tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348354062024-03-13T04:50:12.975-07:00pollyanna's worldIt's all about the Journeypollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.comBlogger315125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-20522378711030926682023-06-30T16:37:00.000-07:002023-06-30T16:37:15.002-07:00Perseverance, Laughter and Love<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQOkZr7CeMBCbs9TGPFsvHd_wiprKFY7x0DLgunEfvh5685OG7SJsQ-H4_TIC6sCwwLZhmimtJZbZxTXVc65f-xyR1B8heP6mO33UwyvXL6bO6bvcs_vnDqtXU_gkSTiyVXVIKR-dLe5wDARAXjGCY_6w8M8ctEzIKiCIPjHrVM31XAxaBWzYN/s367/IMG_0263.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="283" data-original-width="367" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQOkZr7CeMBCbs9TGPFsvHd_wiprKFY7x0DLgunEfvh5685OG7SJsQ-H4_TIC6sCwwLZhmimtJZbZxTXVc65f-xyR1B8heP6mO33UwyvXL6bO6bvcs_vnDqtXU_gkSTiyVXVIKR-dLe5wDARAXjGCY_6w8M8ctEzIKiCIPjHrVM31XAxaBWzYN/w640-h494/IMG_0263.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">As we move into our 24th year of marriage, I have started paying attention to all the little things that make us work so well together. I remember reading a light mystery series way back then where the star judged her relationships by two aspects: he makes me laugh and makes me “come.” And we thought that was a great start.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFBjFf0HfYSsssPO-00UTLszQNoWzaXKIeiGRZIcU4mWCZi1JH7cfDBwUtSeaKawH-Akp4_JiVsMTzvlF5SrAWZcy0uEnHyypkzMrB1D9-Hy53ti28_c4k5UEO9BOefvmjvyUe_PuopvB9qABtAxWCaVJ54Ss4CMtK7_apFaW0Y635Tkv29jX/s2592/IMG_0026.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="1936" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFBjFf0HfYSsssPO-00UTLszQNoWzaXKIeiGRZIcU4mWCZi1JH7cfDBwUtSeaKawH-Akp4_JiVsMTzvlF5SrAWZcy0uEnHyypkzMrB1D9-Hy53ti28_c4k5UEO9BOefvmjvyUe_PuopvB9qABtAxWCaVJ54Ss4CMtK7_apFaW0Y635Tkv29jX/w299-h400/IMG_0026.jpeg" width="299" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />We do have things in common. He plays music and I play the radio. I make quilts and he uses them. He prefers to stay home and kill monsters on the computer and I make up for his loss of outside world interaction. I dislike working in the yard and…well let’s just say one of the first questions I ever asked him was, “Do you like yard work?” And when he said yes, I announced, “I want you BAD.” Perfect.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">But it’s less our “things” in common as our outlooks on life, philosophies, our views of the world. We share a love for family, love for animals, for humanity. We share world views, share a desire for kindness, for honesty. He has a rather dry sense of humor to my more slap-stick out-there funny-bone. But we still find the other hilarious. He’s goofy to my sheer sophistication. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Okay that last one wasn’t true. But he is goofy 🙃 </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2MTmqrhmQ6fJdopnOMzqIS1y73OfUXj44fNn3p8WbnfJ9oMfQN5B96Tx7zQi2UNiNK8-ODDroMBFpSwJfYnmt_Z3GbnRl7pltDgO2MWB5WlvQxgv3l-b_ffTVWFapGt8Dt_7susgvfaObSxFGfsGKX_VBsdJHGKhI3Ux7e3UYwKp6COD-8RCo/s4032/IMG_6720.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2MTmqrhmQ6fJdopnOMzqIS1y73OfUXj44fNn3p8WbnfJ9oMfQN5B96Tx7zQi2UNiNK8-ODDroMBFpSwJfYnmt_Z3GbnRl7pltDgO2MWB5WlvQxgv3l-b_ffTVWFapGt8Dt_7susgvfaObSxFGfsGKX_VBsdJHGKhI3Ux7e3UYwKp6COD-8RCo/w300-h400/IMG_6720.jpeg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />The trust we have in one another comes from a deep place. He was the first man who has never tried to change me. Ever. Oh yeah while he might like a few changes, he’s never voiced them nor tried to steer me toward them. He accepts me who I am: free-spirited living life out loud surviving hippie. As I accept him as he is: an introverted computer geek surviving hippie. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">We are now recovering from COVID. Thanks to a bazillion vaccines and Paxlovid, that recovery is going well. Slowly, but well. The lingering COVID fatigue has reminded me how much we rely on one another day-in and day-out and how much we do for each other. When my right knee was so bad that I could only crab-crawl up the stairs to bed, Doug took over doing the laundry, which is located in the basement. Since he is two days behind me in COVID recovery, I pushed myself today and changed our fever-sweated sheets as well as took the towels to the basement. It had been a minute, but I remembered how to work the washer *wink*</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOufksXGVhKsb1lRKSQcflEzewniGm9HA2FfIJAILYTcLv4zzfGiTF0bI718D9LmESPFgf6oTadcjxVfDzwDUkFUZrfg_qLZcJUjb1SUr0KddNYzQTNseHrcPXGWhwtH9o64szKtkg-cqrrPvVn4X9KHJ9b281IH0-zM7GVsTl-1CihoVqGzgl/s3088/IMG_4738.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2320" data-original-width="3088" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOufksXGVhKsb1lRKSQcflEzewniGm9HA2FfIJAILYTcLv4zzfGiTF0bI718D9LmESPFgf6oTadcjxVfDzwDUkFUZrfg_qLZcJUjb1SUr0KddNYzQTNseHrcPXGWhwtH9o64szKtkg-cqrrPvVn4X9KHJ9b281IH0-zM7GVsTl-1CihoVqGzgl/w400-h300/IMG_4738.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">We have split the household chores. I cook because I’m better at it and he cleans up. As I’ve been cleaning up these past few days I thought about how I simply leave my few dishes in the sink for him, leave the cooking mess for him. But then he leaves the bed unmade for me. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">My mother said he was a real gentleman (and that he had a cute butt…did I want to know my mom was looking at my partner’s butt!?) and he is (and he does lol). My bouts with cancer—he’s right there. My flair ups—he’s right there. My cranky times—he’s in hiding. His few illnesses—I’m right there. His autoimmune flair ups—I’m right there. His few cranky times—I’m right there in his face. Yes, he is smarter at some things than I am.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PqCaayoWpkmKTVkHYR5hDnjCjCuZ8PKRmewdnW0GvwRHE6LZvmwsJzhDqeUjz3bPKLjooYzBD3PwrtP8X_ZNwgiIeBHcotKd69s7HOskZ7POuiK-SBq8kFTslwVG37rE-xmdXecNxY4IMUXMjwnz4ZI_5Se7dY5o9t_DtwoOKBfRJTldwQFJ/s265/IMG_0449.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="265" data-original-width="229" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PqCaayoWpkmKTVkHYR5hDnjCjCuZ8PKRmewdnW0GvwRHE6LZvmwsJzhDqeUjz3bPKLjooYzBD3PwrtP8X_ZNwgiIeBHcotKd69s7HOskZ7POuiK-SBq8kFTslwVG37rE-xmdXecNxY4IMUXMjwnz4ZI_5Se7dY5o9t_DtwoOKBfRJTldwQFJ/w346-h400/IMG_0449.jpeg" width="346" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />Oh yeah, and he is the Trivia King. I used to think between us we knew just about everything. When I didn’t know something, he could fill-in. Nah. He’s so much smarter than me. Except for pop culture; there is where I shine. I always knew reading <i>People</i> <i>Magazine</i> would be a useful activity. Each night as we eat dinner—we try to eat dinner together every evening—we pull out a box of Trivial Pursuit cards and ask questions. We get into conversations over stuff. We laugh at our ignorance. We think we will remember the answer the next time. We never do. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />What makes a relationship last as a strong unit? I can only speak of ours. Perseverance. Trust. Honesty. Love. Laughter. Plus we really like one another.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-65884946516811446792022-09-18T12:35:00.002-07:002022-09-18T12:35:42.455-07:00The Invisibility and Shame of Being Poor<p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFlNI7OcnleFOXA0rRUiEuX7J2iI7t-FE6D8nEF8Cj0Cel9icCBv-6W9hd8IBwnioGZSo9IHMixT-aHI7YQMsm5Du_0giKZr17a8DowDeK-B4zaZSQTTRYSu1Pbdy_DELzjHMrpJMxJttqdvLVmPeS9jKo_Sw9lEUr2RXO43ET9j1qQ3y0Xw/s590/food-bank.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="590" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFlNI7OcnleFOXA0rRUiEuX7J2iI7t-FE6D8nEF8Cj0Cel9icCBv-6W9hd8IBwnioGZSo9IHMixT-aHI7YQMsm5Du_0giKZr17a8DowDeK-B4zaZSQTTRYSu1Pbdy_DELzjHMrpJMxJttqdvLVmPeS9jKo_Sw9lEUr2RXO43ET9j1qQ3y0Xw/w640-h424/food-bank.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was recently driving along an area of SE Portland near where my sons and I grew up. On the corner of the street was a church and seeing it brought back a memory of standing in a long line, waiting to receive "Government Cheese." I was so happy to receive such a boon. I was given cheese and butter and pasta and flour and powdered milk. And that night my sons and I feasted on the sweetest macaroni and cheese around.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My sons and I lived in poverty for many years. When their father left, I was the sole supporter of my two sons. At our divorce, it was decreed that their father would give me $200 a month in child support. At the time, I had no other income and applied for welfare and food stamps. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I've always been the kind of person who does what she needs to do in order to get through whatever needs to be throughed (yes, I made up that word); therefore, I took what I could in order to feed my kids and pay the bills. I plucked on. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDNY9cj6rTVQ5M-dyPkRT_qTyk4ACeTCEO8JAhaDnVRw8GYL2F7rJ7wAxAVXh9rRs9CWqHoZ5xgtQ9UGL_RgJ2qb-KLV9mGZDPyOPz_sQyvTypVJlYT75MpvZcRgTNcrpW_OQ9Q2aDnN4uGjxDposVxtfXa_vkcg-fzd6Gq4xFFnh2a021Vg/s225/index.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDNY9cj6rTVQ5M-dyPkRT_qTyk4ACeTCEO8JAhaDnVRw8GYL2F7rJ7wAxAVXh9rRs9CWqHoZ5xgtQ9UGL_RgJ2qb-KLV9mGZDPyOPz_sQyvTypVJlYT75MpvZcRgTNcrpW_OQ9Q2aDnN4uGjxDposVxtfXa_vkcg-fzd6Gq4xFFnh2a021Vg/w320-h320/index.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Food stamps are interesting. They came in a little packet/tablet like the tickets used to come for rides at Disneyland--"A" rides, "B" rides--but instead they were one dollars of play money, five dollars of play money, or 10 dollars of play money. And I would tear what I needed out of the packet. We also received in return as change "food stamp coins," just to make sure we were spending all our stamp allotment on food. I was grateful of these stamps because they assured my sons would eat. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Of course I was grateful but we who had "government handouts" needed to demonstrate that gratefulness. Otherwise, we just looked like a gimmiegimmielazyscumbags. This show of gratitude was an unwritten rule when in the Welfare Office, the grocery store, on the street in line for government cheese.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH_HoOmq4AnapLmNdXBFIIDDDELNf-oBAGozi1Znz9DTDTq_SDYSM6ZSHHuD97WVEIk549ZTdC30tYUjoDoLJze_fSeamLSwQ6HE0n-_VTNL3Cd0w1F9SchkAckMIqH9yq2t9Dbwo-9YQv8gStkgynZX0t48rne2_zNb46IWkM6zyv6_cFRw/s380/5d28f4464dcb31e2a0a27db2448e1208--the-s-food-networktrisha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="380" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH_HoOmq4AnapLmNdXBFIIDDDELNf-oBAGozi1Znz9DTDTq_SDYSM6ZSHHuD97WVEIk549ZTdC30tYUjoDoLJze_fSeamLSwQ6HE0n-_VTNL3Cd0w1F9SchkAckMIqH9yq2t9Dbwo-9YQv8gStkgynZX0t48rne2_zNb46IWkM6zyv6_cFRw/w200-h138/5d28f4464dcb31e2a0a27db2448e1208--the-s-food-networktrisha.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The unfortunate thing about food stamps was that the people in line behind you were aware that that you were using food stamps to buy groceries. I could hear the people behind me whispering (just loud enough for me to hear), as they looked over my groceries, "Hmmm...wish I could afford to buy some of these things..." or "Huh huh living off my money...." Food stamp people need a thick skin, needed to be able to smile and simply take their groceries out to the car.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgto6_3v0l4gtKbQ4R-yT_4J4ExtSRSdh-hqDDvr0bLd_I1vTEP1w0s2EvElPyD0VtDOp6uVxSqRv9xLjUQI_INEB-_uNkUciBmJIN5L7ljhTL5XC160HU024qf16tDuGHjISQnTkCc9NSxw-f3CpNgfRNO2aC3RXCtt3X0PE68ti_isLoUOQ/s369/govcheese.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="262" data-original-width="369" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgto6_3v0l4gtKbQ4R-yT_4J4ExtSRSdh-hqDDvr0bLd_I1vTEP1w0s2EvElPyD0VtDOp6uVxSqRv9xLjUQI_INEB-_uNkUciBmJIN5L7ljhTL5XC160HU024qf16tDuGHjISQnTkCc9NSxw-f3CpNgfRNO2aC3RXCtt3X0PE68ti_isLoUOQ/w400-h284/govcheese.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The boon of government cheese was such a wonderful thing. We really did eat well from this give-out. Driving past the church the other day, I remembered the long line outside the building. I remembered how people driving past would either stare or purposely not look. Like the signer-guy near the freeway entrance. Most people don't look at them, hoping eye contact isn't made. Or the person riding the bike carrying bags of cans, the man wearing dirty clothes that don't fit very well, the thin dirty-faced young teen. Our behavior is truly a bimodel distribution of interaction. We who are poor are either ignored or people felt they had the right to stare or make comments. From this experience in line for government cheese, I learned to smile and pop a peace sign to the "signers" to let them know they are seen and are a human being.<br /></span></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjw48UY4f2IZ3RnUerlM4PaAOxElu8WJtjbH1U4oP1wbfyfNdua5F0XOw5aPIK9a-M4LsHeKonItdisc_o3bDTbOCN44_luUIsTTBn1VkQ0wTmF0swcFglzxCamoQo5GQjqQuD9YjGVdlogkLpnUNVx1OvGkLsM-TgfKF5NRXlKirzKWexiw/s1024/President-Lyndon-B.-Johnson-1024x576.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjw48UY4f2IZ3RnUerlM4PaAOxElu8WJtjbH1U4oP1wbfyfNdua5F0XOw5aPIK9a-M4LsHeKonItdisc_o3bDTbOCN44_luUIsTTBn1VkQ0wTmF0swcFglzxCamoQo5GQjqQuD9YjGVdlogkLpnUNVx1OvGkLsM-TgfKF5NRXlKirzKWexiw/w200-h113/President-Lyndon-B.-Johnson-1024x576.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In those days of mid-1970s, I mostly just plucked along, trying to ignore the stares and the comments. You do what you need to do. I eventually found placement through Welfare with Portland Public Schools Special Education Program as an aide. Welfare set me up with C.E.D.A., a program that was created in the early-1970s through President Johnson's Economic Act of 1964. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This gimmiegimmielazyscumbag worked as an aide, got a part time job across the street of our house at Minit Mart (which became Candy's Kwik Shop), collected newspapers to take to the recycle center (they used to pay for papers), swept the store parking lot, became the weekend aide for my partner, who was a </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">quadriplegic</span></span>, started college and worked in the Speech Communication department office. </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihWSVqzvYyE8tVfoMIcsgK044FiENxLyNHxQqxth-bU0ioLakFW76jrednPRNc9dNPxMQAeDLnRmjopPkvPpXBwaWEuRO1cYpOY5TqtcKaSGaqT0jkC-la6yD875eOd5lqzQcpTA2CdV8VKZ7r9gJuD3cOvVecW7Uqi0RXPEKYtodunlEFEQ/s800/Mother-Teresa-If-you-judge-people-you-have-no-time-to-love-them.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihWSVqzvYyE8tVfoMIcsgK044FiENxLyNHxQqxth-bU0ioLakFW76jrednPRNc9dNPxMQAeDLnRmjopPkvPpXBwaWEuRO1cYpOY5TqtcKaSGaqT0jkC-la6yD875eOd5lqzQcpTA2CdV8VKZ7r9gJuD3cOvVecW7Uqi0RXPEKYtodunlEFEQ/s320/Mother-Teresa-If-you-judge-people-you-have-no-time-to-love-them.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Did I do all this in order to overcome the stigma of poverty? Maybe a bit. I was happy to get off welfare and delighted to stop using food stamps, to be judged by the community because of my income status. I was glad that my sons no longer heard the not-so-veiled comments about our food choices. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">But the reality was that I was also a woman who did what she needed to do in order to take care of her family. </span></span> I have always been a take-charge-of-my-life person who didn't want circumstances to rule my life. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Next time you pass a guy holding a sign near the freeway entrance, give him eye contact, a smile and the peace sign. Tell him that he is seen, that he is a human being. Show the world some love.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">and so it goes<br />peace~~<br /><br /></span></span></p><p></p><p></p>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-30092520804238847332022-07-25T09:41:00.002-07:002022-07-25T09:41:33.990-07:00Do Your Ears Hang Low?<p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvG1tiZqOfWF5oe00dl_b5jMWmJmeI_8bJxWRfaRwhCFlkaLy40FV11r-lD4yTEM-w5XPXCzzc5cKcLtVYhcRu70WyOMiXz9p1jLK0Fek8rBvDOm3tCY_-QMHEAqL5n-D2qIwIUqb4nYnrjh6s9CMlYbr1rkRDu50z1X5kT8viAXZig-5q9Q/s345/Listening-ear-clipart-free-clipart-images-4.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="317" data-original-width="345" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvG1tiZqOfWF5oe00dl_b5jMWmJmeI_8bJxWRfaRwhCFlkaLy40FV11r-lD4yTEM-w5XPXCzzc5cKcLtVYhcRu70WyOMiXz9p1jLK0Fek8rBvDOm3tCY_-QMHEAqL5n-D2qIwIUqb4nYnrjh6s9CMlYbr1rkRDu50z1X5kT8viAXZig-5q9Q/w400-h368/Listening-ear-clipart-free-clipart-images-4.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> Do your ears hang low?<br />
Do they wobble to and fro?<br />
Can you tie ’em in a knot?<br />
Can you tie ’em in a bow?<br />
Can you throw ’em o’er your shoulder<br />
Like a Continental soldier?<br />
Do your ears hang low?</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I have never given my ears much thought. They sit there on the side of my head and give me music and bird twitters and sweet nothings. I've thought about my little toe much more than my ears. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I feel I have been neglect. I mean, the ears do so much and I have just never paid much attention to them.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZEi9co0SKWfJAfKDDct9CkVG8PG6wnTGV9_VSprSZMFAvLtBqssvlk8sc6u_8GDvAWXHoiMszq80CAUvTPlf1I0pKLPe5YMFmwIYh0a64xctgKN7tk4WLuup48z6Ssy3BD6nkvNVGsD2J94m3vjE6s_EN-SnoccC-VjGMMQz_QbqwHcJWPg/s500/IMG-20200926-WA0006.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="493" data-original-width="500" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZEi9co0SKWfJAfKDDct9CkVG8PG6wnTGV9_VSprSZMFAvLtBqssvlk8sc6u_8GDvAWXHoiMszq80CAUvTPlf1I0pKLPe5YMFmwIYh0a64xctgKN7tk4WLuup48z6Ssy3BD6nkvNVGsD2J94m3vjE6s_EN-SnoccC-VjGMMQz_QbqwHcJWPg/w200-h198/IMG-20200926-WA0006.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Oh, I had my ear lobes pierced when I was in high school. I remember admiring them in the mirror. And then I had a second piercing sometime in my twenties or early thirties. I then became allergic to any metal for about 30 years, so earrings weren't thought about; thus, no ear itself thoughts.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">But lately...well when I hit the sheets at night and settle my head in the pillow, I find my ear lobes fold over a bit uncomfortably. Here I am, all snuggled in, and I have to move my hand under my head and flip back that earlobe.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />I mean, c'mon. <span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc">After age 30, people tend to lose lean tissue. Your muscles, liver, kidney, and other organs may lose some of their cells. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc">Bones may lose some of their minerals and become less dense. </span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF7FglxJuAnsOvdyq6_9ktP1dtkvVLeJVtxnLKq-8UTKzW-ARC-henNIIrJtn49_zS84wKMwe5B3jHOuhNWEoCce9-KV4aiCyy34snodntzMT9zngOXmOUEar7l0f54e08dN-k_v5sXFzMrMK4-_K2s2zSDGOlVPF8r3TFfwzs9H5lZ4TpCQ/s1080/Do-we-shrink-with-age-As1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="1080" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF7FglxJuAnsOvdyq6_9ktP1dtkvVLeJVtxnLKq-8UTKzW-ARC-henNIIrJtn49_zS84wKMwe5B3jHOuhNWEoCce9-KV4aiCyy34snodntzMT9zngOXmOUEar7l0f54e08dN-k_v5sXFzMrMK4-_K2s2zSDGOlVPF8r3TFfwzs9H5lZ4TpCQ/w400-h225/Do-we-shrink-with-age-As1.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> We shrink down while we age. I used to be six foot tall. Now I'm 5'11, maybe even 5'10.5. I'll never cop to it, but yeah. <br /></span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yeah, we are getting shorter and our ears are getting longer. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">But wait! There's more!</span></b></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV3wW8cP_TY24EXXcVBmeMbfT-yfaVl7ww9Poq6bht4qEp8R-80RRfoj8QwvwJ6iRx_vPkIWn5V7ulV9u66mFfl767SPk4ZLPi341aH8kdvTxBqLMrU6ot8vPmnPxKGtCH0SIQwDxYN6gpuToGxi5ATAn7K-Vp9kV_uYU0pnAuTI7okL7nhQ/s600/DoseMyNoseLookBig_blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV3wW8cP_TY24EXXcVBmeMbfT-yfaVl7ww9Poq6bht4qEp8R-80RRfoj8QwvwJ6iRx_vPkIWn5V7ulV9u66mFfl767SPk4ZLPi341aH8kdvTxBqLMrU6ot8vPmnPxKGtCH0SIQwDxYN6gpuToGxi5ATAn7K-Vp9kV_uYU0pnAuTI7okL7nhQ/s320/DoseMyNoseLookBig_blog.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Not only is our ears starting to sag, so is our nose! </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Noses and ears are made of cartilage, a flexible tissue that’s harder
