Handmade Gifts

How do you feel about handmade gifts? 

I've always hesitated to gift my own creations, believing them to be a little bit "less than."

Less valued than store-bought; less useful than a gift card; 

less dazzling than whatever the most popular social influencer recommends--"swipe up!"

But this year, I'm feeling some freedom to give handmade. 

So this morning I handled brittle antique sheet music and forced 

myself to cut it, recalling how the pages were rescued from the trash. 

Folding tattered edges into shape took extra time, but I didn't mind, 

envisioning the final lovely outcome.

I shrugged aside qualms and pushed a wooden brace through 

centenarian page layers, taking care not to waste a single scrap of print.

 

That's when phrases from Psalm 103 slid into the corner of my heart.

God forms you in the same way, the Spirit seemed to hint. 

"For He knows our frame; He is mindful that we are dust." 

He knows you're often fragile, brittle, tattered.

"As for man ... your days are like grass--blooming, vanishing, forgotten."

Yet He tenderly chooses you anyway, knowing the potential for glory exists. 

"But from everlasting to everlasting the loving devotion 

of the LORD extends to those who fear Him."

In unmatched patience, He shapes, folds, and fashions you into the 

image of the blessing He intends to gift to others.

" ... we are God's handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, 

which God prepared in advance for us to do." 

(Ephesians 2:10)

And just like the psalmist, my soul rose up in joy. 

Bless the Lord ... bless the Lord ... bless the Lord.

Feathery Curls

That gorgeous hat!

If you watch Masterpiece Classic at all, you might have had the same thought. 

Hats cover a multitude of problems and make the wearer look smart and styled 

at the same time. Do you wonder, like I do, why they went out of fashion? 

This lovely bit of feathery frippery must have been much-envied in the heyday of hats.

Curled feathers mimic beautifully curled and arranged tresses— 

convenient if the wearer didn't own the same.

This hat flew out of my Etsy shop. 

Someone in Oregon is looking fabulous in this right now. 

I have more hats for sale if you'd like to sport one of your own.

Bare Bushes

It's time to call it quits in the garden. 

Here on my one Kentucky acre, we've had drought conditions until just 

about two weeks ago. My container plants got just too shabby 

in the dry heat...so I fixed them. 

"Look at this," I said to my patient husband. "I fixed the container plants."

"You sure did," he agreed and took a few steps back.

Because, friends, I pulled them all up and threw their spindly stems

and crispy blooms in the firepit. What a relief! 

I plopped gourds and pumpkins in the empty containers—no watering needed. 

When we finally got a little rain, all the garden plants went back to work, 

creating new leaves and blooms. 

Look at this cypress vine, so cheerful in the summer-like heat.

Then this week on Monday, fall arrived. 

We've had a one-week color change with all the wonder of a true fall compressed 

into just a few days. Yesterday's wind and rain moved the color party to the ground.

Last night we swerved around another seasonal corner as temperatures dropped below freezing. 

I had time to save these beautiful blues, and a few zinnias, 

from the first killing frost.

The bushes are bare, but my windowsills are filled with vases of color. 

Great Gourds

At my favorite Indiana farm market, I found a vendor who grows
and oh-so-casually sells the most mind-boggling variety of pumpkins and gourds.
She loads them in the back of a truck before dawn, crosses the miles with
a thermos of dark coffee, and dumps them on the market ground in glorious piles of color.

"How much for a blue pumpkin?" I tried to appear equally casual.
"Two dollars," she said with a flannel-shirted shrug.
Yes, ma'am! 
I couldn't get my dollars unfolded fast enough.

The small gourds in these photos came from an ordinary grocery store.
Yet the craftsmanship in every detail is nothing less than amazing. 

Will you take time to pause as we hurtle into the fall season, for just a few 

moments, and let the wonder of the changing natural world inspire something new?

Here Comes a Duck

She waddled up our seen-better-days driveway, 

 chatting to herself the way ducks do, and stood in a puddle, commanding our attention.

She got that and much more. 

All summer, we carried around bits of bread and cracker crumbs 

and became her best option for some decent take out.

In exchange, she followed us around the acre like a family dog providing a 

soothing backdrop of duck talk. 

