When I was a kid in the ’70s I was out of the house for much of the day, tooling around town on my cruiser bike, hanging out at the beach in the summer, digging up rat bones in the sand dunes, or bringing home sand sharks to swim in my friend Patty’s bathtub (yes, we really did that).
In the winter we’d be out all day building snow forts, having epic snowball battles, and wouldn’t be seen by parents until dinner unless we needed to use the bathroom, eat something, or couldn’t feel our feet anymore.
If I wanted to go to the park, I jumped on my bike, rode over to so-and-so’s house, and off we went wherever our wheels would take us. I never had, nor felt I needed, a chaperone. And I don’t remember ever feeling neglected, although this freewheeling childhood experience wasn’t without its “creepy incidents” that made me scream bloody murder and run like hell.
Looking back, I shudder at the close calls and feel reallllly lucky not to have ended up on the evening news. It was the ’70s. Parenting was different then. Kids were different then. And yet, I survived.
While I’ve found it difficult lately to sit down and write my 500 words about “anything” I can certainly start off a pretty impressive list (probably at least 500) of the reasons why this daily exercise has fallen off the side of my desk. But in the interests of time and space and not wanting to dissolve into a heaping pile of tears, I’ll stick to the top five.
With the sale of e-books on the rise, some might say the printed book is headed to the graveyard. I say, don’t buy the headstone just yet. To me, the printed page is alive and kicking. I’ll admit, I’ve got a bit of an addictive personality when it comes to books. I own more than a dozen different sewing books, each with its own focus. There’s one for slipcovers, window treatments, and stuffed animals. And then there are the cookbooks, and the craft books, and the books on gardening. Maybe I ought to feel ashamed about this affliction, but I don’t. While there are a few books that have barely had their pages fanned, the majority of the books we own have helped me acquire the skills to make many of my favorite projects. Here’s a review of several from my stash and the projects I have made, or intend to make, from them.
Stitched in Time, by Alicia Paulson
The first time I saw this book, I fell in love with the doll on the front cover. I was really new to sewing, and had no business believing I could make that or any doll, but it didn’t stop me from fantasizing how my then four-year-old daughter would fall in love with my homemade creation. Thankfully, she did! This book not only contains fabulous sewing projects, but also personal essays, photos, and recipes by the author Alicia Paulson (creator of the blog Posie Gets Cozy). The photos of Paulson’s backyard make me want to crawl inside and have a cup of tea with her.
On my “to make” list: The reusable Happy Birthday banner. Continue reading »
I’m not the type to brag about my accomplishments, in fact, I usually write about myself in a somewhat self-deprecating manner. This makes what I’m about to say all the more unusual. Ready? Here goes:
I. AM. AWESOME!!
I just fixed the printer. It took me several hours over the course of the day, in fits and starts between diaper changes and dinner dates, but I finally fixed the darn thing!
Now, I’m sure the last thing anybody wants to read is a play-by-play of how my mind works…but on the off chance I can spare others the aggravation I experienced, I’m going to share the breadcrumb trail I followed to Fix-it-Ville. Continue reading »
One of the “as-yet-untitled” screenplays I’m working on began its life as a novel. The idea for which came to me in much the same way as the poems and story vignettes I wrote about in Summoning the Muse. It was a month or so after the 911 attacks and I had recently miscarried what would have been my first child. As often happens during times of stress or hormonal fluctuations (e.g., the phenomenon of post-partum hair loss), my hair had begun to fall out. In clumps.
In retrospect I’m sure my thinning hair didn’t even warrant a second glance from passersby, but to me, my visible scalp shone like a beacon, announcing to the world that I, a woman in her early thirties, was, in fact, going bald.