than skin but softer than bone. It wears down over time and doesn’t give
as much support to the skin on top of it. Your skin also loses
elasticity and firmness over time, and it tends to sag. Loose or sagging skin over a weaker cartilage frame makes ears and noses look longer. <br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Well, that's the story. In looking up this information, I discovered when "old age" starts. </span></span><span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc">Typically, the elderly has been defined as the chronological age of 65 or older.
People from 65 to 74 years old are usually considered early elderly,
while those over 75 years old are referred to as late elderly. According to AARP, </span></span>those under 30 believe old age hits before a person turns 60.
Middle-aged respondents cited 70 as the start of old age while those 65
and older put the number closer to 74.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4h4iXhGN3arLXCYcyZTXvbDCpeR7D1v5OUb6pzHaXGtw03CqZM1i1gGqavBgEuTJvyhOdYMhae-M_zPCnAD9mnXHra1lPNnJNYb67-nb5VeuOlZNOsQtJ-OcIRvJ8bH_609QLqdn0fWCk5eWdLlBTcEP6BmGJZ7EBmZkX3gKp_4Ul6cyqKw/s2048/294204477_10227257231195035_6898283035263563186_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1538" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4h4iXhGN3arLXCYcyZTXvbDCpeR7D1v5OUb6pzHaXGtw03CqZM1i1gGqavBgEuTJvyhOdYMhae-M_zPCnAD9mnXHra1lPNnJNYb67-nb5VeuOlZNOsQtJ-OcIRvJ8bH_609QLqdn0fWCk5eWdLlBTcEP6BmGJZ7EBmZkX3gKp_4Ul6cyqKw/w240-h320/294204477_10227257231195035_6898283035263563186_n.jpg" width="240" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">Thank gawd I just turned 71...<br />not old yet!</span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><p></p></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">peace~~~ </span><span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"></span></span></p></span></div><div class="YsGUOb" style="transform: rotateZ(-180deg);"></div><div class="r21Kzd" data-hveid="CBQQAQ" data-ved="2ahUKEwjkmZyWuZT5AhXjI30KHVZnCZ8Quk56BAgUEAE" style="visibility: hidden;"></div>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-10366333377027928712022-06-11T17:07:00.001-07:002022-06-12T09:18:53.687-07:00A Bit of Quilting: Add a Little Flange to Your Life<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJyAABlCoM2VaDpwwupPfYDqT7o9Yya-ByZ5gRqvQsgFLBwOKcyKex523AaLhPODqwWut3TNhUv4v4XoQTX-58hwEV-hyiNSU09Suw2OXgBoqvMqHKLmwY1CqWpkuvHGAX7FDOvPV_zH4XeK7bytDj_cVwpIZynB4a288mk00QegN1fqchrQ/s853/val.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <br /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmi0zDmVvzx8MsfvDqarW3OjdmW1uQR8VJJev-tUdK_oIko8333txQHAYsoYOX_Iui-rWFMosHwuIE3Dlz6uqqoZFcXSLYKZz4XITZ-VLhMFfTg4IO3cLK6VIhfcBxB3Bx8sVJe2EiZg8iMRpM4JGK4bL-LBwFtXLcIIukndbbL_UNawrSw/s853/val.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="640" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmi0zDmVvzx8MsfvDqarW3OjdmW1uQR8VJJev-tUdK_oIko8333txQHAYsoYOX_Iui-rWFMosHwuIE3Dlz6uqqoZFcXSLYKZz4XITZ-VLhMFfTg4IO3cLK6VIhfcBxB3Bx8sVJe2EiZg8iMRpM4JGK4bL-LBwFtXLcIIukndbbL_UNawrSw/w480-h640/val.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>I make a lot of quilts. Each one is unique in that each one is made for someone special. Might be a family member. Might be a friend. Might be for a child in the hospital. Might be a homeless stranger in need of warmth and love. See, my philosophy is that every quilt I make puts out a bit of positive energy into the world. I keep making quilts because the world needs more positive energy.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Quilts are also pieces of art. It is created through choices: a choice of fabrics, patterns, of stitching. Even the most simple quilt, sewn together by someone with little skill becomes a piece of art. It is beautiful! The borders that surround the piecing is a type of frame; it gives the center the crown of glory. But the binding, that small piece of fabric that surrounds the outer edges, is the piece that brings and holds it all together.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ6B_dGw6drtjBReEyvfe025HneB_Tf7jyXhAgYw5y630HvphslTCaQazHR6QgNEfFmskmjtpEcWmCPknzQe14ZJ8clIbRwZKQnTpVkZ4r3BkK2zHgXICahYl9QstJCMYsMcZnoXhTIsaus4eUug2iRGdGaUHMXw-5D3e76v6Wvv0Z5I-29A/s4032/Photo%20May%2016,%205%2002%2014%20PM.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="flanged" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ6B_dGw6drtjBReEyvfe025HneB_Tf7jyXhAgYw5y630HvphslTCaQazHR6QgNEfFmskmjtpEcWmCPknzQe14ZJ8clIbRwZKQnTpVkZ4r3BkK2zHgXICahYl9QstJCMYsMcZnoXhTIsaus4eUug2iRGdGaUHMXw-5D3e76v6Wvv0Z5I-29A/w178-h200/Photo%20May%2016,%205%2002%2014%20PM.jpg" width="178" /></a></div>How about adding a little fun to that piece? I learned how to make a flange/piping on the binding from fabric artist Melody Crust. It's fun and easy. As someone recently said, it is just adding a little step to regular binding. Here's the deal: The binding is added to the quilt when it is finished, meaning after the top has been sandwiched with the batting and the backing and then quilted. The raw edges are then wrapped with fabric that binds it all together. The binding can be any width but the most common size is 2.5" by area of the quilt (plus 15"-20"). That's the size I will show you in making the flange.<br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">To make the flange: </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyoHfsmxayZre0Iv1cVoPdCqu5hdFO5cnhN9xHGbypK5JslWkBbH8a1coeOifDjJAEsM0lzf2iEWCIbfZfUCGiy_Ml7EkzkiL80sc3KgUZKK3TE1e5hhTds6Jk7grWI0gQX8nFc6VeajT59ekic3Dt8NDWNRIfv6jYo5StzLtuYk8vtTDN-A/s500/size.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="404" data-original-width="500" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyoHfsmxayZre0Iv1cVoPdCqu5hdFO5cnhN9xHGbypK5JslWkBbH8a1coeOifDjJAEsM0lzf2iEWCIbfZfUCGiy_Ml7EkzkiL80sc3KgUZKK3TE1e5hhTds6Jk7grWI0gQX8nFc6VeajT59ekic3Dt8NDWNRIfv6jYo5StzLtuYk8vtTDN-A/w200-h162/size.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />Cut two sets of strips. Make note the piping strip is wider than the binding strip</span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><ul><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">The piping cut 1.3/4" wide</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">The binding cut 1.3/8" wide</span></span></li></ul><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Stitch the ends of the piping strips together and the binding strips together. It helps to iron the seams open in order to have less bulk at the fold.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBkApl9LoqyP5QitycE2-a1zh7ThClfGsdlUbUd0bYkUhDNbry9euCEttehD0gAldyKqh6C1mYQdihInCLn5VLQB2HABDZkdNrDpX3MEv59zYJOoc0ozNhas6_Pxk7Bq8r4CS1jt9AF43KVjDvjBLM5utJCo41F3rko_pAsWnT8rgLYN53ZA/s500/together.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="369" data-original-width="500" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBkApl9LoqyP5QitycE2-a1zh7ThClfGsdlUbUd0bYkUhDNbry9euCEttehD0gAldyKqh6C1mYQdihInCLn5VLQB2HABDZkdNrDpX3MEv59zYJOoc0ozNhas6_Pxk7Bq8r4CS1jt9AF43KVjDvjBLM5utJCo41F3rko_pAsWnT8rgLYN53ZA/w200-h148/together.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />Sew both strips together using 1/4" seam. Press the seam toward the binding fabric. Then fold in half and press.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghrEk3USF07JtNwsq25dd33v61wbg___8mJUTJGDUIcp_gTiudEXLMBa0zI26sPVBOhiJqYDYKp9BAd07IeFQvvKReuP-GP85drxmvlSjDffuOOZ-Fj0iaSjFevWvdlDb3B2K0jIO8H2PhVWCsnjsn30-GpCr0me7KfiCrcnKluBw83T-iKQ/s400/Photo%20May%2016,%203%2059%2054%20PM.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghrEk3USF07JtNwsq25dd33v61wbg___8mJUTJGDUIcp_gTiudEXLMBa0zI26sPVBOhiJqYDYKp9BAd07IeFQvvKReuP-GP85drxmvlSjDffuOOZ-Fj0iaSjFevWvdlDb3B2K0jIO8H2PhVWCsnjsn30-GpCr0me7KfiCrcnKluBw83T-iKQ/w200-h150/Photo%20May%2016,%203%2059%2054%20PM.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>With <b>binding side down</b>, place the binding onto the <b>back </b>of the quilt. Using a walking foot or something else that will enable the even-feed feature on your sewing machine, sew the binding onto the back. Keep the raw edges together. Don't forget to start sewing with about an 8"-10" tail at the beginning. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5wA14MveDyCT2WL1ewOvx4T4wv92oExGPWSg8DIsRV8NWtx1wcyC91wosWK5cC56L4lNHzB6jyV0dFkp6fXZIBLJutPfLbUJyNLF2IDhLsVYH4aLvha44v-ykRrTgwFdsx41iXLU9XsvWLr3oJ5IoZWtXCiEy6viT4DRx7LNwnZgI9wIwDA/s588/e25245478b3dd178b062ada913caad1b.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="588" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5wA14MveDyCT2WL1ewOvx4T4wv92oExGPWSg8DIsRV8NWtx1wcyC91wosWK5cC56L4lNHzB6jyV0dFkp6fXZIBLJutPfLbUJyNLF2IDhLsVYH4aLvha44v-ykRrTgwFdsx41iXLU9XsvWLr3oJ5IoZWtXCiEy6viT4DRx7LNwnZgI9wIwDA/s320/e25245478b3dd178b062ada913caad1b.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><br />Turn the corners the same as you would turn the regular binding. Stop stitching 1/4" from edge, fold up to create a 45 degree angle toward the corner, then fold the strip down with folded edge aligned with the top of the corner. Resume stitching :)</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiir_e8fTMU1uxQUy7q5xz5iQhYylp3yAV2iVUsmBIseAP4TZErOkG3oWviWwT_YR5EZl0jMeWgpqosrmQkkXPck-twLbSuXkEJyDUXoGdhP1BjiOFYd7RSr2syZaOWioQmqB538A9YOlmXpBtUdaAfZg-VS5aSmyjJKFIo8emsP4AzPXJlKA/s809/Finishing%20the%20ends.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="809" height="395" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiir_e8fTMU1uxQUy7q5xz5iQhYylp3yAV2iVUsmBIseAP4TZErOkG3oWviWwT_YR5EZl0jMeWgpqosrmQkkXPck-twLbSuXkEJyDUXoGdhP1BjiOFYd7RSr2syZaOWioQmqB538A9YOlmXpBtUdaAfZg-VS5aSmyjJKFIo8emsP4AzPXJlKA/w400-h395/Finishing%20the%20ends.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">When you get to the first end, stop at least 8"-10" between the first start. This will give you room to attach your ends together. A great way to end the binding so that it fits snugly is to use a clipping of the binding itself, snip snip...create a little hat... sew... measure...and sew down. <br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Y1kF-q5zvgoH2Q2bDz5JXFjD2cw2Jgwez-bT2pLgQ3UUdF0TlsnrW_2Aj7geDSq-VXAK0E1o3tdHBuaSCuWjl51-7dBgO-GQwzmHW8tnzc0KYVDGoPJg8GShXhhi8QciskZxTZMCkCyKzr7Z0jmVMox9kN60YpR8GbwzED0nWHK3Jst7yw/s667/sewingflange.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Y1kF-q5zvgoH2Q2bDz5JXFjD2cw2Jgwez-bT2pLgQ3UUdF0TlsnrW_2Aj7geDSq-VXAK0E1o3tdHBuaSCuWjl51-7dBgO-GQwzmHW8tnzc0KYVDGoPJg8GShXhhi8QciskZxTZMCkCyKzr7Z0jmVMox9kN60YpR8GbwzED0nWHK3Jst7yw/w240-h320/sewingflange.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Now you wrap the binding to the front and sew down along in the ditch between the binding and the flange. Pretty cool, huh?</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbgltoz7EjX4LF6A42MNSxuk8dpko-orGY4ajfnYhOA9q2rLlKJIYs54PNkEmVCLEVR9H_gogdsygNuKI0PtuFbrYIcl_nKSOtxfv6MMgR4KrfWoqgJc9L7PYfs6xcpxR9QsqRD9pPNU1BE-smzytMB6ya1Fzdj9JBgu6RJ7_-y9UP7QYBKg/s666/corners.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="666" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbgltoz7EjX4LF6A42MNSxuk8dpko-orGY4ajfnYhOA9q2rLlKJIYs54PNkEmVCLEVR9H_gogdsygNuKI0PtuFbrYIcl_nKSOtxfv6MMgR4KrfWoqgJc9L7PYfs6xcpxR9QsqRD9pPNU1BE-smzytMB6ya1Fzdj9JBgu6RJ7_-y9UP7QYBKg/s320/corners.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW99NRxohpxxdVWZxxtzCImdZJPBt5ePnPXgbSzYchH8xnh186hurpbSXUqOVD9uRfytnWMjnmH7ArcpvZcdcrvQpW8YOit5eRVdT1dgPVjOXL_DgW-V3p-86f7C3VhMmQhVECTCX40ab9wTmAEeHKDz5qWChQdZ7FXCC9-GQhoaZQAlDCTQ/s500/flange.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW99NRxohpxxdVWZxxtzCImdZJPBt5ePnPXgbSzYchH8xnh186hurpbSXUqOVD9uRfytnWMjnmH7ArcpvZcdcrvQpW8YOit5eRVdT1dgPVjOXL_DgW-V3p-86f7C3VhMmQhVECTCX40ab9wTmAEeHKDz5qWChQdZ7FXCC9-GQhoaZQAlDCTQ/s320/flange.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />You will have a stitch line on the back along the edge of the binding seam. This is why I tend to use the same color thread in the bobbin as the quilting thread.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Piping and flange. It's easy and fun. <br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcOHAJF42ZviB9PhuLO4zruOyEeQ90fhJrTFc-J1TH4V5An4kF_ycYDqxVBbmrNQAX9mRDrKnXmUsbBPj0Ey6Im4OdRc7lcQpl5_P9V5RCGwcQ6hrlOr88jlhAysiewUoM_1tLIZ5U8ciD67Z2gGbyCvURvliWgTnCM77d_9m2l3Sni42Cg/s4032/Photo%20May%2016,%205%2002%2014%20PM.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcOHAJF42ZviB9PhuLO4zruOyEeQ90fhJrTFc-J1TH4V5An4kF_ycYDqxVBbmrNQAX9mRDrKnXmUsbBPj0Ey6Im4OdRc7lcQpl5_P9V5RCGwcQ6hrlOr88jlhAysiewUoM_1tLIZ5U8ciD67Z2gGbyCvURvliWgTnCM77d_9m2l3Sni42Cg/w300-h400/Photo%20May%2016,%205%2002%2014%20PM.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">And so it goes<br />peace~~~<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><p></p><div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p></div><br />pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-68818807922187495942021-09-15T10:08:00.003-07:002021-09-15T10:09:16.305-07:00Weird Portland Wednesday: Sleestak...of course<p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;"><span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7gtnDlVRNi8/YUIeYGZg30I/AAAAAAAAEUc/byY_69RTq_UEEbaY7Z5fjlLWAbZU6DHOwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1944/59881567_295673661319327_7370473559962943488_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="1296" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7gtnDlVRNi8/YUIeYGZg30I/AAAAAAAAEUc/byY_69RTq_UEEbaY7Z5fjlLWAbZU6DHOwCLcBGAsYHQ/w426-h640/59881567_295673661319327_7370473559962943488_n.jpg" width="426" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As you are exploring our beautiful Forest Park, as many a Portlander as well as a tourist will do, you come to the intriguing Witch's Castle. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice something standing in the shadows just inside a doorway of the Castle. And then it emerges....</span></span><p></p><p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It is the Portland Sleestak!</span></span></b></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yes, we have a Sleestak wandering our city streets. Think about it...any town that would have the Unipiper--Darth Vader riding around town on a unicycle playing the pipes--would have a Sleestak. No question.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sleestak got his start in Portland in late 2019 but came into his own during early 2020. According to the Oregonian (</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="dateline__published">Aug. 27, 2020)</span>,</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span></span> "By day, Brent Marr is a maintenance tech for a downtown property
management company. By night, he’s the Portland Sleestak. Marr, 52, was
one of many Gen-X kids who grew up watching <a href="https://www.sidandmartykrofft.com/" target="_blank">Sid and Marty Krofft</a> puppet-filled kids shows..."</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8kcCvKEMFc8/YUIlE7PNHOI/AAAAAAAAEUk/KmZWiEJwsYE-UNNhiMw66q4wb-8BPrsUwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1944/59920005_295673584652668_271974736685170688_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="1296" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8kcCvKEMFc8/YUIlE7PNHOI/AAAAAAAAEUk/KmZWiEJwsYE-UNNhiMw66q4wb-8BPrsUwCLcBGAsYHQ/w266-h400/59920005_295673584652668_271974736685170688_n.jpg" width="266" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Kroft-created program, <i>Land of the Lost</i>, made an impression on Marr. He decided to make a Halloween costume as a Sleestak. And then he decided to make a better costume and wander around the streets of Portland, scaring people. No one was scared. Everyone wanted to have their picture taken with the Portland Sleestak. So Marr just went with it.</span></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This story explains our little town (from the Oregonian): </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></p><p class="article__paragraph article__paragraph--left" id="HGEV7SRMCZCZHJBFL7QFMF77DA"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">When the coronavirus pandemic hit Oregon, Marr took a several-month
break from “Sleestaking.” But in mid-July, he brought out the suit,
loaded it into a pickup, and headed out with a roommate to the Eastbank
Esplanade. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As
dusk fell, Marr stood under</span></span> a streetlight. He’d brought a speaker that
played the call of the Sleestak, a sound like a low-fi recording of a
howling wind.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><p></p><p class="article__paragraph article__paragraph--left" id="XWTIB367TZGHNMHWF6W4D252UM"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">At that moment, maybe a half-mile away as the crow flies, federal officers were tear gassing a crowd
of protesters outside the federal courthouse. But on this side of the
river, it was quiet. A few teens rode by on electric scooters. A group
of cyclists slowed down, and one woman giggled and pointed when she
