Ah, the bluebird puppets! These are crafted from flat, hand-built felt (wool and mohair curls).
Talk with me if you'd like to buy some for your honey's Easter basket. $25 plus shipping.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
bluebird puppets
Ah, the bluebird puppets! These are crafted from flat, hand-built felt (wool and mohair curls).
Talk with me if you'd like to buy some for your honey's Easter basket. $25 plus shipping.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
in like a lion
The wooden-bristled hairbrush in my hand finds a snarl in her long blond hair and my child screams mercilessly, stomping her feet and raising voice to a high-pitched shriek. She falls to the floor dramatically and howls that she needs an ice pack for her wounded head. I tell her to put her boots on, as she is already late and the others are waiting for her in the car. She gets herself up to go look at her head, to make sure she is not bleeding, to check to see if her tears are big enough, and then grabs violin, lunch, books, hat, coat, and bangs her head against the door in frustration—she’s not left even a finger free to grab the doorknob, and again she must rely on me. Throughout, she speaks her protest with increasing volume, she cannot carry all these things and her mother hurt her hair, and she cannot believe she is so wrongly treated. I open the door and stand outside like a doorman, until she is down the first three steps then I go back in the house, close the door, and turn the bolt lock.
I Have. Had. It. It’s not even 8 a.m.
A cold morning. I’ve been left with a list of things to do, problems to solve. There is a parent meeting tonight and I must attend. I HAVE A WRITING DEADLINE and this is my last “full” day to work on it. Fury is not a good way to write, for me—I would fight the fury in order to write.
I stomp my own feet to my closet, where my fiber arts projects are waiting in a tote bag. A week ago I fused loose layers of brightly colored wool into a rectangle of fabric—handmade felt. The colors blobbed instead of blending. I’d hoped to copy my daughter’s bluebird finger puppet, created by her long-ago kindergarten teacher. Last night I found a surprise bag of curly mohair locks, hand-dyed in varying shades of blue— I added a layer of blue curls onto the “failed” fabric, making it more perfect than I could’ve envisioned. But it’s not a bird yet. I grab the fabric bag, pencil, paper and scissors, and the original puppet. I turn on NPR, and sit at the table to trace each of the pieces onto paper. It’s an ingeniously elegant design, not “cute” but quite bird-like. I can copy the shapes without disassembling the bird.
After cutting the pieces, I needle-felt the cut edges of thick felt, so the bird will hold together well. Needle-felting requires rhythmic STABBING deeply into a foam pad—it’s an aggressive craft, perfect for the morning. I place the cut-out pieces into a project bag to take to tonight’s parent meeting, and I walk through the supply shelf to find thread, pins, a needle. I tuck the rest of the fabric away—first, the prototype must be made.
From aggressive crafting, then, to meditative crafting, which would be the spindle. It pulls all things together, truly. I blended a dozen “rolags” of wool last night while waiting for the workman to test for a gas leak in our building. I must’ve been Very Worried because the wool is airy, periwinkle blended with silver gray and a bit of blue mohair. This morning I walk through the living room, twirling the spindle and watching. The spindle crafts yarn more slowly than the wheel, so I can examine the yarn at each spin, to make sure I don’t “overspin,” as I usually do. A fuzzy, barely-spun bulky yarn. I stop with one rolag. That’s enough for now. Perfection is waiting for me, in a wooden bowl on the counter, for a word-break when I need it.
And now I’ve had a typing warm up and it’s time to open those essays again, and work on school work.
Things go well. Making crafts for Easter baskets and gifts: nests with robins’ eggs, and eggs with felt chicks. And maybe bluebird finger puppets, if the pattern seems as easy as it looks. I’ll post a photo, soon.
I Have. Had. It. It’s not even 8 a.m.
A cold morning. I’ve been left with a list of things to do, problems to solve. There is a parent meeting tonight and I must attend. I HAVE A WRITING DEADLINE and this is my last “full” day to work on it. Fury is not a good way to write, for me—I would fight the fury in order to write.
