or liked as well as someone thought they would be.Feet have been stomped and tearful refusals to wear such and such have been heard. Sometimes my best efforts just didn't deliver.

Odd bits of yarn demand their due as I pilfer through the bins. It spills out in a happy, tangled jumble. My mind's eye does the same thing.The faint smell of wool mingles with the memories of soft pinks and blues that were knitted and purled into newborn caps that would warm little heads. As I pull out the unused strands, I recall how I would sit and knit, needles clicking as I imagined what the face of my soon to be born grandchild would look like.Luscious fibers that I and my needles turned into sweaters and scarves and mittens. Skinny little yarns that are now thick fluffy socks. Ahem, yes, there have been duds here too. A too small mitten, a lop-sided sweater (yes, that does happen. To me, anyway), unfinished stuff. Just like life.

Most of the memories coming out of this purging are the good stuff. But the ones that aren't? There's a "keep" pile, "find a new home for" pile, and a "toss" pile.

If there had been a fan, the 'you-know-what' would have hit it.

If you are going to commit to renovating an old house, you need to be prepared for all kinds of surprises; most of them unpleasant. It is not a straight-forward process by any stretch of the imagination. Especially a really old house that has not had the best of care. Water damage, bugs, carcasses of small animals, ancient cloth covered wiring, primitive plumbing, stinky smells, uneven floors and ceilings. Their are so  many twists and turns it will make your head spin. Not to mention the money. Make your budget, then multiply by three and you might be close to accurate. Why do we do it? Some days I honestly don't know.

The plumbing issue has been the flavor of the month around here for way longer than a single month. Miles of old pipe has been thrown in the dumpster to be replaced with some new-fangled stuff called PEX. The logistics of installing this stuff has fallen to Jerry. It involves inching himself into a very small crawlspace under the bathroom floor. For once I can say, "Thank goodness, I shop in the chubby department! I could never fit in that space!" Being claustrophobic, sometimes just seeing him under there can bring me to the brink of hysteria. But I am brave. I stand on the outside beside his little entrance hole, all the tools spread out before me like a surgeon's right hand nurse, listening for his muffled commands; "wrench!, plumber's putty! need more light!" Yep, I am on it. I also have my cell phone at the ready in case of unforeseen disaster that might involve 911. I mean, you never know, a spider might crawl out and land on me, or a rat scamper across my feet. Like I said, you never know.

Which brings me to the you-know-what mentioned in the title. The postage stamp sized bathroom we are working on has been completely gutted except for the commode. There is only a subfloor and studs.Not even a door. The saddest throne room you have ever seen.I am sure there are outhouses with more luxurious accommodations.At least they have doors. When I need to use the facilities I make Jerry go outside and wait. For those that know me, it is hard to imagine, but I do have some dignity. I sealed the toilet paper in a black garbage bag, because I was afraid a rodent might find all that fluffy white paper irresistible as nesting material or a bug might get on it and I did not want that coming in contact with my person, no siree. So a large black garbage bag hangs from a nail on the wall. I am thinking I should take a picture of my toilet paper holder and post it to Pinterest under the title "Redneck Bathroom Ideas."

We left the toilet for obvious reasons. It's a little under five miles to our current house and that five miles can be a mighty long drive if you have ignored nature's call just a moment too long. People in their fifties shouldn't do that. So the throne stayed.

We were working one day when nature called me with a particularly vicious tone.Apparently she didn't like the greasy hamburger I had eaten an hour or so before.  Jerry had just exited what I am now calling the "H--- Hole" where he had been working on the underbelly of our horrid little throne and was thankfully in the garage. The floor in the bathroom has several holes where we have cut off old pipe at ground level in anticipation of replacing them with new stuff. One of these is right beside the commode. We usually have a long iron pipe stuck in this hole but had removed it while we were working. Neither of us thought anything of this. We should have. After giving nature her due, I flushed. Shock and awe! Things that should never see the light of day, much less the bathroom ceiling, shot six feet in the air and back down (mostly). I will never have to go to Yosemite. I have seen the geyser of geysers. Let me just tell you, I can move pretty dang quick when I need to. And come out fully clothed, thank you very much.

I ran outside in search of my plumber saying prayer after prayer that he was safely above floor. I gave him the facts and he launched into a speech that was every color of the rainbow. It ended with something like, "If I had a match, this place would be gone!" To add insult to injury as we stood there trying to figure out the problem we hear, "Plop, plop, plop." Yeah, Jerry's little workspace being annointed with the remains of the day. "Well, I guess I won't be working under there anytime soon!",
was said in such disgust, that I slinked off to let him stew.
We did figure out the problem, and thankfully, it can be "easily" fixed. It involves more plumbing, moving the commode and re-routing it to the new septic system, passing under the kitchen and across the yard. Like I said, "easily".