noticed Marr standing.</span></span></p><p class="article__paragraph article__paragraph--left" id="HJVXBI2TONHWLLIKR7BP5Y66U4"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Most people, though, ignored the monster on the sidewalk.</span></span></p><p class="article__paragraph article__paragraph--left" id="AJOPTPMW5FC4TCQSKUYDPZT4EA"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was just a Saturday night in Portland.</span></span></p><p class="article__paragraph article__paragraph--left" id="AJOPTPMW5FC4TCQSKUYDPZT4EA"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yes, the Portland Sleestak, just one more way we keep Portland Weird.<br />And so it goes~~~<br />peace<br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p></span>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-66319569346319961412021-08-11T10:09:00.000-07:002021-08-11T10:09:17.498-07:00Weird Portland Wednesday: Who's Missing?<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--iWZfdFNGfY/YRP9GknQVSI/AAAAAAAAETE/IAKYxnMfLrIttuxqoTwIugJ8uMN-OrVqgCLcBGAsYHQ/s330/images.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="153" data-original-width="330" height="296" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--iWZfdFNGfY/YRP9GknQVSI/AAAAAAAAETE/IAKYxnMfLrIttuxqoTwIugJ8uMN-OrVqgCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h296/images.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Portland is such a beautiful town. With Mt Hood as a backdrop and greenery all around, what's not to love? I have a friend in Tennessee who came to visit one Christmas break. It snowed as we drove over the coastal range. It snowed as we came home. The skies were grey and cloudy--our favorite winter weather. She would drink poison that there is no Mt. Hood; it's simply a picture backdrop we use in Photoshop for all pictures of our city. *shrug* you know those Southerners ;) <br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QRamJdiB6m4/YRP-6YO7ajI/AAAAAAAAETM/q7v_raQttRQ0B6fjvJ6VxjtUSKuzQW8zwCLcBGAsYHQ/s572/f050ce18f5bf284c5a9b464b632ebdd1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="572" data-original-width="492" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QRamJdiB6m4/YRP-6YO7ajI/AAAAAAAAETM/q7v_raQttRQ0B6fjvJ6VxjtUSKuzQW8zwCLcBGAsYHQ/w172-h200/f050ce18f5bf284c5a9b464b632ebdd1.jpg" width="172" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Like everywhere, we have many pets. Like everywhere we have "crazy cat ladies," fish lovers, those who like them a bit wild. My former neighbor used to love to have ferrets. Nice big cage in the middle of her living room. Dogs galore! We have what every city has in the pet department.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> And every city also has missing pet posters stapled up on light posts and taped to walls. Kitty missing, call this number. Dog ran out of the open gate, call this number. Just moved and puppy is lost. Sad and heart-felt posters with pictures of their beloved animals. Portland is no different. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">So why am I even writing about missing pets? Well, perhaps it is the actual pets that we post that are missing that makes us weird. Here are a few examples:</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OQZWOZYT5O4/YRQD9jkmnII/AAAAAAAAET8/VIfIuYGZ3G0OnH0p9Y_aZ_noo66CtcdlACLcBGAsYHQ/s800/portland-oregon-weird-things-to-do-1-800x593.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="593" data-original-width="800" height="474" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OQZWOZYT5O4/YRQD9jkmnII/AAAAAAAAET8/VIfIuYGZ3G0OnH0p9Y_aZ_noo66CtcdlACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h474/portland-oregon-weird-things-to-do-1-800x593.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BuXiXLp02Hg/YRQBjHs26EI/AAAAAAAAETs/frQdJWnVm24VJmW81XdwCjlDG6o7iXdaACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Dexter-58b8c9743df78c353c20ca1a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="640" height="533" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BuXiXLp02Hg/YRQBjHs26EI/AAAAAAAAETs/frQdJWnVm24VJmW81XdwCjlDG6o7iXdaACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h533/Dexter-58b8c9743df78c353c20ca1a.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4r02UeCFiuM/YRQCgZXg0mI/AAAAAAAAET0/DCfJxooll60ZNaGomdMNe2IsxRkn9ZlSwCLcBGAsYHQ/s958/c83794e0cc809b9a6777887e8e6db110.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="958" data-original-width="640" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4r02UeCFiuM/YRQCgZXg0mI/AAAAAAAAET0/DCfJxooll60ZNaGomdMNe2IsxRkn9ZlSwCLcBGAsYHQ/w428-h640/c83794e0cc809b9a6777887e8e6db110.jpg" width="428" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">And yes, this is one of the things that keeps Portland weird.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">And so it goes~~~<br />peace<br /></span></span></p></span>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-47721708677557438552021-07-28T11:49:00.000-07:002021-07-28T11:49:00.894-07:00Weird Portland Wednesday: Buck Naked Full Moon Ride<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N5MUYJGEL1o/YQDszYD0yvI/AAAAAAAAESs/SgHO4hSZ48wa8-65oYhHnUqYxQtpjvx6ACLcBGAsYHQ/s700/7917BC03-FF38-468D-93C8-6F0541091F18.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="700" height="429" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N5MUYJGEL1o/YQDszYD0yvI/AAAAAAAAESs/SgHO4hSZ48wa8-65oYhHnUqYxQtpjvx6ACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h429/7917BC03-FF38-468D-93C8-6F0541091F18.jpeg" width="640" /></a></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">One of the highlights of Portland summers is how we love to get naked and ride bikes. The Buck Naked Full Moon Ride is one of three planned naked bike rides. It is hosted by <a href="https://www.pedalpalooza.org/" target="_blank">PedalPalooza</a>. Of course "Pedalpalooza," right?</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZPTmT2NA0P0/YQDszJ0Dh-I/AAAAAAAAESg/kcy_htfd-_8jBcotMsd56OdlvqMSNFytwCLcBGAsYHQ/s700/54CA0483-EFE6-4261-9D8E-18CA57FF78EC.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="700" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZPTmT2NA0P0/YQDszJ0Dh-I/AAAAAAAAESg/kcy_htfd-_8jBcotMsd56OdlvqMSNFytwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/54CA0483-EFE6-4261-9D8E-18CA57FF78EC.jpeg" width="320" /></a>This particular ride has been happening for the past 17 years and was held last Friday, July 23. It is protesting (of course we are protesting something) three major issues: oil dependency, body shaming, and the dangers of bicycle riding. <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">The three events typically coincide with the World Naked Bike Ride, which an international biking protest that is hosted in 73 cities and 20 countries. It has been once again cancelled due to COVID-19.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-X7UrReR2cx4/YQDsze-mTiI/AAAAAAAAESo/yrSEx1UGBm052PvHQGbYDJwPTrGOFqQxwCLcBGAsYHQ/s700/61BCA666-F7D4-410F-8408-C2DDE656BFCD.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="700" height="268" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-X7UrReR2cx4/YQDsze-mTiI/AAAAAAAAESo/yrSEx1UGBm052PvHQGbYDJwPTrGOFqQxwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h268/61BCA666-F7D4-410F-8408-C2DDE656BFCD.jpeg" width="400" /></a>Portland's World Naked Bike Ride is the largest in the world, drawing over 10,000 riders. Just another proof that we do love to get naked and love to protest. The Buck Naked Full Moon Ride should have no "body shaming" as it brought</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> several hundreds of riders out on a beautiful summer night, all in a variety of dress, frills and body paint. People rode anything from unicycles to triple-tandem bikes.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mQmAv8OBPWk/YQDszdeglBI/AAAAAAAAESk/75lRANkv100m6pZOJJ4f5raFtu-slenTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s929/27F7CFDD-A81C-4401-BBBD-788115BF39DD.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="929" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mQmAv8OBPWk/YQDszdeglBI/AAAAAAAAESk/75lRANkv100m6pZOJJ4f5raFtu-slenTwCLcBGAsYHQ/w242-h320/27F7CFDD-A81C-4401-BBBD-788115BF39DD.jpeg" width="242" /></a>Yeppers, naked bike riding protests...one more way we keep Portland weird.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">And so it goes~~~<br />peace<br /></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-81171671884089062052021-07-20T10:27:00.000-07:002021-07-20T10:27:04.725-07:00What Are Eves All About?<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lp1rIechdaM/YPb6GYUNhtI/AAAAAAAAER0/McCqr6_Bq1wcrbjETHniMv_Ij3TZ7tvCwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2008/boys.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2008" data-original-width="1893" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lp1rIechdaM/YPb6GYUNhtI/AAAAAAAAER0/McCqr6_Bq1wcrbjETHniMv_Ij3TZ7tvCwCLcBGAsYHQ/w378-h400/boys.jpg" width="378" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My sons, almost two and four--1973<br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">My sons were born on the same day, two years apart. It was nothing planned, but it happened. I thought it was delightful, but my sons have always expressed that being born on the same day was a PIA because they weren't anything special, like twins. They couldn't claim that bonding that twins seem to have. No, they were just born on the same day. </span></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">They also grumbled they had to share a birthday. Always had to share a birthday. Never were they special on their own special day. I tried to change it up for them by making two cakes, serving their special foods. I even tried to celebrate their birthdays separately--one on the day before and one on the day after the real day. Nothing worked and they both couldn't care less about their birthday.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Wauh0t1aLfA/YPcC2uSgWlI/AAAAAAAAER8/ohgEGhdklt0iTkpW0k2fRpMTUfgIlaupgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1807/dadruth.png" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1165" data-original-width="1807" height="258" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Wauh0t1aLfA/YPcC2uSgWlI/AAAAAAAAER8/ohgEGhdklt0iTkpW0k2fRpMTUfgIlaupgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h258/dadruth.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Genny, Richard, Robert, Ruth--abt 1923<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">My dad and Aunt Ruth were twins. Their birthday was December 29, 1920. They loved being twins for the most part, especially Aunt Ruth. But there was a blight in their lives.... Every Christmas under the tree was a present for their older sister, their older brother, and one for them. It was addressed as "To Ruth and Richard, Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday!" They were never happy that they had to share a gift with one another AND share it between Christmas and birthdays. Aunt Ruth continued to grumble about this fact until she died at age 99. I told my sons this and they said, "Yeah, but at least they were twins!" *sigh*</span></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3SAtrrCpxs8/YPcGODunJhI/AAAAAAAAESM/8ca9dUP6EqUaKkSBORSI9h17AsaRpJOEQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1934/meandpatty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1934" data-original-width="1815" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3SAtrrCpxs8/YPcGODunJhI/AAAAAAAAESM/8ca9dUP6EqUaKkSBORSI9h17AsaRpJOEQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/meandpatty.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Patty and Me--1952<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">To me, birthdays are delicious. I like to celebrate my birthday for at least a week. I love the specialness of my day, the day I was born :) I like to walk around like I am some special person, flaunting my day, flaunting my being, my birth. I like to have my family over and have a barbecue out on the lawn. I like flowers and balloons and gaiety. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">One blight to my birthday is that it is in the summer, </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="ILfuVd"><span class="hgKElc">albeit it is summer, the best time of the year. You know, three months of vacation, sun shining until late in the evening, playing Hide-and-Seek-After-Dark. The problem is that I couldn't have my birthday celebrated in my elementary class. You might remember those happy school days when moms would bring cupcakes for the class and in the afternoon we celebrated that kid's special day. And if I had a party--we rarely had parties. One at six years old, one at 10 maybe, one at 16--it wasn't easy to invite the other kids over. Especially since we lived down in the Boondocks.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="ILfuVd"><span class="hgKElc">But I love birthdays. Everyone's birthday! I love the celebration. And sitting here on my Birthday Eve, I am recalling all the years before. Memories of when I was young. </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="ILfuVd"><span class="hgKElc"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="ILfuVd"><span class="hgKElc">Memories of</span></span></span></span> when my kids were young. </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="ILfuVd"><span class="hgKElc"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="ILfuVd"><span class="hgKElc">Memories of</span></span></span></span> about birthdays during a pandemic. </span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="ILfuVd"><span class="hgKElc">That's what Eves are all about--memories and laughter and heart-warming biding of time until the true day of celebration.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="ILfuVd"><span class="hgKElc">And so it goes~~~<br />peace<br /></span></span></span></span></p>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-26258133748122723162021-07-07T10:39:00.003-07:002021-07-07T11:21:09.158-07:00Weird Portland Wednesday: All the Whoziwhatsits You Could Want<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hAS9_0QLRlQ/YOXdF0lZs1I/AAAAAAAAEP8/V_B_UavVhsYFsMlUrHYuYlkCUAc9urWUwCLcBGAsYHQ/s600/l.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="311" data-original-width="600" height="332" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hAS9_0QLRlQ/YOXdF0lZs1I/AAAAAAAAEP8/V_B_UavVhsYFsMlUrHYuYlkCUAc9urWUwCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h332/l.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Where can you get a vintage cupboard knob just for a few minutes search? What if you needed a certain lamp shade that Target had never heard of before? And what if you wanted to find an old fashioned toilet with matching soap dishes? Of course, you'd come to Portland.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D2VPXNWjMSs/YOXeHBxTvnI/AAAAAAAAEQE/7KBlRYAx69oX5ddTCewTikqENlHfDXC-ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/img_6071.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D2VPXNWjMSs/YOXeHBxTvnI/AAAAAAAAEQE/7KBlRYAx69oX5ddTCewTikqENlHfDXC-ACLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/img_6071.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.hippohardware.com/" target="_blank">Hippo Hardware</a> is a unique salvage hardware store. It sits smack in the middle of the East Side of town, right on Burnside where the drunks and homeless used to hang, back in the old days before they all moved to other more comfortable (!) spots along the freeways and parks. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">It is a three-story huge corner building that houses all means of treasures for the home. Lights. Light shades. Knobs. Handles. Toilets. Bathtubs. Door plates. Door bells. Keys--lots and lots of keys that might fit your front door. It's a Hardware Museum that is fun to peruse for an hour or so, even if you have nothing to buy. Betcha you find something you just have to have :)</span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Their website states, "</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Hippo Hardware is an eclectic building salvage store specializing in
hardware, lighting, architecture and plumbing from 1860-1960. We also
offer assorted collectibles, trinkets, whatnots, and whoziwhatsits
depending on what we get in. The spirit of Hippo Hardware is to rejoice
in the individual, the unique, and the original."</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LqQHWbLVy-M/YOXjXaGvSyI/AAAAAAAAEQc/ZgQNH9Z7shMZoTviqeM7psU_0WDMXFiJQCLcBGAsYHQ/s563/DSCN0517.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="422" data-original-width="563" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LqQHWbLVy-M/YOXjXaGvSyI/AAAAAAAAEQc/ZgQNH9Z7shMZoTviqeM7psU_0WDMXFiJQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/DSCN0517.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It all began in 1976 by founders </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Steven Miller and Stephen Oppenheim. It has grown into a welcoming and well known place to visit and spend some time playing with things. They stated that they "</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">strongly support community projects, teachers, artists, adventurers, dreamers, and one-man-bands." And they do. They support an eclectic group of nonprofits, from NARAL to Union Gospel Mission to local schools and school programs to Imago Theatre. Plus everything in between.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i9MBcNf2DmM/YOXk4nggrUI/AAAAAAAAEQk/NBIb7cluJJUFMJ4zqCIjrOOEmmRX0uKOgCLcBGAsYHQ/s565/DSCN0521.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="565" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i9MBcNf2DmM/YOXk4nggrUI/AAAAAAAAEQk/NBIb7cluJJUFMJ4zqCIjrOOEmmRX0uKOgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSCN0521.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">So climb on up the stairs and see what all the fuss is about! After all, we are here for you and busily keeping Portland weird.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">And so it goes<br />peace~~~<br /></span></span></p></span>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-36295351477341769662021-06-30T11:19:00.000-07:002021-06-30T11:19:28.647-07:00Weird Portland Wednesday: How We Stay Cool During a Heatwave<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l8IoYCaNe3s/YNyvrz3r--I/AAAAAAAAEPk/9t90Nd7xhJkHKovBTB53U1MUUaKCLqNDgCLcBGAsYHQ/s617/portlandwaterhole.tmb-featuredim.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="419" data-original-width="617" height="434" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l8IoYCaNe3s/YNyvrz3r--I/AAAAAAAAEPk/9t90Nd7xhJkHKovBTB53U1MUUaKCLqNDgCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h434/portlandwaterhole.tmb-featuredim.jpg" title="Ira Keller Fountain, Downtown Portland" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ira Keller Fountain, Downtown Portland<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Understand that Portland, Oregon rarely gets long-lasting heatwaves. Every year we have like, you know, two or three days of 100+ degrees weather. And then we live in virtual paradise of 75-80 degree summers. A slight breeze in the air. Perfection. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Most of the state doesn't bother with air conditioning because we pant and gripe and feel strangled for a few days and then it's over. We think, "Well, we survived that. Why pay a huge amount of money for a few days of discomfort?" And then we put it out of our minds until the next year when temps hit 100+ for a few days. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">The last few years we have been having harsh heatwaves, each coming earlier and earlier in the year. We just passed through a horrible record-breaking heatwave. The temperatures hit 115 on Monday--highest temps EVER in the history of Portland. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fQf14S1AetY/YNywn7lpjHI/AAAAAAAAEPs/IVV1GUyUpjUKCH3Ckvo_965lDkiT8j3twCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/CEODFCKHX5GJFOS2NAD623GPLQ.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1326" data-original-width="2000" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fQf14S1AetY/YNywn7lpjHI/AAAAAAAAEPs/IVV1GUyUpjUKCH3Ckvo_965lDkiT8j3twCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/CEODFCKHX5GJFOS2NAD623GPLQ.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Like other cities across the nation, we do have many fountains where people can splash and enjoy a bit of coolness. There are nine Interactive Fountains around the city. Portland Parks used to have splash pools for little kids, but many of them have been shut down years ago. Kids use them for little skateboard pads. It was probably a problem with infrastructures. There are still a dozen or so around the city. <br /></span></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5HHmpS8laRc/YNyyDEk-VSI/AAAAAAAAEP0/Cf2zpSFCGDsF04Z_yr8Mp0uHnlcQ-aRKgCLcBGAsYHQ/s960/13533015_1128258133882470_5111161116743512984_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5HHmpS8laRc/YNyyDEk-VSI/AAAAAAAAEP0/Cf2zpSFCGDsF04Z_yr8Mp0uHnlcQ-aRKgCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/13533015_1128258133882470_5111161116743512984_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">But the truth is, we are still who we are, being our true selves. We do things like other cities, but we do things that are simply us.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">We are still Portland. Still keeping it weird.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">And so it goes~~~<br />peace<br /><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p></span><p></p>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-66497690840246606262021-06-05T22:55:00.000-07:002021-06-05T22:55:03.425-07:00We're Comin Up to Summer!<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JfmM2e-ps1Y/YLxg9r5JpvI/AAAAAAAAENs/-JTMzHgVzBIR3vuamNwiy7uzFofX-KDigCLcBGAsYHQ/s900/99d39dddcc27606f924c927316d43cf5_XL.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="900" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JfmM2e-ps1Y/YLxg9r5JpvI/AAAAAAAAENs/-JTMzHgVzBIR3vuamNwiy7uzFofX-KDigCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/99d39dddcc27606f924c927316d43cf5_XL.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Portland had a hot hot heatwave last week. Temps soared up into the 90s. We who do not get hot hot heatwaves in the first of June were roasting. The majority of us don't have AC. Oh we think about it when we get a few days of hot hot hot into the 100s days, but by the time it is over we talk ourselves out of the installation. I mean, who needs the expense for three or four days a year? And we live like that until the next year and wish we had gone ahead and installed AC. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">So here we are, hot hot in the 90s for almost a week. In the first week of June! Thank goodness it is back down into the 60s and rainy/sunny/overcast/sunny/chilly/rainy again. You know, like it's suppose to be :)<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have to admit I love summer. <span style="line-height: 107%;">I love the smell of summer, the long hot days, sunshine. I love