I often wondered exactly what 

she was saying, but never could get close enough to make out 

any real words. It might have been a complaint about the 

 bread quality or the boring variety of crackers, because she 

disappeared after a few visits—on to better menus, I'm sure.

Exactly what your granny used to say, right? 

"Just when you think you know what to expect, 

here comes a duck."

Round and Round - A Marriage Allegory

We celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary last year with a trip to Florida. 

This year we enjoyed a nice dinner and a ride in a posh Ferris wheel. 

So, if you'll indulge me, I'll "spin" an 

over-obvious parallel 

between marriage and a Ferris wheel ride. 

After paying too much money to ride, anticipation builds as you stand in line watching other riders settle into neon-lit gondolas and spin slowly up, into thick summer-evening air. Anticipation makes waiting almost unbearable, but finally, it's your turn. Someone with a badge mumbles a litany of rules and recommendations. You and your partner rush aboard,  fastening safety buckles and latches in all haste.

Revolutions which looked slow and relatively safe from the ground spin by impossibly fast.

The dazzling view and intimate seating arrangement are thrilling, although either may prove uncomfortable over the course of the ride. The free-fall sensation of the downward spin and the unpredictable swing of the car delight, excite, and cause many to cling even more tightly. 

Multiply the excitement (or terror) if your partner decides to jostle or even swing the cab during the ride. But, if your companion is the quiet sort, you may be challenged to celebrate simple joys: starry night gazing or a gentle handclasp. 

Too soon, it's time to exit the ride. The wheel slows as others leave their gondolas, allowing enough time for a kiss or two before arriving at the bottom for the last time. You exit on the far side of the wheel, unnoticed by glee-filled new riders, eager to begin their circular journey. 

"What's next?" your spouse asks and reaches for your hand.

"How about some ice cream to top off the night?" you reply. 

And off you wander, hand in hand, toward the next allegory-worthy adventure.

Settling into Garnet

The Japanese maples on our acre are always among the first to 

celebrate spring. Trunk and branches store and 

stoke their calling-card color all winter, and in the spring ... 

... it bursts from every stem tip—scarlet flags against a

new-blue, spring canopy.

Now the fanfare is over, and they've settled into a more sedate 

summer color, something along the lines of garnet. 

As many of you know, I signed a contract to publish a children's book with Familius Publishing. I'm thrilled to join this company and add "Debut Author" to my list of life titles. I'd like to give updates here on what the journey to publication has been like for me, and let you know what's coming up next. 

Here's a question I've answered before:

How did you make connections in the writing industry?

In fall, 2013, my youngest son finished eighth grade at the Simpson Home Academy and entered public high school. I cautiously tiptoed into the writing world, staying safely on the edges. My investigations led me to Word Weavers International. Through this organization and its generous leaders, I began to step out of the shadows, meet other writers, and learn about the #writinglife. 

I'd love to answer questions about what's involved in a publication journey, which is unique to every writer. Ask your question or share your own experience in the comments.

A few facts for now: 

* The working title of my book is "Family Dog." It's highly unlikely that the title will stay the same. 

* The book will be in the Spring 2021 Familius catalog but will be available a few months sooner than that. 

* I haven't met the illustrator or the editor of the book yet. 

* I paid for high-resolution photos (headshots) at Portrait Innovations. It was a painfully awkward experience, but the talented young photographer managed to get a few photos that I'm happy to have for a back-cover blurb. 

More details soon! 

Susan

Please, Please ...

Recently a dear friend asked me if I've ever eaten fiddleheads. 

Have I ever consumed miniature packets of potential, bundles of soon-to-unfurl beauty?

No way, no how.

Ferns are among the most tenacious of garden ladies. 

While other plants continue to snooze under winter blankets of cold leaves and chilly air, 

ferns stretch their lovely limbs and gather weakly-warm sunbeams. 

And like this intrepid example, they grow anywhere a spore may land—even on

 the face of a brick wall in Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia. 

My vacationing family kept walking while I lagged behind to admire, and be inspired by, this 

persistent plant—untended, unplanned, and possibly only appreciated by me.

And now, you. 

There's much to learn from this unlikely teacher, the humble fern. 

 So please, please—don't eat the fiddleheads. 

***

Other garden ladies I've observed here and here. 

Treasure Hunting

Most Saturdays my husband and I peruse other people's stuff looking for treasures. 