Yes, I know, it's been six months, but we are going to pretend that didn't happen ok?

 I love winter. I look forward to it every year and am just like a kid when it comes to snow. I don't think I have ever had enough snow. I like wearing coats. You can have on a t-shirt that you dribbled your lunch on and throw on a coat and a wooly scarf to do your errands and no one will know you are a sloppy eater. I like the stark blacks and browns and grays of the trees. The Cardinals are never so intensly red as they are on a bleak winter day flitting about looking for something to eat. We counted thirteen one day down at the farm!  I love warming the gray days with a fire in the fireplace, classical music playing, and candles glowing in every room. Add a little blustery wind whistleing its own music and I am one happy girl.

But we are on the cusp of mid-February and I have to admit it has the gardener in me stirring just a bit.I've pinned lots of beautiful garden ideas on my Pinterest page. I've bought garden magazines.  I've perused the seed catalogs, made my order, and am now waiting on the arrival of those little packets that hold promises of "bumper crop of juicy tomatoes, world's best Basil for pesto, gather hundreds of bouquets of huge flowers right from your own backyard!" There words, not mine. I have been at this gardening business long enough to know a thing or two. I know about drought, flooding, bugs, voles, deer, and worst of all, my neglect when the heat hits the 100's. But gardeners are the ulitimate optimists. I may not exactly believe those words in the seed catalogs, but I don't exactly doubt them either. So every year I go out with my seeds, my tooks, and my straw hat and set to it. I usually get just enough veggies and flowers and a little more knowledge to keep me coming back year after year. But joy of joys, a little bit of snow showers may happen Saturday! Spring, you wait just a bit longer, you will get your turn. I have some snowflakes to watch tumble down.

Where did August go?

I don't care and I don't know! But I am sure it will be back with temps in the 90's or so. Man on man, this weather is so mild it has me "waxing poetic" as they say. Seriously, this weather is more like late September. It was an incredibly perfect day today. Mild temps, partly cloudy skies, and whispery breezes all the day long. The MOTH got quite a bit done toward leveling the old homeplace and I worked in the room that will be our library/office space. It is now ready to start priming and painting. I don't know what kind of stuff the previous owner was into hanging on the walls in this particular room, but I pulled out at least 40 nails and there are probably another 40 or so nail holes to be spackled. That's a lot of holes in the wall, even by my standards. Later in the day, our neighbors, Stan and Mary came up to visit us. We love Stan and Mary. They are the epitome of good neighbor's. They have their fingers on the pulse of everyone in our little rural community. They know everyone's schedule and who should be where at any given moment. If things should vary by the least bit, they are on it. Case in point. When the youngest left a few weeks ago to get married, I was driving her car because mine was in the shop. One morning during that time, Isabella (who we were watching while her mom was away gettin' hitched), and I headed to the farm to gather eggs. We did our thing, walked around checked things out and then jumped back in her mother's car. As we pulled out of the drive-way and rounded the curve, we met Stan, sitting military straight in his beloved Kubota,  very concerned, and very stern looking. I couldn't imagine what he was so concerned about, so I pulled over and gave him a big, "Hey Stan, how's it goin?" His countenance immediately relaxed as he explained that he had never seen this particular vehicle in the yard of our little farm before. He said that it looked decidedly suspicious. The trunk was up (my chicken coop shoes were stowed away there) and the car was missing its hubcaps. I guess by country standards, that is a very ghetto look. Anyway, he was glad it was just me there collecting eggs and I was extremely glad I was not a somebody with nefarious reasons to be at our little farm because Stan was on it! And Stan is usually packin' if you get my drift.
So back to my point, Stan and Mary came rambling up the road in their Kubota. They come up at least once on the week-end to check on us and our progress. They can't wait for us to get moved in. Eventually conversation steered toward another family that was building a farm/homestead on  the mountain. The next thing you know, the MOTH and I were perched in the back of the the Kubota and we were headed up English Mountain to see the new homestead. This was the best ride up the mountain we have ever had. It wasn't on paved roads, but up two-laned paths. It was spectacular. English Mountain is about 11 miles long not including all the nooks and crannies that any mountain worth its salt lays claim to. Stan took every little path that a 4x4 could possibly take. He knows something about every path he takes too. Mary rides beside him and she knows just about as much as he does. It reminded me of those golden days when Uncle Carl would pile all of us kids in the back of the pink Jeep that Uncle Kelly had  donated to the family compound in the Ozarks. There was no road or no creek that Uncle Carl would not cross if he thought it would give us kids a thrill. So there was the MOTH and me, grinning ear to ear and bouncing along in the back of Stan and Mary's Kubota and I don't think either of us has been that happy and content in a long while. The only reason Mary cut the ride short was because, A. the Kubota's gas tank was almost empty and B. they weren't packing. I can understand both points because let me tell you, the places we were could definitely have bears and wild boars at every corner.By the time the MOTH and I were deposited back at the farm, we were wondering if maybe a Kubota just might be in our future?