the freedom summer brings. I love that the days stay around long enough to allow adventures
to happen. Even if they don't happen, the potential is there.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zOtxANhxYNA/YLxiXZIftkI/AAAAAAAAEOM/zySML8UWFsIMI17ZrH9CFoMs0l1cLyv3wCLcBGAsYHQ/s1299/summertime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="747" data-original-width="1299" height="230" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zOtxANhxYNA/YLxiXZIftkI/AAAAAAAAEOM/zySML8UWFsIMI17ZrH9CFoMs0l1cLyv3wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h230/summertime.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">Summer is simple like daisies. Simple yet full of glory.</span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">Summer means games played with
the rules changing after dark. Swinging high enough to touch your toes to the
tree leaves. Green and yellow and flowers laughing in the sun. Friends and
family spontaneously visiting, staying for hot dogs. Laughter until it is too
dark to see one another. Swimming and camping and just being.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">
</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>Fall is nature grieving the loss of
summer. Winter is just there...waiting for summer to arrive again. And spring
is hopeful, celebrating summer's soon arrival.<br />
<br />
And then there it is! Summer again with it's sunshine and laughter and summerness.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>And so it goes<br />peace~~~<br /></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
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<![endif]-->
</span></span></span></p></span>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-64617912709429776362021-06-04T15:59:00.002-07:002021-06-04T16:18:05.836-07:00A Noble Profession<p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3B40P9tp27E/YLqj5CVm_9I/AAAAAAAAENM/K1csbP8V0-E3EQVEDoVERlNKQb8ATkpxwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/GettyImages-170408682-5942c52b5f9b58d58a5bdf92.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3B40P9tp27E/YLqj5CVm_9I/AAAAAAAAENM/K1csbP8V0-E3EQVEDoVERlNKQb8ATkpxwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h266/GettyImages-170408682-5942c52b5f9b58d58a5bdf92.jpg" width="400" /></a>When we were little, my sister and I would play school. This often happened when it was a rainy afternoon. There was a very short period of time when our garage was clear enough to house the car. On a rainy afternoon, Mom might pull the car out of the garage and we'd set up school. Both of us wanted to be the teacher. This was mostly because the teacher was the one who got to actually do things. The student had to just sit there and do what the teacher said. I never did like my older sister to boss me around. But she would usually get to be the teacher because she 1) thought up the game and 2) she was older. Teaching was just the funnest! <br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Well, as we grew up, Pat went off to UCLA on a full scholarship. She finished her four year stint in three years with a degree in I don't really know what. After a few years working in the social work area, she decided to enter law school. She emerged with a </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Doctor of Jurisprudence and began working as a lawyer. <br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The year after she left for UCLA, I went off to Las Vegas to get married, then went on to have babies and eventually start my life in Portland, Oregon. After my divorce, I started working for Portland Public Schools in their Special Education Department as an aide. I fell in love with teaching! <b><i>I knew I should have been able to be the teacher way back when!</i></b> Three years later I started college in order to become a Special Education teacher. That goal didn't pan-out; instead, I became a college instructor. Not a day went by for the next 30 years that I didn't love this teaching gig. <br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QACr_H3Gb84/YLqo9CQ6SQI/AAAAAAAAENU/1fEOOb2si54D0StDf1uxUVapENgfgeJ8gCLcBGAsYHQ/s450/rsz_1michael_goldberg_at_startmart.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="450" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QACr_H3Gb84/YLqo9CQ6SQI/AAAAAAAAENU/1fEOOb2si54D0StDf1uxUVapENgfgeJ8gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h266/rsz_1michael_goldberg_at_startmart.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Here's my take on teaching. I believe teaching is one of the most noble of professions. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">To be a teacher is to have the privilege of sharing ideas and knowledge
to others. To help guide students, advise them, work with them and then
see the spark of excitement start to ignite their imaginations and
creativity. To be a teacher is to wear your passion, dedication, and
love of others on your sleeve for all to see. When asked what I do for a
living, I was always able to say with pride, “I am a teacher.”</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The most important part of being a teacher is bringing her passion to
the students. It is caring about their learning simply because you care about
their learning. If this passion slips, it is time to leave for there is
nothing sadder than an old curmudgeon still teaching because he doesn’t
know what else to do. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1vSRcv0jonM/YLqphMjfVwI/AAAAAAAAENc/wikP7x2KL8wxcuK3GGm0_ZVJUnVmJuklACLcBGAsYHQ/s330/instructor.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="330" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1vSRcv0jonM/YLqphMjfVwI/AAAAAAAAENc/wikP7x2KL8wxcuK3GGm0_ZVJUnVmJuklACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/instructor.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>A teacher is someone who holds this love in her
heart, who wants others to succeed because she cares about what they do,
how they go, what they learn. Not long ago I read an article in the
Oregonian about a man who won the NAACP Award for excellence. He was a
high school shop teacher and was nominated by one of his students. The
student said he deserved this award, not only because he was a good
teacher but because he went out of his way to help this student through
personal problems and decisions, through the teacher’s guidance. As I
read this, I knew he was a teacher at heart.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">For nearly 30 years I was privileged to stand in front of students
and presented them with information, theory, new skills, shine up
rusty skills, and in fact, given them a piece of myself. And for nearly 30 years I
had continually been infused with energy from these people, learning
from them in more depth than they can ever possibly know.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IX32dcJxsGQ/YLqvRLPmgtI/AAAAAAAAENk/ugqpyfrBWTYZl0l7HbNz0kn58saXeoyuwCLcBGAsYHQ/s75/heartshape4-1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="71" data-original-width="75" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IX32dcJxsGQ/YLqvRLPmgtI/AAAAAAAAENk/ugqpyfrBWTYZl0l7HbNz0kn58saXeoyuwCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/heartshape4-1.jpg" /></a></div>Like me, my sister eventually began teaching Law for </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">the University of La Verne. She also </span></span>ran the Paralegal Program there. Not that Law isn't a noble profession, she did finally find her passion in teaching. Must have been from all the training she had on those rainy days in the garage, dictating what I had to do as her student ;) </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And so it goes<br />peace~~~<br /></span></span></div><p></p>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-1888374341667075102021-06-03T11:50:00.004-07:002021-06-03T11:52:36.108-07:00Throwback Thursday: I Wanna Be Bobby's Girl<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-daeNa0ZPM-M/YLkd6TEB8XI/AAAAAAAAEM0/1EL10rZlaQITSRXKmjqyDl5NrYsgSRHjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s818/me.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="818" height="297" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-daeNa0ZPM-M/YLkd6TEB8XI/AAAAAAAAEM0/1EL10rZlaQITSRXKmjqyDl5NrYsgSRHjgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h297/me.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The summer I turned 16 was an awesome summer! First, I turned 16! WhooooHoooooo! That pretty much says it all. Driver's license! Freedom! Beach! Surfing! Dating! </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yes, we had to wait until we were 16 before we could date. When my sister turned 16, she ran to the door and opened it wide, looking out onto the driveway. What was she doing? Looking for all those now-can-go dates lining up! </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Turning 16 was awesome.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6Hv0er3ZnUw/YLkidpLayjI/AAAAAAAAENE/XbqeQPNMvqgMk5TjBuG21wkeDfsMdaGUwCLcBGAsYHQ/s823/beach.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="613" data-original-width="823" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6Hv0er3ZnUw/YLkidpLayjI/AAAAAAAAENE/XbqeQPNMvqgMk5TjBuG21wkeDfsMdaGUwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/beach.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">That summer I also became a Junior Counselor at Camp La Verne. Camp La Verne was run by the Church of the Brethren in La Verne. It was a kid camp but now has become a campground for families. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: white; font-weight: 400;"><span style="color: white; font-weight: 400;"><span style="color: white; font-weight: 400;"><span style="color: white; font-weight: 400;"><span style="color: white; font-weight: 400;"><span style="color: white; font-weight: 400;"><span style="color: black;">Camp
La Verne, founded in 1924 by the Church of the Brethren, is a peaceful,
non-profit campground nestled in the beautiful San Bernardino Mountains. They still hold week-long camp for youths through the summer.<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9n7ryQbigIw/YLke2kxXV0I/AAAAAAAAEM8/i5q124mCdZoOEnmbZ7gr3BtD2WJAqgw_QCLcBGAsYHQ/s788/laverne.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="788" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9n7ryQbigIw/YLke2kxXV0I/AAAAAAAAEM8/i5q124mCdZoOEnmbZ7gr3BtD2WJAqgw_QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/laverne.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: white; font-weight: 400;"><span style="color: white; font-weight: 400;"><span style="color: white; font-weight: 400;"><span style="color: white; font-weight: 400;"><span style="color: white; font-weight: 400;"><span style="color: white; font-weight: 400;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>Oh the fun I had! "My gang" was great and we hiked, swam, and sang songs around the campfire. I met a young woman who became one of my best friends over the next few years there, who was also a Junior Counselor. We'd bring our kids together for contests and races.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">One day I started chatting with a very lovely Senior Counselor. Her name was Donna. She found out that my cousins were the Ebersoles from La Verne. Suddenly I became the greatest person in the world. See, Donna loved my cousin Bobby. They went to school together and she was full-out smitten. She told me that her favorite song was "<a href="https://youtu.be/2Cfz33QIsdY" target="_blank">I Wanna be Bobby's Girl</a>," by Marcie Blane. We spent the summer singing this song every time we passed one another.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Unfortunately for Donna, Bobby married another woman. Donna went to the wedding and cried. But wait! There's more! A few years later, Bob divorced his first wife and married our wonderful Donna. They were married many years before Donna's tragic death from breast cancer. <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">To the summer of '66.<br />To freedom and fun.<br />To a beautiful woman who wanted to be Bobby's girl.<br />To dreams coming true.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">peace~~~<br /><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p></p>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-44620805938606027892021-06-02T18:58:00.002-07:002021-06-02T18:59:38.639-07:00Weird Portland Wednesday: Doughnut Delights<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5TeDVVjSZ_o/YLgxWP78RYI/AAAAAAAAEMU/l6hBxuIwBCkdP2_nCKlNat7ASp8N-WikgCLcBGAsYHQ/s862/EAvlujvUYAAFwMU.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="754" data-original-width="862" height="560" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5TeDVVjSZ_o/YLgxWP78RYI/AAAAAAAAEMU/l6hBxuIwBCkdP2_nCKlNat7ASp8N-WikgCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h560/EAvlujvUYAAFwMU.png" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I remember when Krispy Kreme doughnuts were the thing. I saw people getting off their flights from the East Coast carrying three or four Krispy Kreme doughnut boxes. No carry-on luggage; simply Krispy Kreme. See, we didn't have any Krispy Kreme shops here in Oregon. Even though KK started back in 1937, it pretty much stayed in the south. It finally hit </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">California </span></span> in about 1999 and Oregon and Washington soon followed. Yay Krispy Kreme.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2JzSYyclI8k/YLgyfqDdamI/AAAAAAAAEMc/hw72ZpID-o4w4tcnR6XAgf5Qd74cZu9EgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/c56b8898d054429b31148a116bddc48e_-united-states-california-los-angeles-county-la-verne-45322-miss-donuts-and-bagelshtm.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="150" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2JzSYyclI8k/YLgyfqDdamI/AAAAAAAAEMc/hw72ZpID-o4w4tcnR6XAgf5Qd74cZu9EgCLcBGAsYHQ/w200-h150/c56b8898d054429b31148a116bddc48e_-united-states-california-los-angeles-county-la-verne-45322-miss-donuts-and-bagelshtm.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Except I didn't really find them all that good. They sometimes gave me heartburn and if they weren't warm, they were just a doughnut. Don't get me wrong. I love doughnuts. I'm excited when I visit my sister and we go to the best little donuts and bagel shop in LaVerne. <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">And then Portland--TaDa!--Portland got it's own doughnuts. They are not just yummy, they are weirdly yummy. Voodoo Doughnuts!</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HlcTBjTnhtg/YLgzbVZhW5I/AAAAAAAAEMk/uvAYTyO3dUk_5z0F39Yq67g_QE5tFbFowCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/OGzqPLfA_400x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HlcTBjTnhtg/YLgzbVZhW5I/AAAAAAAAEMk/uvAYTyO3dUk_5z0F39Yq67g_QE5tFbFowCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/OGzqPLfA_400x400.jpg" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Here's their story:</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">In 2000, Portlanders Kenneth “Cat Daddy” Pogson and Tres Shannon decided to embark on a shared entrepreneurial venture – something
that combined quality hospitality with their daring do-it-yourself brand
of show business.</span></span>
</p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Research revealed that downtown Portland lacked a single doughnut
shop, so in 2003 they rented a hole-in-the-wall storefront scrunched
between two Old Town nightclubs, joked to friends and family about being
bent on “world doughnut domination,” and opened Voodoo Doughnut. Their
initial pastry offerings were a mix of the classic and the
unconventional. </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">They included various sideshows such as legal weddings, concerts in the
loft space atop Voodoo’s duct tape-muraled bathroom and weekly Swahili
lessons.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Who doesn't love a good Swahili lesson?</span></span></p><p style="font-size: 0.9em; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2qyKDCaVj2E/YLg1MpcQgJI/AAAAAAAAEMs/-sdAUkzYPQoeIxsE3QP6KrEfY-hgx5SkACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/voodoo-doll-blue-yeast-side-400x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2qyKDCaVj2E/YLg1MpcQgJI/AAAAAAAAEMs/-sdAUkzYPQoeIxsE3QP6KrEfY-hgx5SkACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/voodoo-doll-blue-yeast-side-400x400.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The menu is what makes the place fit for Portland. They serve traditional donuts, sure, but why have something you can get a Duncan Donuts when you can get extra yummy different ones at VooDoo!? You know, like a VooVoo Doll, filled with raspberry jelly and a pretzel stick for a pin. Or a Memphis Mafia: </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fried dough with banana chunks and cinnamon covered in glaze, drizzled