I stomp my own feet to my closet, where my fiber arts projects are waiting in a tote bag. A week ago I fused loose layers of brightly colored wool into a rectangle of fabric—handmade felt. The colors blobbed instead of blending. I’d hoped to copy my daughter’s bluebird finger puppet, created by her long-ago kindergarten teacher. Last night I found a surprise bag of curly mohair locks, hand-dyed in varying shades of blue— I added a layer of blue curls onto the “failed” fabric, making it more perfect than I could’ve envisioned. But it’s not a bird yet. I grab the fabric bag, pencil, paper and scissors, and the original puppet. I turn on NPR, and sit at the table to trace each of the pieces onto paper. It’s an ingeniously elegant design, not “cute” but quite bird-like. I can copy the shapes without disassembling the bird.
After cutting the pieces, I needle-felt the cut edges of thick felt, so the bird will hold together well. Needle-felting requires rhythmic STABBING deeply into a foam pad—it’s an aggressive craft, perfect for the morning. I place the cut-out pieces into a project bag to take to tonight’s parent meeting, and I walk through the supply shelf to find thread, pins, a needle. I tuck the rest of the fabric away—first, the prototype must be made.
From aggressive crafting, then, to meditative crafting, which would be the spindle. It pulls all things together, truly. I blended a dozen “rolags” of wool last night while waiting for the workman to test for a gas leak in our building. I must’ve been Very Worried because the wool is airy, periwinkle blended with silver gray and a bit of blue mohair. This morning I walk through the living room, twirling the spindle and watching. The spindle crafts yarn more slowly than the wheel, so I can examine the yarn at each spin, to make sure I don’t “overspin,” as I usually do. A fuzzy, barely-spun bulky yarn. I stop with one rolag. That’s enough for now. Perfection is waiting for me, in a wooden bowl on the counter, for a word-break when I need it.
And now I’ve had a typing warm up and it’s time to open those essays again, and work on school work.
Things go well. Making crafts for Easter baskets and gifts: nests with robins’ eggs, and eggs with felt chicks. And maybe bluebird finger puppets, if the pattern seems as easy as it looks. I’ll post a photo, soon.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
brief report, ash wednesday
last night—
the boy finds an old math workbook with some pages unfinished, and he wants to read it. The man sleeps, weary with too many late nights. The girl finished her homework and is weaving on the loom I set up for her, some combination of yarn with bright green and pink bumps that float like confetti above the raspberry and purple. She weaves in the window. He calculates in pencil, on the couch. The sun sets pink over the harbor. Dinner roasts in the oven. I don’t need to tell you how rare the moment is…
While reading James Agee, I scratch some gritty substance on my forehead and find the ashes from the noon church service, appropriate to my reading.
this morning—
My academic/critical thesis became joyful. (Was that a week ago already?) It needs another serious edit (elegant-ish ideas with less-than-elegant construction), but the requirement is fulfilled.
I took Madeleine to New York, a lovely visit for the weekend.
Now: pull together drafts of stories for my creative thesis (100 pages), make notes on yet MORE books (six books left to read in the next month? Or five-and-a-half?) And I need to keep writing! I probably need to apply for that teaching job next fall, but I’m swamped with the present, and torn about what I want my life to look like.
This afternoon and evening will be busier, more normal, dinner thrown together on the fly. Good day yesterday, though, truly. I could use more miraculously quiet evenings—but I won’t count on them. They come when they come.
the boy finds an old math workbook with some pages unfinished, and he wants to read it. The man sleeps, weary with too many late nights. The girl finished her homework and is weaving on the loom I set up for her, some combination of yarn with bright green and pink bumps that float like confetti above the raspberry and purple. She weaves in the window. He calculates in pencil, on the couch. The sun sets pink over the harbor. Dinner roasts in the oven. I don’t need to tell you how rare the moment is…
While reading James Agee, I scratch some gritty substance on my forehead and find the ashes from the noon church service, appropriate to my reading.
this morning—
My academic/critical thesis became joyful. (Was that a week ago already?) It needs another serious edit (elegant-ish ideas with less-than-elegant construction), but the requirement is fulfilled.