Both terms are loosely used here. 

Occasionally, something seems to say, "I'm yours..." and wins a place in our nest. 

More often, though, I sell the treasures on Etsy to finance my writing adventures. 

Either way, we have fun rehashing the week, sipping coffee, and laughing at people-antics.

A few weeks ago, a local estate sale yielded a bunch of sellable treasures, including 

a 1967 Super 8 camera. A ball-capped sale attendant told us his father bought

 and used the camera while stationed in Vietnam. 

"Dad used it to bring home all the sights he wanted to share with us." 

He removed his cap, swiped a hand through his hair, and replaced it. 

"Things sure went hard for us while he was away."

A single home movie frame turned up in the bottom of the bag. 

I'm not sure who's who, but it's easy to make up a good story. 

What do you think is going on here? 

Let's hear your best story-starting line.

If you provide the starters, I'll pick one and finish it.

Catkin Season

"The catkins are out on the pussy willow tree."

This said only in spring, and probably just once per season. 

But I always say it—can't wait to say it—because it's a SURE SIGN. 

Once the catkins are out, friends, there's no stuffing them back ... and no stopping spring. 

Yes, it might still snow—probably will snow—but 

these silky buds contradict temporary setbacks.

Maybe you're enjoying a catkin season of life, when hints of something wonderful 

 are peeking out everywhere? It's a good place to be, for sure, 

and happens at every life stage. I'd love to hear about it.

Click here for more about this specimen in my garden 

or here to learn more about the care of your own. 

Clematis Cutting Tutorial

We've had a very long winter here in Kentucky. 

Endless weeks of cold, snow, and ice with very few glimmer days*. 

But on the first day of February, the sun came out, and during my backyard wander, 

I was surprised to find Jackmanii clematis already hard at work.

The dynamism contained in a newly-awakened 

clematis branch is electric.

So I cut a handful of the woody branches (1), including more than one

 woody knuckle on each stem.

Sporting the most hopeful shade of green, these pioneer leaves are impossibly soft. 

Spend some time appreciating them, because the next step is 

to snap off each leaf bud (2).

I know it seems brutal, but that unique spring-renewal energy has to be firmly 

directed to earn those free clematis vines. If the greedy leaf buds are 

allowed to use the vigor for themselves, roots will never form. 

By removing the leaf buds, you're sending all that growth-power south. 

Obviously, I haven't done a thorough job of clearing the buds--I'm too soft. 

Place the cut vine sections in a jar of room temperature water 

in a brightly lit window (3).

Then it's a waiting game. 

You'll probably spend most of the summer changing water and 

keeping the stems free of algae and slime (4) while you wait to see roots.

But it's worth the work.

Explore other methods to propagate clematis here and here. 

* Glimmer days are unseasonably warm, typically sprinkled throughout the first three months of the calendar year.

Bleak January

Bleak January is one of the best parts of the year. 

After the often-clamorous Christmas season ended, the first month of 2019 

had a solemn, spare beauty that I truly enjoyed. 

Our small acre has no single hint of green—

in fact, it's been dusted in white all month.

Except in my windowsill. That's where the action is.

For less than the cost of a hot coconut milk mocha macchiato, I'm enjoying just 

enough spring to hold me over until the real thing arrives. 

Thank you, Aldi.

The packaging on this, the LAST amaryllis bulb in the store, just said

"amaryllis bulb."

yawn

But, friends, I know it must be a Red Lion Amaryllis, even though I haven't 

seen its face yet. I'll let you know what it turns out to be.

Those tiny leaf blades just peeking out prove that this one has barely begun its work.

Clearance hyacinth bulbs in glass vases were already messy looking with flopping, 

heavy blooms. I chose the best one and pinched off the frowzy 

blooms in the paper goods aisle because two new bud stems were 

already emerging. An observant fellow shopper took the time to point 

out that the bulb I'd chosen had broken blooms. 

Wasn't that kind? 

She did look shocked to hear I was the one who'd done it. 

Isn't it a wonder that the tissue-like paper on the bulb matches the bloom? 

In Kentucky, February brings hints of true spring. Glimpses of green 

will soon dazzle now that austere January is over for another year. 

I believe it's the same change of seasons referred to in 

that great song of songs—

"Behold, the winter is past ... "