in chocolate and peanut butter with peanuts and chocolate chips on top. And how can we pass up the Easy Keasy Lemon Peasy, </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">raised yeast doughnut filled with lemon jelly, tie dyed vanilla frosting and gummy “acid” cube (a Warhead sour Chewy Cube)? </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Check them all out and grab something weird, something perfect in Portland.<br /><a href="https://www.voodoodoughnut.com/doughnuts/">https://www.voodoodoughnut.com/doughnuts/</a></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And that's how we keep Portland weird.<br />peace~~~<br /></span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p></span><p></p>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-35506836552977376932021-05-20T19:51:00.001-07:002021-05-20T19:53:42.262-07:00Throwback Thursday: And Then He Kissed Me<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RG4na1lhHVE/YKayDVV9kpI/AAAAAAAAELs/FKOX43RJFK4UeOL8zN0qqeR-qRk71_tEgCLcBGAsYHQ/s863/kiss.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="863" data-original-width="514" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RG4na1lhHVE/YKayDVV9kpI/AAAAAAAAELs/FKOX43RJFK4UeOL8zN0qqeR-qRk71_tEgCLcBGAsYHQ/w382-h640/kiss.jpg" width="382" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It was May, 1969. I was 18 and he was 17 1/2. We had just learned I was pregnant. Oh, dear yes I had tried everything in hopes it wasn't true. Long hot baths to relax my body. Crying. None of the many hacks worked. Simply yes; I was pregnant. </span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I moved home so I could be closer to my mother while we fought. Yes, I was a terrible daughter. Yes, I was always trouble for her. Yes, I really did ruin everything all the time. Yes. That was me.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">We can laugh about it now. <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">When we told his parents that I was pregnant, his father asked him--in front of me in the room--if he was sure it was his baby. Yes, I really was a slut. Yes, I wasn't being responsible. Yes. That was me.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">We can laugh about it now. <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">The families decided we would be married. We were excited about it, even though it was too soon in our lives. We had thought a year later was a better time. But then again, I was pregnant. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">The date was June 14, 1969. It was a fast trip to Las Vegas and a short ceremony at the Little Chapel of the Chimes. We all stayed the night at Circus Circus, a newly opened casino on the strip. After the ceremony, the parents went out to gamble while we, who were too young, hung out on the outskirts and watched.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">We can laugh about it now.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">He and I had a room for ourselves! It had a king bed! Unfortunately when we climbed in, we found it to be two twin beds pushed together! I fell between the mattresses. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">We can laugh about it now.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I95BrQqUJ8o/YKa1On6OwfI/AAAAAAAAEL0/GGz9m09auWU2vjyPaaYyx7kBRWpJt9AYgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1042/ustog.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="823" data-original-width="1042" height="316" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I95BrQqUJ8o/YKa1On6OwfI/AAAAAAAAEL0/GGz9m09auWU2vjyPaaYyx7kBRWpJt9AYgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h316/ustog.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We settled into our little duplex and became husband and wife. We were cute. We tried to be good, to do it right. We were playing house while we waited for the big event. He got a job through my father's connections, learned how to weld. He was apparently too young to understand the responsibility of feeding a family and disappointed my father's expectations. He found another job. He tried to be a husband.<br /></span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">But there were times when I frustrated him or made him angry and he would hit me. Yeah, hit me. Just reach out a punch me. Shocked, I just let him do that to me. I had never seen that before in any couple, let alone my own mother and father. I remember sitting in the nursery, holding my baby's Winnie the Pooh and crying, scared to come out even though he was no longer home.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I will never laugh about that.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">After our son was born, we moved to Southern Oregon. He had always wanted to live in Oregon where a good friend had moved, so there we went. Our son was four months old. We lived in an apartment that used to be a motel. We had the head office. I was very lonely without friends and my husband not home often. We moved into a smaller place that we could afford; moved out the day before the house next door blew up from a gas leak that blew up our apartment.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">We can laugh about that now.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">We lived in Southern Oregon for three years. He went through ten jobs, mostly because he refused to work in the timber industry. The last job he held was trying to have a auto repair shop of his own. We lived on very little as his shop needed tools. I tried to make things work out for us. I learned how to cook inexpensive meals, how to bake bread, make granola, and can fruits and vegetables. I registered us for Food Stamps. He would come home tired and it was much easier for me to irritate him. The last time he hit me was when I went into labor with our second son. I was too loud and kept waking him up. After our younger son was born, he pounded the wall beside me </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">instead of hitting me</span></span></span></span>. He made sure I knew it could have been me. We had holes in the walls in every room.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I will never laugh about that.</span></span></span></span> <br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2ojQbDnCCOE/YKceEZ8cVHI/AAAAAAAAEME/df4C9t2zA8829dLHtLEoUfTPzZ-C1a_JgCLcBGAsYHQ/s777/threemoretoo.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="755" data-original-width="777" height="389" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2ojQbDnCCOE/YKceEZ8cVHI/AAAAAAAAEME/df4C9t2zA8829dLHtLEoUfTPzZ-C1a_JgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h389/threemoretoo.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">He met my cousin in Portland and they hit it off. We moved north and he got a job at a VW dealership. We found a little house to rent and settled in. Our sons were one and three. Across the street from our house was a little store. I mentioned to the owners that we couldn't get our heat going yet and they loaned us a heater. The owners and the neighbors were good people. I settled in with a bit of family around me. He mostly stopped hitting the walls and changed his attacks to verbal abuse. I was fat. I was ugly. I was stupid. I was useless. I was no better than the dirty doormat on the porch. Yes. That was me.</span></span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">He started heading to the tavern most every night. </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">And then he often started staying away all night, coming home to clean up and change his clothes. I'd go into the bathroom after he'd leave and cry into a towel--didn't want to wake up my sons--and truly bang my head against the wall.</span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I finally asked him what he wanted--to be married or to leave. He said he wanted to stay married. I asked him why. I thought it was a reasonable question. He said, "It should be good enough for you that I wanted to stay." And then that night he didn't come home. When he did come home the next day, his stuff was packed and ready for him to hit the road.</span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I still laugh about that. </span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I was in college, I studied the social issue of abuse. I didn't remember that he used to hit me, abuse me. Somethings you just don't want to remember. During a Sociology class, the professor started a discussion about deviant behavior and a fellow male student said that women just asked to be abused. I didn't know where it came from, but I stood up and stated, "No woman ever asks to be hit in the face, the stomach, the back. No woman ever wants to have a man beat her up. No woman asks for abuse. No woman. Ever." and sat back down. The class looked at me shocked. And then the professor turned to the young male and replied, "But it seems like it sometimes, doesn't it?"<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I will never laugh about that.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was a year or more later that </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I
remembered all the abuse during therapy I had started in my Junior year in
college. I was trying to understand why my current partner left me. When the therapist asked me about my years in Southern Oregon, I refused to talk about it. I always had a heavy house sitting on my chest. Something broke through one evening and I walked into her office, announcing I wanted to talk about Southern Oregon. That's when my real healing began.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XZMnlp39OKU/YKcfdHhzHlI/AAAAAAAAEMM/nKJejdVeIjoF0-5eSl4aNT7GVR49mdnUwCLcBGAsYHQ/s260/polly.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="260" data-original-width="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XZMnlp39OKU/YKcfdHhzHlI/AAAAAAAAEMM/nKJejdVeIjoF0-5eSl4aNT7GVR49mdnUwCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/polly.jpg" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fortunately for me, I did get to college and learn some things about life and love and me. I had always been a free spirit in my heart...after my divorce I remembered that. I have had great friends and lovers, partners that have supported me, accepted me, built me back up. I have accepted things people have said about me and rejected things other said about me. That is, rejected them unless I'm in great stress; those awful things people have said can jump right back. But that's what many people experience. I can accept that.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /></div></div></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">And since 1975, I have been living my life out-loud, skirt flying, my head flung back, all the while I laughing with the world. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">And so it goes<br />peace~~~ </span></span></span></span> <br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-24722982451209853512021-05-13T10:56:00.001-07:002021-05-13T10:56:17.950-07:00What's Hanging on My Design Board<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FtMeycvB3L0/YJ1gPFx7W9I/AAAAAAAAELE/hyXFPzOXIYsbPAzdkq6oknfweGGBKO5_wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/class.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1041" data-original-width="2048" height="326" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FtMeycvB3L0/YJ1gPFx7W9I/AAAAAAAAELE/hyXFPzOXIYsbPAzdkq6oknfweGGBKO5_wCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h326/class.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>I rarely have more than one project going at a time. I like to focus on that one and think about the person or people it will be heading off to. But right now I have four! Yes, four. No wonder I am feeling lethargic and lazy ;)</span></span><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">First on my list is a fun table runner we are making in my Introduction to Quilting class. We meet once a week on ZOOM and I'm teaching them how to put together a quilt. Mostly they are learning how to make blocks using a quarter inch seam, Half Square Triangles (HST) and straight piecing. Since quarter inch seams and HSTs are basic to any quilt pattern, they are important to know. Once you get those puppies down, plus a scant 1/4" seam, you are good to go! the students all are doing great and have some of the best fabric for their runners. Mine is sunflowers. Yea Summer!<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-75sUBknx12I/YJ1gl21RgBI/AAAAAAAAELM/_0_hvVvs17UuTbbkBaGj0jx-nYAnaCGFACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/liz.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1986" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-75sUBknx12I/YJ1gl21RgBI/AAAAAAAAELM/_0_hvVvs17UuTbbkBaGj0jx-nYAnaCGFACLcBGAsYHQ/w388-h400/liz.jpg" width="388" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Last winter I had made my niece a beautiful lap quilt--it was perfect for her--and someone stole it off her porch when delivered. So I am making her a new one. A different pattern and style, but it is still her :) It is about 3/4 finished, almost ready to quilt. And yes, I learned my lesson. I pay the extra couple dollars for a signature for all packages that I mail since then. It was disappointing that it was stolen.</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I really hope they needed the warmth and comfort. </span></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">That reminds me that once I bought a bunch of wonderful things for my friend in New Zealand. The box never made it to the house! The post office found a mangled empty box along the route. Never caught the "thief." But we were all pretty sure it was the postman. Oh yeah and another time I sent the same friend a package of goodies and days later they found it in the woodpile out back of their house. Crazy kiwis.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iBkxSQ6l8mg/YJ1gxJSElrI/AAAAAAAAELQ/Rje_ewaELCs-0HpqbiCPk7_QwMFC-byfQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/nathan.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iBkxSQ6l8mg/YJ1gxJSElrI/AAAAAAAAELQ/Rje_ewaELCs-0HpqbiCPk7_QwMFC-byfQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/nathan.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The third quilt is a wedding quilt for my nephew and his beautiful bride. They got tired of searching for a venue during COVID-19 so they simply ran off to Las Vegas and eloped :) It is about 1/4th finished.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And today I just cut out all the pieces for a commissioned quilt. I have made these two wonderful people one other quilt and I put that one it off. "No rush!" they said. Yeah I eventually rushed LOL So, I decided, even though again they said, "No rush!" that it was time to speed theirs up. All cut out and ready to stitch.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uyQPMK3nErw/YJ1hIe8q2KI/AAAAAAAAELc/H18507I-tkcgPJ-zJqnuv34MJOh3xylKgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/janssen.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uyQPMK3nErw/YJ1hIe8q2KI/AAAAAAAAELc/H18507I-tkcgPJ-zJqnuv34MJOh3xylKgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/janssen.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I also have three client quilt tops to quilt, waiting patiently out in the studio, and a second commissioned quilt for which I need to buy fabric. Those are not on my design board...not yet ;)</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Off to play with fabric!</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And so it goes<br />peace~~~<br /></span></span></p>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-2342024908053953262021-05-06T11:24:00.000-07:002021-05-06T11:24:44.916-07:00Throwback Thursday: She's Not in His League<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PWsrpCp_B74/YJQl-vnt7rI/AAAAAAAAEKc/DU8itWaxkA834Q2hzapU-Qpo_xL0YlaowCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/theroad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="640" height="589" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PWsrpCp_B74/YJQl-vnt7rI/AAAAAAAAEKc/DU8itWaxkA834Q2hzapU-Qpo_xL0YlaowCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h589/theroad.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I grew up in a house that my father built. The great part of the house was it was down a dirt road in the county. Mrs. Cooper's farm was across the street. There weren't many houses on our road and few children. I was quite happy playing in the summer shadows, dancing and singing, playing for the neighboring goats, riding my bike up and down and all around. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I shared a bedroom with my sister until I was in maybe 8th grade. Sharing the room was more difficult for my sister than for me as I was the slob and she was the neat-nic. The fact my bed was closest to the door and she had to walk through my stuff to get to her side made it doubly hard for her, I would think. We had to clean our room once a week. I often swept stuff under my bed to make the process go faster. The best for her in this sharing space is that she got the window over her bed.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have always felt I was a lucky girl that I lived on this dirt road--the adventures created around the fields and farmland and orange groves. I had friends a bit away from me, but close enough to ride my bike to their houses. I loved there were no sidewalks and few fences, just free land yards.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Our elementary school was built right as I entered first grade. It was a small school built out in the county. Just the right size for our little enclave of baby boomers. We were bused out to Ontario for junior high. Only some of us from Howard School went out there--miles away from our homes. Others went to Montclair. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">But it was high school that we all came together again. We joined all those kids who had been going to school together from the beginning. We were the "new kids" to their "oh remember that party at Mary's house when we were 10" lives. It ain't no thang to me; I kinda get along with all sorts of friends from all sorts of backgrounds. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1ahzGCGy0rw/YJQqwph3zGI/AAAAAAAAEKk/oNbMkD-gzrgkP5pLtUYpggQbC7K117JAQCLcBGAsYHQ/s600/197000_1953047584332_7345574_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="485" data-original-width="600" height="324" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1ahzGCGy0rw/YJQqwph3zGI/AAAAAAAAEKk/oNbMkD-gzrgkP5pLtUYpggQbC7K117JAQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h324/197000_1953047584332_7345574_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">But then I fell in love. Junior year. Football player and part of that group. We all fell in together, going to games, dating, the whole teenage thing. I was the Ad Man for the school. We would paint posters before the football games and post them all around the quad, cheering the team on. We would have poster parties at different friends' homes. Only once did we come to my house because it was so far away from the others' homes. But we had a blast at the poster parties.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Understand this: I was always afraid I would never find a husband because I couldn't roller skate. I know. I know. But see, Mom and Dad met at the roller skating rink and I thought that was how you found a husband. Oh sure, of course I didn't believe that by the time I was in high school, but there was always that niggling fear that I would never find a partner. Cause I was very tall. Cause I didn't go to school with all those others. Just cause I was a teenager.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was not long after the Junior/Senior prom that one of my boyfriend's friends took me aside and told me that I just wasn't in my guy's league. I wasn't good enough for him. That I should just walk away. I never told anyone what he had said to me, but it kinda fell into place. Country girl. City boy. And truth was it wasn't long after that little conversation that my boyfriend and I stopped going steady. My first heartbreak.</span></span></p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xp7cNTso4RA/YJQweAYXmNI/AAAAAAAAEKs/dlKZbHHUnqohD7rvaLyYc6yBjYToXQ0ZwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/king-willem-i.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="795" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xp7cNTso4RA/YJQweAYXmNI/AAAAAAAAEKs/dlKZbHHUnqohD7rvaLyYc6yBjYToXQ0ZwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/king-willem-i.