I took Madeleine to New York, a lovely visit for the weekend.
Now: pull together drafts of stories for my creative thesis (100 pages), make notes on yet MORE books (six books left to read in the next month? Or five-and-a-half?) And I need to keep writing! I probably need to apply for that teaching job next fall, but I’m swamped with the present, and torn about what I want my life to look like.
This afternoon and evening will be busier, more normal, dinner thrown together on the fly. Good day yesterday, though, truly. I could use more miraculously quiet evenings—but I won’t count on them. They come when they come.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Monday, February 02, 2009
sick house day seven
If I have to be home with a sick boy, again…
… then I will be happy to have a home, so I clean (a bit—let’s not get extreme, here)
… then I will be happy to have a boy I like so much, happy to pour the ginger ale and dole out cough drops, to write down the time he took the medicine, note the next dosage
If I have to be home with a sick boy, at least the boy is feeling better. If I have to be home at least this is the best place for him, and for me. If I have to be tending a needy guy, at least the sun keeps us company, streaming in so warm I need to open the windows on this winter day.
The boy has been sick for a week, and home with me for six days of fever, coughing. Yesterday he sat up without being asked, and walked around, here and there. Last night he slept through the night without needing medicine, without coughing fits, and this morning he woke without a fever—but still very tired. The cough rumbles in his chest.
He sits on the couch sorting baseball cards this morning, after a long absence, and he’s a little miffed that I make him get his own handkerchief, his own cool drink. He asks for a third piece of toast and I fight off a celebratory dance. How long since he asked for food?
And I’m cautiously returning to normal, turning down the level of alarm (he woke at 103 degrees only two days ago, appearing to get worse instead of better). Normal, cooking a normal breakfast instead of catching a bite here and a bite there, between fretting. I think each of us feels like we are coming out of a long dark something, a long worry for me, a long time lying down for him.
My day divides into tasks I can do with a child, and tasks I cannot do with a child. I cannot concentrate to write much—some, and some sorts of writing, but not the real stringing together of thoughts for my academic work. I can take notes, make sketches, read the short stand-alone chapters of MFK Fisher’s Alphabet for Gourmets.
The deadline for the academic paper creeps closer, but it makes no sense to fight what I can do with a child, and what I can’t do with a child. Any attempt to sink into the material will be thwarted, interrupted, and my resentment… well, he is only a sick child, and he doesn’t deserve that.
I can clean out my bag, clear out my head, sort a few papers. Mostly I try to prepare for tomorrow, or for the eventual day the boy will return to school: I pick up and put away and sweep, empty the sink and dishwasher, run a bath for him. I vacuum. I push the laundry through its paces. I set out a fresh set of clothes for him, and another fresh set for me. I water the large planter’s herbs, and the small planter’s green salad sprouts.
The geranium rewards me for my fretting with two bunches of buds and two coral blossoms—I move it to the center of the table.
The child is asking for his fourth slice of toast, which means it’s time to quit even this much typing. He asks if I want to play Red Sox Monopoly—I do not. The tea kettle whistles. Time to go do what I can do. Not Monopoly but maybe a card game. Wait, he’s settling into his baseball card sorting again—maybe I can get a few emails answered, and start noting quotations.
First the toast, and the French press of decaf, and the morning.
Happy Candlemas. Each week we "gain" another quarter hour of daylight, now. And the geranium is starting to bloom. Soon we will be outdoors, walking the beach, making the switch to lighter coats. Soon.
… then I will be happy to have a home, so I clean (a bit—let’s not get extreme, here)
… then I will be happy to have a boy I like so much, happy to pour the ginger ale and dole out cough drops, to write down the time he took the medicine, note the next dosage
If I have to be home with a sick boy, at least the boy is feeling better. If I have to be home at least this is the best place for him, and for me. If I have to be tending a needy guy, at least the sun keeps us company, streaming in so warm I need to open the windows on this winter day.