Squatter!

Look who I found squatting in my pot of orange mint tonight! One of the Evil Eyes, previously known as Elvis, Medea, and Selena. Now, they all look so much alike, and are all so stinkin' aggressive, that we just call them by the collective Evil Eyes. At least he will smell minty fresh after sitting in my mint pot. His companions were already on the roof of the run, but I guess this guy hasn't figured out that he can fly up there too.

Bits and Pieces

I like to write and I like to blog, but sometimes I get caught in a trap of What do I blog about today? Is this really blog worthy? Why would anyone want to read this? So, often, I just don't blog at all.  I sometimes forget one of the reasons I blog is to keep a semi-regular record of day to day stuff for myself. The bits and pieces that fill the hours, make me sing just because I am loving what I am doing or maybe rub my back, because while loving the task at hand, there is no denying the exertion required.
Yesterday was a day filled with some of my favorite bits and pieces. See that yarn up there? What an unexpected gift! A few days earlier, I had received a call from a friend in a panic. She was test knitting a pattern for a designer and had gotten herself in a bind and couldn't find her way out and was wondering if I could come by and help her if I happened to be in town. I was happy to help if I could. I knit, but am in no way an expert. We put our heads together over the troublesome project and soon had her on her way again. This friend just happens to be a spinner too. Her house is nirvana for anyone who loves fiber, especially wool fiber. Her coffee table holds a bowl full of wool roving in all colors waiting its turn on one of her wheels. On the hearth is a basket heaped with newly spun yarn equally as colorful. As I walked by and was admiring her efforts, she told me to choose some yarn. Well, I didn't need to be told twice and as I admired this beautiful blue she told me to take both skeins! I couldn't believe she was giving me this. It is the loveliest shade of almost robin's egg blue that just faintly blushes to pink all throughout.  I put it on my swift and wound it into balls and then parked it beside my chair. Sometimes I pick it up and smell it. I love the smell of wool yarn and am waiting patiently for it to tell me what it wants to be when it grows up. A scarf? Fingerless gloves? Hat? Oh the potential!
Yesterday's bits and pieces also included canning. I love my freezer, but I am a visual person and opening up the freezer to all those flesh-toned frosty plastic-wrapped parcels is not nearly as eye appealing as looking at rows of crystal clear glass jars in every color and hue filling my pantry and making me feel oh so domestic. Talk about eye candy.  Besides, I just love to can. I have a friend who also loves to can and a daughter who does too. I'm working on the other daughter. When we can-can girls talk about our endeavors we get all giddy and silly talking per pounds pressure, time, the best canner for the job, how many pints or quarts we got. Yeah, I know. It sounds a little un-canny. Chortle, chortle.
While the canner was whistling and rocking gently, I spent a restful hour garbleing the herbs you see in the not so good picture above. What's garbleing? That's a funny word to describe the process of stripping leaves and blooms from herb plants. Earlier in the day I had gathered some herbs down at the farm and needed to prepare them for drying. I now have several bundles of Sage neatly tied off and hung up to use in the Thanksgiving dressing. Lots of Lemon Balm to use in a tincture that is said to help with migraines. I have plenty for tea also. Lemon Balm tea with a sprinkle of sugar and splash of milk has a faint taste of Pez candy to me. I love it in the winter time. Finished off with Peppermint. Good for the tummy. Plus, I just like to grow it.
At the end of the day I headed to the farm to put the chickens up for the night and gather eggs. I ended up sitting in a rocking chair looking at our young fledgling orchard and the few raised beds and the pumpkin patch I have growing. I really just meant to sit there, but I kept thinking about the small fall garden patch I really want to grow and the next thing you know, I had out the tiller and was fighting Bermuda grass and rocks as I made a few rounds, all the time keeping my eye out for one the three evil-eyed roosters who are free-range since flogging one of my grands. One of them likes to follow behind me and I can just imagine him aiming for my backside. The tiller finally ran out of gas and I decided that I was out too. As I made my home with my small clutch of eggs, I was smiling at what a great bits and pieceful kind of day it had been.