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">King Willem I, <br />first King of the Kingdom of the Netherlands</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I had never thought about "leagues" before and truth be told, I rarely thought about "leagues" afterwards. Oh yes, one man I dated off-and-on for a few years I considered "out of my league," but he was like hard candy: you should just let it mellow but you have this overwhelming urge to crunch on occasion. Okay, that was a really bad analogy, but I know what I mean.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Looking back, perhaps a prince or king might have been out of my league. I mean the backgrounds were just too different and I never learned how to use 14 different pieces of silverware when eating dinner. And face it; I'd trip over that long cloak. But a statement from a rude teenage boy shouldn't have had much leverage. But it did.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">After some years of taking abuse from a husband who thought I was just a simple country girl, I wised up. I started dating better men, good men. And frankly, by now I'm happily in a league of my own :) </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">and so it goes<br />peace~~~<br /></span></span></p>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-42457041758271069792021-04-27T11:46:00.000-07:002021-04-27T11:46:27.622-07:00True Confession Tuesday: I Was a Teenage Stripper<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EwR1gJlxCOQ/YIhEliU0cqI/AAAAAAAAEJ0/pZr8KsI_Tucb7mWLLLtXylGXcSJmJ5fkgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1034/2168000_stripper-silhouette-png-stripper-sticker-png-download.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1034" data-original-width="860" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EwR1gJlxCOQ/YIhEliU0cqI/AAAAAAAAEJ0/pZr8KsI_Tucb7mWLLLtXylGXcSJmJ5fkgCLcBGAsYHQ/w533-h640/2168000_stripper-silhouette-png-stripper-sticker-png-download.png" width="533" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">When I was the Director of Forensics (Speech and Debate) at my college, I learned that one of my former Speech Team members had become a stripper in Portland. She was making great money, she said, and had more than enough time to finish college. I was amazed. I asked all the questions that a good feminist should and she said it was a great powerful feeling to be on stage. She was totally in control of her body, her audience, and the situation. I have since learned that many strippers feel this way and are announced feminists. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Thinking back on my life, I remembered I had been a stripper back in my teens. It was obviously something I have tried to forget. See, it was like this. My father would do anything to save a few pennies. He would drive a few miles out of the way in order to save pennies a gallon on gas. Gas was a ripping 23.9/gallon and as he explained, the motor home ate up a ton of gas. It had a fifty gallon gas tank. That was a lot of savings, he said! And then when a bit older and had a tad of education in my life (damn! Should we have educated girls?) I started doing the math...21.9/gallon saved two pennies each gallon. So 50 gallons would save him, ohhhh $1. Sounds like a lot until you remember that the motor home got like 5 gallons a mile...</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GqsSK_d4uIA/YIhHNMsopEI/AAAAAAAAEJ8/lbpRw0VUxrYjkTQ9bNtxKuIig55hloJ0gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1300/45008952-classic-vintage-black-rotary-dial-telephone-isolated.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="869" data-original-width="1300" height="268" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GqsSK_d4uIA/YIhHNMsopEI/AAAAAAAAEJ8/lbpRw0VUxrYjkTQ9bNtxKuIig55hloJ0gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h268/45008952-classic-vintage-black-rotary-dial-telephone-isolated.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He would save money by buying three black rotary non-plastic phones when he only needed maybe one at the Weekend Swap Meet (held at the Mission Drive-In). By buying three, he bought cheap in bunches and then could take parts from all of them to make one working phone. We always had an old black phone in the hallway on the little phone shelf, with my Grandad's chair under it so we could sit and chat on the phone. When I entered my teens and wanted to speak to anyone PRIVATELY, I stretched that phone cord as far and it would go and shut my door. I had to stand right by the door to talk, but dammit I had my teen angst in private!<br /></span></span><p></p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SkBXnEaW6KM/YIhJVBZA8zI/AAAAAAAAEKE/Y0-FCKBc3KcJd9s2U7XlzyxEdFIi5OhkQCLcBGAsYHQ/s939/71lZu%252BkgFBL._AC_UX385_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="939" data-original-width="385" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SkBXnEaW6KM/YIhJVBZA8zI/AAAAAAAAEKE/Y0-FCKBc3KcJd9s2U7XlzyxEdFIi5OhkQCLcBGAsYHQ/w82-h200/71lZu%252BkgFBL._AC_UX385_.jpg" width="82" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad's Retirement Clothes<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He did the same things with car parts, electronic stuff, overalls, and Diet Pepsi. Good gawd, he bought a ton of diet Pepsi at times, flats of Diet Pepsi when it was on sale--we were a Diet Pepsi household. Before he decided we were a Diet Pepsi household, we had some icky off-brand cola that was on sale. But then again it was soda. So, he bought on-sale Diet Pepsi and then he stored it in the shack that used to be Mr. Curtis' house next door--Dad had bought so he could have more holding space. Did you know that Diet Pepsi went bad after a certain date, especially when stored in a hot shack that used to be an old man's house? Boy howdy! His lovely daughters had to pop open all those bad cans of Diet Pepsi and pour it out onto the coldhardearth. *eyes rolling* It was a gawd awful odor of flat stinky bad cola. But! The saving grace was that the cans brought in a few pennies for Dad.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">You can also see the worth of buying Mr. Curtis' property next door, moving our property holdings from a quarter acre along the dirt road to a half an acre. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-622VBzowEoA/YIhRyqtoGnI/AAAAAAAAEKM/pEgrqexbLOYlkjIakzhomiQhY3b6chDUQCLcBGAsYHQ/s973/junkyarddogs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="971" data-original-width="973" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-622VBzowEoA/YIhRyqtoGnI/AAAAAAAAEKM/pEgrqexbLOYlkjIakzhomiQhY3b6chDUQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/junkyarddogs.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We called the backyard and next door "Dad's Junk Yard." All the neighbor boys loved coming to visit Dad because it was a young boy's paradise, all that stuff. Dad put a chain-link fence around the junk yard, inserted slats for privacy, and called it a refuge yard. Higher class, he said. We got ourselves a couple of Junk Yard Dogs (Dodger, the black fluffy boy, and Wolfer, the baby boy) and life went on :)</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">What's this all have to do with being a teenaged stripper, you ask? Well, you can see that my dad did anything he could to save and earn money. He even built a little one-bedroom house on the front of Mr. Curtis' property for rental income. He was definitely a child of the 1930s when he delivered newspapers for a few cents to share with his mother. Why not bring his daughters into this money-making scheme?</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yes, it was our father who brought us into the seamy side of life. Dad was an electrician by trade but his heart was as a machinist. An electrician made more money, so it was his choice as a career. But his garage was a total machine shop. Drill Press. Lathes. Presses. And he happily lived out in the garage when he was home. Somewhere from some crony he had heard there was good money selling wire by the pound. </span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I8qDKjAd0Mg/YIhW11o567I/AAAAAAAAEKU/v6TZaIJd0-0fVPHB537EfO4_rioZh1CIwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/strip-copper-wire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I8qDKjAd0Mg/YIhW11o567I/AAAAAAAAEKU/v6TZaIJd0-0fVPHB537EfO4_rioZh1CIwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/strip-copper-wire.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yes, he had the tools to make this happen. He had the wire to make this happen. And he had the daughters to make this happen.<br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sooooooo, Dad ran the wire through a machine that flattened the plastic wire covering, breaking it open. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And then he had his sweet daughters strip the plastic from the wire. He paid us a few bob for our efforts as strippers. It was pretty boring work. And to tell the truth, I never did feel powerful nor in control of anything. Just sayin.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And so it goes<br />peace~~~<br /></span></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><p></p>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-63466529532827193282021-03-31T23:11:00.098-07:002021-03-31T23:43:32.597-07:00Weird Portland Wednesday: Pac-Man Lives<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XH76l222dqA/YGSslFMY6_I/AAAAAAAAEIQ/aQa-RJU-pOcZLp3iDnzHg3Cb5HvrxNj7QCLcBGAsYHQ/s580/p954810502-3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="580" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XH76l222dqA/YGSslFMY6_I/AAAAAAAAEIQ/aQa-RJU-pOcZLp3iDnzHg3Cb5HvrxNj7QCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/p954810502-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></span></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>I know that every city has at least one arcade. There was one sweet one that my sons would take the bus to visit--nickles and dimes needed. They'd save their pennies and have a fun afternoon playing video games. The question is, does every city have an arcade that is closed to kids after 4:30p? Does every city have an arcade with over 150 games, plus alcohol, plus stage shows, plus karaoke?</span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><span><span>No but we do! </span></span></b></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><span><span>Ground Kontrol!</span></span></b></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Nestled in the heart of downtown, </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">Ground Kontrol is taking on the world. It's <a href="https://groundkontrol.com" target="_blank">website</a> states,</span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w7xUWvYvPxI/YGVm9PC7q0I/AAAAAAAAEJM/L7aPurSN0Q8MnFwcWMlAWkcXeZZ2tn0RgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/helgerson-groundkontrol-177nc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w7xUWvYvPxI/YGVm9PC7q0I/AAAAAAAAEJM/L7aPurSN0Q8MnFwcWMlAWkcXeZZ2tn0RgCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/helgerson-groundkontrol-177nc.jpg" /></a></div>We preserve and celebrate video gaming’s “golden age” by operating over
100 classic video games and 40.5 pinball machines, feature a
full-service bar serving from noon until late (usually 2AM), host DJs,
comedy shows, high score competitions, game tournaments, and Rock Band
karaoke, and are available for public and private event rentals.</span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Trust me, my kids never had all that at their nickle arcades. They never could get cool t-shirts, either. </span></span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--IBMjyFWBqI/YGVn7CogyQI/AAAAAAAAEJU/wg6grIXqTWs4lsXGjibakbVpCjmrMrQtgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/ground-kontrol-classic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--IBMjyFWBqI/YGVn7CogyQI/AAAAAAAAEJU/wg6grIXqTWs4lsXGjibakbVpCjmrMrQtgCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/ground-kontrol-classic.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>I think the neatest part, you know, apart from just about everything else there, is the bathrooms. Cool cool cool. I can hear Ms Pac-Man wanka-wanka-wanka-ing all the way through the rooms. It don't get no better dan dat!</span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Unfortunately, due to the pandemic, Ground Kontrol is temporarily closed. But when it opens again, come join me for a fun Modern but Retro Arcade night. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>And that's one of the ways we are Keeping Portland Weird.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>And so it goes<br />peace~~~<br /><br /></span></span></span></p><p></p>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-91650148056347331472021-03-27T10:13:00.003-07:002021-03-27T10:14:24.945-07:00Welcome to Another World<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KL1DEiW8YqY/YF9OR7SuDCI/AAAAAAAAEHo/JD7HupqLeNgGhcbbSKXL0MZj5lTVX0OKQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1712/momkaity2005.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="1712" height="430" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KL1DEiW8YqY/YF9OR7SuDCI/AAAAAAAAEHo/JD7HupqLeNgGhcbbSKXL0MZj5lTVX0OKQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h430/momkaity2005.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jasper and GG<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I was a little girl, I learned how to lay so quietly among adults that they would think I was asleep. They would talk openly and freely as adults rather than as adults talk when children were present. I wasn't being sneaky or evil or trying to get some gossip, I just loved listening to adult conversations. I was a very shy little girl--one aunt didn't know I could talk until she walked past my sister's and my bedroom and I was talking to my dolls. I was maybe three. So, I really enjoyed listening to their uncensored conversations. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I think this desire to be somehow a part of other's worlds is why I love books. I love the way I can find other worlds by getting lost in words and phrases. I can listen in on people's conversations. And it's way better than eavesdropping because I am invited into these discussions. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-d50qyxpEaN4/YF9U2MCOU1I/AAAAAAAAEHw/jHhm41lmimowKQHC8wnENulq18hJXwahgCLcBGAsYHQ/s791/bookmobile_195328lg292.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="633" data-original-width="791" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-d50qyxpEaN4/YF9U2MCOU1I/AAAAAAAAEHw/jHhm41lmimowKQHC8wnENulq18hJXwahgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/bookmobile_195328lg292.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As a child we always had books around. When I started first grade, the Bookmobile would come around to the school every other week or maybe it was once a month, but it was on a specific day. Teachers would take their students out to the traveling library and we could select three books. Then Mom would come pick us up--a special treat--so she could check out some books for herself. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My grandmother Nanny lived in Ontario, California--the next city over. Ontario had the largest most beautiful old library. Brick and wood and a pillar of the community. Oh it was a grand old building. The children's books were in the basement. Heaven. Those large windows and that wonderful scent of old books. By the way, that scent has been reproduced in candles! I kid you not. </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">A study was conducted in 2009 to look into the smell of old books. Matija Strlic, the lead scientist behind that study, described the smell of an old book:
</span></span></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">A combination of grassy notes with a tang of acids and a hint of
vanilla over an underlying mustiness, this unmistakable smell is as much
a part of the book as its contents. <span style="font-size: x-small;">(<a href="https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/that-old-book-smell-is-a-mix-of-grass-and-vanilla-710038">https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/that-old-book-smell-is-a-mix-of-grass-and-vanilla-710038</a>/)</span><br /></span></span></p></span></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iVl0yFaG-JY/YF9c60Rt8FI/AAAAAAAAEH4/mswnADm2j5c4Q8KRmSRj1fWBshiJ9sJpQCLcBGAsYHQ/s264/SIDEBAR-Advocacy-Why-LeGuin.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="186" data-original-width="264" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iVl0yFaG-JY/YF9c60Rt8FI/AAAAAAAAEH4/mswnADm2j5c4Q8KRmSRj1fWBshiJ9sJpQCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/SIDEBAR-Advocacy-Why-LeGuin.png" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yes, books have always been an important part of my life. They have always been a part of my children's lives and my daughter-in-law's life, as they have been an important part of my grandchild's. </span></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My grandboy had a whole slew of books at his house and at ours. Many he had outgrown; so, when there was a book drive to help less fortunate kids get books, he and I went through all these books to donate to the drive. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k_jeArfaHhQ/YF9mhe5TQMI/AAAAAAAAEII/ehd3dsTNlsI4_uaGt2rSxKYHnomUIK_XwCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/38b2f3a0fa086ce893c37816a50fc356.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k_jeArfaHhQ/YF9mhe5TQMI/AAAAAAAAEII/ehd3dsTNlsI4_uaGt2rSxKYHnomUIK_XwCLcBGAsYHQ/w200-h200/38b2f3a0fa086ce893c37816a50fc356.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">When I first explained to him that many many children didn't have any books, he didn't understand. He just shook his head with the thought of, "I mean, books were, you know, BOOKS." I went on and explained that many families didn't have extra money that would give them the luxury of buying books. With great incredulousness, he said, "Books cost money?!" With that new understanding, he dove into his bookcase here and at home, giving others two boxes of gently used books. Then we went to the bookstore and I allowed him to buy two books to donate and one for himself. He happily helped me carry his boxes to the donation station. And being pleased with himself, they took a picture of him and his boxes. Dang he was cute.<br /></span></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">March is National Reading Month. </span></span></span>What made me think of all this today is that I received an email from the Toys for Tots Literacy Program. They are asking for donations so that kids can get the books they need, "...</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">so that children have a fun way to close the reading gap and help
improve their academic success, while also sparking their imagination,
exposing them to new worlds, and setting them on a path to a lifetime of