The boy has been sick for a week, and home with me for six days of fever, coughing. Yesterday he sat up without being asked, and walked around, here and there. Last night he slept through the night without needing medicine, without coughing fits, and this morning he woke without a fever—but still very tired. The cough rumbles in his chest.
He sits on the couch sorting baseball cards this morning, after a long absence, and he’s a little miffed that I make him get his own handkerchief, his own cool drink. He asks for a third piece of toast and I fight off a celebratory dance. How long since he asked for food?
And I’m cautiously returning to normal, turning down the level of alarm (he woke at 103 degrees only two days ago, appearing to get worse instead of better). Normal, cooking a normal breakfast instead of catching a bite here and a bite there, between fretting. I think each of us feels like we are coming out of a long dark something, a long worry for me, a long time lying down for him.
My day divides into tasks I can do with a child, and tasks I cannot do with a child. I cannot concentrate to write much—some, and some sorts of writing, but not the real stringing together of thoughts for my academic work. I can take notes, make sketches, read the short stand-alone chapters of MFK Fisher’s Alphabet for Gourmets.
The deadline for the academic paper creeps closer, but it makes no sense to fight what I can do with a child, and what I can’t do with a child. Any attempt to sink into the material will be thwarted, interrupted, and my resentment… well, he is only a sick child, and he doesn’t deserve that.
I can clean out my bag, clear out my head, sort a few papers. Mostly I try to prepare for tomorrow, or for the eventual day the boy will return to school: I pick up and put away and sweep, empty the sink and dishwasher, run a bath for him. I vacuum. I push the laundry through its paces. I set out a fresh set of clothes for him, and another fresh set for me. I water the large planter’s herbs, and the small planter’s green salad sprouts.
The geranium rewards me for my fretting with two bunches of buds and two coral blossoms—I move it to the center of the table.
The child is asking for his fourth slice of toast, which means it’s time to quit even this much typing. He asks if I want to play Red Sox Monopoly—I do not. The tea kettle whistles. Time to go do what I can do. Not Monopoly but maybe a card game. Wait, he’s settling into his baseball card sorting again—maybe I can get a few emails answered, and start noting quotations.
First the toast, and the French press of decaf, and the morning.
Happy Candlemas. Each week we "gain" another quarter hour of daylight, now. And the geranium is starting to bloom. Soon we will be outdoors, walking the beach, making the switch to lighter coats. Soon.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
felt flower tutorial
I constructed a flower-pin tutorial last fall, only to discover that my photos were too low-resolution (I still don't know why...) I love this project and will try it again with a higher resolution!
First: find a sweater to shrink. This one is cashmere, thrift-shop purchase for $1. Cut "rick-rack." (It doesn't have to be exact.)
See? Imagine a pansy.
Sew a loose running stitch (it's yellow so you can see it better, not because I can't match, silly)
Pull the running stitch tight while rolling up the "rick-rack" you made.
Sew right through the whole "bud," close to the bottom.
Shape it-- coax it into a pansy shape.
Add a few heavy-duty stitches to secure the whole thing together. Then add a bobby pin and a leaf.
And some yellow beads.
More realistic when pinned to a child's hair.
Roses are next:
First: find a sweater to shrink. This one is cashmere, thrift-shop purchase for $1. Cut "rick-rack." (It doesn't have to be exact.)
See? Imagine a pansy.
Sew a loose running stitch (it's yellow so you can see it better, not because I can't match, silly)
Pull the running stitch tight while rolling up the "rick-rack" you made.
Sew right through the whole "bud," close to the bottom.
Shape it-- coax it into a pansy shape.
Add a few heavy-duty stitches to secure the whole thing together. Then add a bobby pin and a leaf.
And some yellow beads.
More realistic when pinned to a child's hair.
Roses are next:
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