learning—a critical way to help break the cycle of poverty."</span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K8OFjeStPxU/YF9htIixd7I/AAAAAAAAEIA/yYQ7UajlX1YsP5IWZJQfpQgLAGJPlZVvwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2400/beverly-cleary-te-main-210326_9c22665556e24dc4f8268e65d323c3b3.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="2400" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K8OFjeStPxU/YF9htIixd7I/AAAAAAAAEIA/yYQ7UajlX1YsP5IWZJQfpQgLAGJPlZVvwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h200/beverly-cleary-te-main-210326_9c22665556e24dc4f8268e65d323c3b3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Author Beverly Cleary<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">With life in general, and especially during this year of sheltering-in-place, we often get wound up in our own issues and worlds, forgetting something small like a child's book can make a huge difference in someone else's life. With the recent death of children's author, Beverly Cleary, we can remember our own love of children's books, our own love of becoming involved with other children--those next door kids and those other world kids. I urge you to take some time, grab a book, and listen in on those amazing conversations.</span></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And so it goes<br />peace~~~<br /></span></span></span></span></p><p></p><p></p>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-48288636534118545872021-03-25T23:14:00.000-07:002021-03-25T23:14:24.594-07:00Throwback Thursday: Those Wacky 70s <span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r0F0wfH4bos/YF0yC3eDOyI/AAAAAAAAEG4/NwGKe8kKgpw4lwCAHkAjQntWSo6TzILigCLcBGAsYHQ/s800/1983.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="629" data-original-width="800" height="315" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r0F0wfH4bos/YF0yC3eDOyI/AAAAAAAAEG4/NwGKe8kKgpw4lwCAHkAjQntWSo6TzILigCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h315/1983.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was a beach hippie girl in the 60s. And then I accomplished something I always wanted: I became a mother. My adorable two children were my world until the mid-70s when we then became a statistic. I was now a single mother with no working skills. </span></span></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I searched for a government program that could help me gain skills, thus income, and found one that helped me become a Special Education aide with Portland Public Schools.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">The late-spring of 1975 when my divorce was final. I had met a nice man while I was taking the city bus and we started dating. Well, mostly we hung around my living room during the break he had between his morning shift and afternoon shift while my sons were gone, listening to music and talking. I was a pretty naive young woman--married at 18 with not that much dating during high school, mother at 19, divorced at 25. But even this naive young woman wondered why we never we out to a movie or dinner or something. I suspected he was married...but he said no when I asked. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8x9HBs4_YgI/YF014LOPUsI/AAAAAAAAEHA/2n71i_arlHEx0uBgdqQBBPoGdSAzKX9WACLcBGAsYHQ/s800/gordon-lightfoot-e1581412431274-800x324.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="324" data-original-width="800" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8x9HBs4_YgI/YF014LOPUsI/AAAAAAAAEHA/2n71i_arlHEx0uBgdqQBBPoGdSAzKX9WACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/gordon-lightfoot-e1581412431274-800x324.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He did take me out on a real date a couple of times. The biggest date was when we went to dinner and saw Gorden Lightfoot in concert. I've seen Lightfoot a couple of times since, but this time was very special. My first concert on one of my first dates since I was divorced.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">The two of us spent lots of nice time together but interests waned and we started seeing less of one another. My kids were home from school on summer break and I started dating a few others.</span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yF44q17ris4/YF06STQ0NDI/AAAAAAAAEHI/cfvq08ABHzoAhoubmnpPWd-sqj8AdkO7ACLcBGAsYHQ/s280/BobCarolTedAlice.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="280" height="241" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yF44q17ris4/YF06STQ0NDI/AAAAAAAAEHI/cfvq08ABHzoAhoubmnpPWd-sqj8AdkO7ACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h241/BobCarolTedAlice.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Out of the blue I received a phone call from him. He said that he and his wife were back together but they were into swinging. I believe I said, "And?" I mean what did I care? Why was he calling me? I said, "It might be better if you called a priest rather than me if you have a confession to make." He laughed and said that the Swingers in his group were almost always couples but a few trusted singles are invited. Was I interested? Hmmmmmm....no.<br /></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And life moved on. I would still giggle with my neighbor, Nellie, about how trusted I was. But other than that, I didn't give him much thought. Oh, I'd run into him when I was out and about and we'd chat a bit. We remained that kind of friend--friends that were pleased to see one another but had no interest beyond that--for quite a while.<br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Forty years later...I recently looked him up on Facebook out of curiosity. And there he was! Turned out to be a real right wing political guy, angry at people like me. You know, bleeding heart liberals heh heh heh. But I left him a message anyway, asking if he was the same man who worked at a specific place in the mid-70s. Heard nothing for months. *shrug*</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And then today he replied that he was who I had asked about and why did I ask? Seemed to me that he didn't know who I was. So I explained. I said that he was the first man I dated after my divorce in the 70s and I just wanted to thank him for being such a nice transition into a new part of my life. I appreciated his role.<br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LHTxjxJxwzs/YF1wmfbkRfI/AAAAAAAAEHQ/ikrL8bPbQb8SRAzVhk6ueMZisaBSQtkiwCLcBGAsYHQ/s628/1978.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="590" data-original-width="628" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LHTxjxJxwzs/YF1wmfbkRfI/AAAAAAAAEHQ/ikrL8bPbQb8SRAzVhk6ueMZisaBSQtkiwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/1978.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"I'm sorry. You must have me confused with someone else. It happens all the time.*"</span></span></span><p></p><p><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"You think maybe there is another person with your name that was working at your place of business in the 70s?"</span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"No, there is no one else who worked there with the same name."</span></span></span></p><p><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Hmmm...we went to a Gordon Lightfoot concert and often listened to his music at my house."</span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Look, I was married in the 70s and I haven't been to a concert since Woodstock."</span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Hmmm...okay sure whatever."</span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I really did think I was more memorable than that LOL but I guess when you are a cheater, you have to keep the story of your life simple. *Especially when you often get mistaken for someone else.</span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-11vok8YrNrY/YF15wkwa09I/AAAAAAAAEHY/wpyg8ZSVs8wVI8L05IKStCkXgIjDbi1NgCLcBGAsYHQ/s600/199136_1953047224323_3992130_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="452" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-11vok8YrNrY/YF15wkwa09I/AAAAAAAAEHY/wpyg8ZSVs8wVI8L05IKStCkXgIjDbi1NgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/199136_1953047224323_3992130_n.jpg" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yessiree, those 70s were wacky. Between fading psychedelic rock, punk rock, funk, and disco...between swinging and AIDS and notsofreelove...between the killings at Kent State and Watergate and the Women's Movement and Black Power.... And the changes to the American Way Of Life from the spillover from the 1960s revolution.... Yeppers, way more going on than my first dating experience *wink*<br /></span></span></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And so it goes<br />peace~~~<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p></p><p></p>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-12277070137988858572021-02-24T18:29:00.000-08:002021-02-24T18:29:08.751-08:00The Adventures of Repairing a Vintage Quilt<p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eV034z0cOug/YDcEBlyx_uI/AAAAAAAAEFA/s4QGiFj_MBIu3o8C0896q_KEgSf3Dbj7wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/grammaqui.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1624" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eV034z0cOug/YDcEBlyx_uI/AAAAAAAAEFA/s4QGiFj_MBIu3o8C0896q_KEgSf3Dbj7wCLcBGAsYHQ/w508-h640/grammaqui.jpg" width="508" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My grandmother left me with wonderful memories. She knew what little ones wanted and needed and never held back her love. She made animal pancakes for Sunday breakfast, even though she knew her youngest (me!) would slop syrup on her dress. I frequently walked down to the little church on the corner with a damp-on-one-side washcloth under the top of my dress, keeping the wet washed spot off my skin. She knew that baking pies must include making pie-crust cookies out of the leftover crust. And she knew that little children loved making houses for their dolls, so Ernie made some fences that could be used as walls for the houses and corrals for the livestock.<br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XnYuDoIHvPw/YDbwdeNzKdI/AAAAAAAAEDQ/ucFufzIV1TcydF272f4M3bUkhBKEbTeZACLcBGAsYHQ/s600/196996_1953047704335_7617761_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="436" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XnYuDoIHvPw/YDbwdeNzKdI/AAAAAAAAEDQ/ucFufzIV1TcydF272f4M3bUkhBKEbTeZACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/196996_1953047704335_7617761_n.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">One of the wonderful things she left me was a beautiful quilt that was made of leftover fabrics from my sister's, cousin's and my prom dresses. Lovely satin fabrics that held our dreams together in those innocent early years of our lives. This gift gave me the start of my love of quilts. I would be heart broken if anything happened to my Gramma Quilt.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">So when my friend told me that she had a wonderful soft, comfy quilt that her 97 year old auntie had made for her, I was so happy for her. What a treasure! And then she told me the story of one of their dogs.... She was in a ZOOM meeting when she turned around and saw this naughty pup take a huge bite out of the center of the quilt! Could I repair it? I hoped I could.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Until I saw the quilt, I didn't know what to expect. Had the dog shredded the fabric? Was the bite all the way down to the batting inside? And how on earth was I going to repair this comfy treasured Auntie quilt?</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E00aUH9bSxY/YDbzUAoxGaI/AAAAAAAAEDo/Z2uszJhCr78v4bjnwHu3U-kpHVt8zsgswCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/153325062_804744430121976_1297412956037590329_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E00aUH9bSxY/YDbzUAoxGaI/AAAAAAAAEDo/Z2uszJhCr78v4bjnwHu3U-kpHVt8zsgswCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/153325062_804744430121976_1297412956037590329_n.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GEowJn1WqMA/YDby1HLRKuI/AAAAAAAAEDY/yhePej3jrEcgRjtLYVAQVGs9982WI3Y3ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/154316594_905055953368720_1477006894563249040_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GEowJn1WqMA/YDby1HLRKuI/AAAAAAAAEDY/yhePej3jrEcgRjtLYVAQVGs9982WI3Y3ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/154316594_905055953368720_1477006894563249040_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Boy howdy! It was a through-and-through! And I really </span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">didn't know</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> how on earth I was going to repair this comfy treasured Auntie quilt! So it sat on a guest chair in it's bag for quite a few weeks until I finally asked around, got some advice, thought about it, and eventually jumped right in.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fEEqfAperL8/YDb1VKYTaMI/AAAAAAAAEDw/jSn1ZBUPXt85rBQAXjm5i1KThArn4rf5QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/154397307_425321458750642_1507591894104537167_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fEEqfAperL8/YDb1VKYTaMI/AAAAAAAAEDw/jSn1ZBUPXt85rBQAXjm5i1KThArn4rf5QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/154397307_425321458750642_1507591894104537167_n.jpg" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">First thing I did was remove all the damaged blocks and some of the undamaged ones in order to square it out. I had to undo some of the hand-quilting in the process. I was cleaning up the lines, in a sense. </span></span></span></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then I dug through my fabric scraps, looking for fabrics that were more vintage-looking in colors </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">similar to the original quilt's colors</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Before I started sewing, I had to write out the pattern of colors and whites so when I put the rows in the patch together, I would still get those beautiful "Round the World" lines. When it all seemed to work together, I sewed the rows together and set the patch aside. I had more howthehell work to do.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l18IuyMsEjA/YDb3wau45AI/AAAAAAAAED4/Re05CsFwAsgKPgjichjhrTcvuht_c72CwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/154371644_807363456525508_5891330779624363604_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l18IuyMsEjA/YDb3wau45AI/AAAAAAAAED4/Re05CsFwAsgKPgjichjhrTcvuht_c72CwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/154371644_807363456525508_5891330779624363604_n.jpg" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Okay, now how to repair the batting? After checking out the undamaged batting, I realized it was a different type of batting than I used. It was thinner and squishier and probably a higher polyester content than my cotton. I needed to take a trip to the fabric store to test out the batting available. Once the batting was purchased, I put a piece of paper under the doggy-hole and drew the batting hole. This way I could attach the right size of batting to patch up the hole. I had to trim up the "dog-food" batting, cleaning up the lines.<br /></span></span></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZB3-yEJSANc/YDb4zUx5MfI/AAAAAAAAEEA/n7euwx3J4YkE4WVJa4MeL8KDsUMvttSfACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/152898423_261039088966428_3903500655385577743_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZB3-yEJSANc/YDb4zUx5MfI/AAAAAAAAEEA/n7euwx3J4YkE4WVJa4MeL8KDsUMvttSfACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/152898423_261039088966428_3903500655385577743_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Cutting the batting to the right size, a size that could overlap the edges, I hand sewed the batting patch onto the batting. </span></span></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iVqfdtNgfRg/YDb5YBf2TPI/AAAAAAAAEEI/GVfZc4irAg4TWr7erYIKQ3e2O340OFeEwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/154603389_1144698485983054_1608885192023690897_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iVqfdtNgfRg/YDb5YBf2TPI/AAAAAAAAEEI/GVfZc4irAg4TWr7erYIKQ3e2O340OFeEwCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/154603389_1144698485983054_1608885192023690897_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Once the batting was completed, I could then applique the pieced patch over the doggy door on the front. I needed to applique the patch onto the front because I could not get a good open lip into the remaining edges. What I mean is, I could only get the patch to lay on top of the quilt rather than in between the edges. The applique went together quite easily. Having the correct sized squares (2.5" squares) helped make it an easy part of the project.<br /></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-26-MeO2HEdY/YDb5YNCN2SI/AAAAAAAAEEM/0tv0u_IVRwEuVPPa6_GvJmzvjGQvbvWQgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/154357309_788040608471766_2613043597227782025_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-26-MeO2HEdY/YDb5YNCN2SI/AAAAAAAAEEM/0tv0u_IVRwEuVPPa6_GvJmzvjGQvbvWQgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/154357309_788040608471766_2613043597227782025_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></span></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Remember that the puppy didn't stop with just the front and batting. That little imp went all the way through. Now I had to deal with the backing. The vintage fabric was a muslin that had beautifully aged to a soft yellowish-white. I tried to find a fabric that looked similar, but the choices were either too yellow or too white. I selected a muslin as close as I could, knowing it would show up against the original backing. Ya takes what ya gots, right? I also figured the new muslin would age as well.<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C625e5I7JnM/YDb9nfyI48I/AAAAAAAAEEY/QHvN0Sp3uvUzGbMfldih1FwY-F7NAThXQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/154132870_2244151272389535_684970500055585401_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C625e5I7JnM/YDb9nfyI48I/AAAAAAAAEEY/QHvN0Sp3uvUzGbMfldih1FwY-F7NAThXQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/154132870_2244151272389535_684970500055585401_n.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">After cleaning up the edges of the backing, I cut the new fabric larger than the doggy door backing, turned it under one fourth of an inch, and pinned it to the backing. I then appliqued the patch to the back. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_8ZGxIJKveU/YDb_JLaV1oI/AAAAAAAAEEg/UcB9SFD1Nc0uvz45CNq4fTSO0Gn8EFK-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/153588928_1020483838360628_7911574885678673444_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_8ZGxIJKveU/YDb_JLaV1oI/AAAAAAAAEEg/UcB9SFD1Nc0uvz45CNq4fTSO0Gn8EFK-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/153588928_1020483838360628_7911574885678673444_n.jpg" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Well, then I needed to quilt the repaired area. If I knew how to hand-quilt, it would have been a perfect skill to use in this situation. Alas, I have never learned. My cousin only quilts by hand. Her advice to me was that "you are the machine and your hand is head that is holding the needle." It sounded rather like a zen moment. But no, I did not become one with the machine. Instead I clumsily machine quilted it all together in a bit of a heavy-handed way. But it looked pretty good. Yay! </span></span></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My friend was happy and I learned a great deal. If you don't turn it over and see the not-yet-aged muslin in the back, you can hardly tell there had been a naughty pup in this beautiful quilt's past. <br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ImRuynpQ7oc/YDb_9K88oMI/AAAAAAAAEEs/L2FcPEq0v24JroOTrGYr-fapXJCdrT-BgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/124190216_650600665605799_2198249226303390279_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ImRuynpQ7oc/YDb_9K88oMI/AAAAAAAAEEs/L2FcPEq0v24JroOTrGYr-fapXJCdrT-BgCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/124190216_650600665605799_2198249226303390279_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>And so it goes<br />peace~~~<br /></span></span></span></span><p></p>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-11850105754810113342021-02-11T18:58:00.060-08:002021-02-11T19:13:58.698-08:00Don't Let the Old Woman Out<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3nepIO091d0/YCXixco-clI/AAAAAAAAEBc/W5EXqfYZOdE0BeGdNtPzDgjpSnL99QyOwCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/47d53f00d1ac0c171246f2b8a1fc30a4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="441" data-original-width="640" height="440" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3nepIO091d0/YCXixco-clI/AAAAAAAAEBc/W5EXqfYZOdE0BeGdNtPzDgjpSnL99QyOwCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h440/47d53f00d1ac0c171246f2b8a1fc30a4.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I recently read an interview with James Brolin. He was the dreamy doctor on Dr. Welby, MD in 1969. He had recently turned 80 and was going strong. He said he looked in the mirror and realized he was older--wrinkles and crinkles and such--but remembered something Clint Eastwood (90) had once said, "Don't let the old man out." And Brolin decided to run with that.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I look in the mirror at age 70 and see the wrinkles and lost lips and crinkly eyes. When COVID hit, the government called my age group "elderly." That label was a shock to me and all in my high school friends! We spent many days on Facebook discussing and disagreeing with that label. My grandmother, when she was in her 80s, was asked over the phone if she was "elderly;" she answered, "Well, I'm not 90 yet."</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">We know this stuff. We know not to let the old woman out.<br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t0gC2MXWqdc/YCXloKcuf2I/AAAAAAAAEBw/qr0TLe6ayc0xK1qF7hcY8ePdWOUTMoaFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s816/d700f6ea9b157a491e376a86a00b5ca0.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="816" height="554" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t0gC2MXWqdc/YCXloKcuf2I/AAAAAAAAEBw/qr0TLe6ayc0xK1qF7hcY8ePdWOUTMoaFgCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h554/d700f6ea9b157a491e376a86a00b5ca0.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Today I had a ZOOM get together with my sister and cousin. We laughed and laughed for over an hour. We were as young as we will ever be again. Laughing and frolicing. I know that I can't get up off the floor easily. I can't walk well nor fast because of some balance issues. I can't imagine hang gliding nor bungee jumping, like some of my older friends can. But hey!</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C3tGcmzxW8I/YCXo0D6GYiI/AAAAAAAAECI/aDVCQAd-C5kdlNvQiE1OA8A8-w1km26IQCLcBGAsYHQ/s334/oldout.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="243" data-original-width="334" height="291" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C3tGcmzxW8I/YCXo0D6GYiI/AAAAAAAAECI/aDVCQAd-C5kdlNvQiE1OA8A8-w1km26IQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h291/oldout.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">I can bake a great pie, make a terrific dinner, enjoy the snow falling around my house (I love snow, as a concept). I can happily sing with good volume, write an essay, make a quilt. I can do stuff that younger women can't because I don't care if I'm seen as silly or what. 'Cause I ain't gunna let the old woman out! While I can, I'm going to laugh and bring others giggles and snorts and be silly and act the fool--no differently than when I was 16 or 32 or 45. I'm going to try to live a happy long life. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v3k_4nyx2dY/YCXtXIiFADI/AAAAAAAAECc/yI9QgDZq9BAp7_dHW_kAMwRCtkWEpNLvgCLcBGAsYHQ/s840/old-troublemakers-card-10.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="578" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v3k_4nyx2dY/YCXtXIiFADI/AAAAAAAAECc/yI9QgDZq9BAp7_dHW_kAMwRCtkWEpNLvgCLcBGAsYHQ/w275-h400/old-troublemakers-card-10.jpg" width="275" /></a></div>Years ago--when we were in our late 20s--a friend and I, while visiting his grandmother at a nursing home, heard over the loud speaker, " Mabel has escaped again. Please find her and bring her back to her room." We pictured Mabel racing out the open gate in her wheelchair, romping through the gated yards, and gleefully cherishing freedom with the wind flying through her hair. And right then and there, we decided that we were going to be the ones they will need to call for help to bring back. Frolicing through the hallways is always an option. I noticed that the people who smiled and connected with others in the nursing home where my mother lived her final four years of life seemed so much more satisfied with their lives than others. They weren't letting the old person out. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">So let's make a vow. Raise your right hand and repeat after me. "I will continue to play and frolic and laugh and laugh and laugh for as long as I am able."<br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">We will not let the old woman out. </span></span><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PuuZ_nrssO0/YCXuZiX6lfI/AAAAAAAAECs/4495H4NJS2MGjNgA0n5WwW_spbOBj7j6QCLcBGAsYHQ/s521/946d8c16dd516a6a112a81bea0a6fe2e.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="521" data-original-width="521" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PuuZ_nrssO0/YCXuZiX6lfI/AAAAAAAAECs/4495H4NJS2MGjNgA0n5WwW_spbOBj7j6QCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h640/946d8c16dd516a6a112a81bea0a6fe2e.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">And so it goes<br />peace~~~<br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><p></p>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-36186219056886787932020-11-26T11:46:00.001-08:002020-11-26T12:00:12.058-08:00Throwback Thursday: Thanksgiving<p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JOmdIyH8Rbg/X8AAi9yb_dI/AAAAAAAAD_s/1_rE6EaP0TUCq6oBiV8KQYmF8sKef_muQCLcBGAsYHQ/s700/FreeWant-3643.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="548" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JOmdIyH8Rbg/X8AAi9yb_dI/AAAAAAAAD_s/1_rE6EaP0TUCq6oBiV8KQYmF8sKef_muQCLcBGAsYHQ/w502-h640/FreeWant-3643.jpg" width="502" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As hard as it might seem to believe, I was a shy little kid. Looking at pictures of holidays and family celebrations, I was the little </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">wide-eyed deer-in-the-headlights one</span></span> sitting with the cousins. See, we didn't get together with cousins and aunts and uncles often--mostly just holidays--and I didn't know them well. I knew and loved our grandmothers, but the rest were just not part of our every day life. Plus, I was the youngest in my mother's family with the oldest about the same age as my mother. I was the second youngest in my father's family. Everyone seemed older than me.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Thanksgiving was the holiday of food and family. Some years we'd spend Thanksgiving with my father's family; some years with my mother's. And some years one of the grandmothers would eat dinner with the other's family. The meals were usually at a grandmother's house, but every so often we'd have the dinner at an uncle's or an aunt's house. Once in a while at our own.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Both families were so completely different than the other. At our Nanny's house, they would set up the table in the living room--the big wood table over by the door and the kids' table closer to the kitchen. There was always lots of talking and laughter. The picture in my head is of my Aunt Wilma half-standing as she is passing a dish across the table to my uncle, talking to and looking toward another aunt on her right. Then as she sat down, she was licking her fingers from the food she passed. It was lively and happy. </span></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lDDLpoUO06o/X8ADpcZzlXI/AAAAAAAAEAA/zFEOq-VImkAo6C83cy97dn_2X2laimjtQCLcBGAsYHQ/s750/67857c6c50cf71f01ad43709076d0c65.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="750" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lDDLpoUO06o/X8ADpcZzlXI/AAAAAAAAEAA/zFEOq-VImkAo6C83cy97dn_2X2laimjtQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/67857c6c50cf71f01ad43709076d0c65.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">At our gramma's house, the meal was more interesting. Not in the liveliness of the conversation because I never actually remember hearing them talking. I'm sure they did and had great conversations and laughter, but the little kids' table was outside! It was really cool. Gramma had a wonderful old two-story house with a wrap-around porch. The window from the dining room was facing the porch and that's where we had the kids' table! So the window was open, a food tray was between the inside table (a gorgeous ebony table that had a white plain table cloth with a lacy one over it) and the window and the outside table. I loved it! So we could eat and be silly and no one had to ask us to be quiet-they-can't-hear.<br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MKyaoPjmALM/X7_0Dva8r1I/AAAAAAAAD_U/7ucvE38Cv54W8wSowKp_OlO60g6qupswwCLcBGAsYHQ/s600/1950s-greaser-ducktail-hair-for-men.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MKyaoPjmALM/X7_0Dva8r1I/AAAAAAAAD_U/7ucvE38Cv54W8wSowKp_OlO60g6qupswwCLcBGAsYHQ/w200-h200/1950s-greaser-ducktail-hair-for-men.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">At Nanny's after dinner, the old cousins and the dads would head out to the side yard for a smoke. My sister and I, being some 15-20 years younger than the cousins, didn't join them. They scared me with their white t-shirts and ciggies rolled up in the sleeve, their hair slicked back in ducktails, talkin and laughin. We little ones just stayed away, peeking at them when we could without being seen. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">At Gramma's, the cousins were generally closer to our own age and we would play games. One game was so fun. We would walk out to the end of the porch steps wall and jump as far as we could. Sometimes we would climb up to the porch wall itself and jump over Gramma's hedge. Robert, the youngest (one year younger than me), couldn't always make it over the hedge, but he was always game to try</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As we grew up and went on our own, we had our own traditions for Thanksgiving. We lived a thousand miles away from my family. My sons had their own tradition--playing <b>Thanksgiving Day Mudball</b> with the neighbor kids out in our rain-filled side yard. Some might call it "football," but it was too muddy and splashy for us to give it that name. My sons sometimes went to their father's for the holiday. I might be invited to a friend's for dinner at those times. If I was dating someone, perhaps we'd join his family. When I started working at the corner store, I would usually work on the holidays. And we'd always celebrate with a fresh-baked pie :)<span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lyari0yHaxI/X8AE49-YzOI/AAAAAAAAEAU/rS7hrpZspKQ45ZmFi-b3G8xQKCprj_51wCLcBGAsYHQ/s866/doris.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="866" data-original-width="765" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lyari0yHaxI/X8AE49-YzOI/AAAAAAAAEAU/rS7hrpZspKQ45ZmFi-b3G8xQKCprj_51wCLcBGAsYHQ/w354-h400/doris.jpg" width="354" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The shy deer-in-the-headlight girl</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And so it goes<br />peace~~~<br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span><p></p>pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34835406.post-73156458859120649492020-11-19T22:05:00.000-08:002020-11-19T22:05:06.653-08:00Putting Toes to the Test<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OpGerqe458I/X7ckeFsYn8I/AAAAAAAAD-Y/H-Sj8rDZdOEJr2Gj2o8QMr71673n31MhQCLcBGAsYHQ/s800/shoes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="800" height="500" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OpGerqe458I/X7ckeFsYn8I/AAAAAAAAD-Y/H-Sj8rDZdOEJr2Gj2o8QMr71673n31MhQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h500/shoes.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>I've been taller than most all my life. I think I was born tall. I always liked being tall, except when kids called me Jolly Green Giant or asked, "Hey! What the weather like up there?" I always wanted to say, "Grow up and find out!" but I was afraid I would hurt their feelings and just said, "No rain yet!" or something similar. So it wasn’t that I was sad or unhappy I was tall; I just didn't want to be teased too much about it. Like I was a freak or something. It was especially hard when in high school, you know like before the boys got their growth. Seemed like they loved to be the protector over a cute tiny girl. Oh well, I eventually dated and life went on.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Having a tall body meant I had large feet. No two ways about it, my feet were big. No one in our town, while my sister and I were in late elementary and junior high school age, sold shoes the size of our feet; we had to ride into Los Angeles to buy our shoes. Buying shoes was a big deal. The shoes cost a bit, so Dad told us to "take big steps." That was so, he said, the shoes would last twice as long. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wl5FfzaORZE/X7cUtNtkFyI/AAAAAAAAD9o/WYIRwSwxHboaz_NTu_nHbMRNUVUYNKjFwCLcBGAsYHQ/s529/Saddle-Shoes_267fe8b8.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="529" data-original-width="472" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wl5FfzaORZE/X7cUtNtkFyI/AAAAAAAAD9o/WYIRwSwxHboaz_NTu_nHbMRNUVUYNKjFwCLcBGAsYHQ/w358-h400/Saddle-Shoes_267fe8b8.jpg" width="358" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Mom loved the look of saddle oxfords. I hated them. Not only that, but she loved the sparkling look of white bobby socks with all-white oxfords. Her taste wasn't very reliable because she also loved the look of our hair in a ponytail--no bangs--pulled tight on our head. I hated that, too, but that's a whole ‘nother story. I hated bobby socks. First, no one was still wearing bobby socks. Secondly, no one was still wearing saddle oxfords. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The final straw was that the ugly bobby socks with the super ugly all-white saddle oxfords looked like BOATS on our gigantic feet. We couldn't even have two-toned saddle shoes to break up the walking film-screens! Just white. Big ole white boats. See, we were already big girls; now we had to wear these clodhoppers. I was afraid that people would scream as we approached, worried we would stamp down all buildings and trees, people as we stomped our way through town.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gh8Wo3faSDE/X7cb7TWojNI/AAAAAAAAD-A/Dl583WyXycUi_2Q6ahCGlE9-7VfTxjr2QCLcBGAsYHQ/s800/30.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="800" height="267" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gh8Wo3faSDE/X7cb7TWojNI/AAAAAAAAD-A/Dl583WyXycUi_2Q6ahCGlE9-7VfTxjr2QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h267/30.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1930s saddle shoes<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Here's the thing about saddle shoes. They used to be really popular. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">They got their name from the saddle-like shape of the piece of leather sewn
across the waist of the shoe, usually in a contrasting 2-tone color. They debuted as a woman’s fashion in the 1920s. First they were for male golfers—the black and white went with their golf outfits—back in the 1910s. But by 1920s, women really liked this casual wear and took them over as their own. In the 1930s, Spalding—the company that made the shoe—started making the shoe "depression affordable" By changing the composition of the sole—from rubber to cork—and the style continued. </span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ao7DVCGrmd4/X7cjzQXyetI/AAAAAAAAD-M/B35HuNwKQ9AbteLtPSix_1gc13KtFxbjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s800/50s.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ao7DVCGrmd4/X7cjzQXyetI/AAAAAAAAD-M/B35HuNwKQ9AbteLtPSix_1gc13KtFxbjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/50s.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1950s Bobbysoxers<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">By the 1950s, the style hit its full peak of popularity. They were so popular and comfortable that housewives wore them to do their chores. School girls wore them day and night. They wore them with their poodle skirts. They wore them with jeans. They wore them with white bobby socks. Perfect for dancing and playing and sitting in class. </span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And then came the 60s and the style tanked. </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The 1960s was a decade of rebellion. We were eager
to forge our own path and balked at the traditions of our parents.
The saddle shoe fell victim to this trend. The iconic black and white
shoes were now seen as a symbol of the establishment that we '60s teens
were rebelling against. The popularity of the saddle shoe dropped
drastically. <br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yIZmlwgD1aI/X7cvLyAT56I/AAAAAAAAD-8/Fu7oixqyhe8kme7ChyjmxTawSBTFpaDkACLcBGAsYHQ/s570/il_570xN.2387271562_pv36.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="570" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yIZmlwgD1aI/X7cvLyAT56I/AAAAAAAAD-8/Fu7oixqyhe8kme7ChyjmxTawSBTFpaDkACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/il_570xN.2387271562_pv36.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Unfortunately, Mom didn't understand this. Unfortunately, Mom loved the look of all-white saddle shoes with turned down white bobby socks. Also unfortunately, I hated them. I would take off my socks on the bus to school so I at least didn't have those stupid bobby socks that no one else wore. My sister says, "Yes, two of us would get on the bus wearing socks and only one of us would get off the bus at school wearing socks." W</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">hen I could buy my own clothes, I bought some flats with pointy toes and tried to wear those. Never again would people scream in fear that their town would be stamped to the ground! </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Of course, my feet were still too big for those flats, but dangnabbit I was going to look like everyone else!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gGkdRKzYQec/X7csljONFsI/AAAAAAAAD-o/tEBjLI6fpfAR0OV1m-ejmJP2-6EcOLNcACLcBGAsYHQ/s1426/IMG_0549-Version-2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1426" data-original-width="1166" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gGkdRKzYQec/X7csljONFsI/AAAAAAAAD-o/tEBjLI6fpfAR0OV1m-ejmJP2-6EcOLNcACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0549-Version-2.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And then I went farther than most. I tried to go to school barefooted. Yeppers, I had some cooooool barefooted sandals that really fooled them for a couple of days. And then *sigh* I was once again sent home to change my clothes. But if I actually returned to school, I wasn't wearing any stupid saddle shoes!</span></span></span></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I still have big feet. I was told that a tall person needs large feet to hold them up. With little feet they would simply fall over. No base...it's all about the base. But also know I still don’t like the looks of a saddle oxford. Boats can sink; bare feet rule.</span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And so it goes<br />peace~~~<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><br />pollyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05029984743142857736noreply@blogger.com3