You Can Call Me Gwen

It's a bird, it's a plane, it's SuperGwen!

 

I was in my studio this weekend, working on a little project for the birthday of one of my favorite superheros.

My workdesk looked like this:

 

 

I just love having my iPad to keep handy when I'm using tutorials like this one from Georgia Leigh.

I love generous bloggers who freely share their wonderfulness, too.

Other things I love are...

 

 

...the free and generous supply of old blueprints I use for drafting patterns, and...

 

 

...finding the fabric I need for cheap (sometimes in the form of a pillowcase) at the thrift store.

I love to applique (since UnderWonder and Heat'nBond were invented).

 

 

And I really love little boys.

I got to thinking about little boys while I was working on this reversible cape.

 

 

 

And I got to remembering the little boys who wore the superhero capes I made in the past.

They really believed they were soaring when they jumped (off the couch??) with their capes on.

They really believed they could run faster in their new "fast shoes".

I just love that about children.

And I'm wondering if there isn't something to the idea that performance really is affected by the way we dress.

I don't think it would be a difficult job at all to make a Gwen-size  superhero cape.

And, maybe, if I wore one, I would have super powers to help me see - and do something about - the things that are being neglected while I sew superhero capes.

Maybe, just maybe, if I was SuperGwen...

 

...I could save a life.

Dick Tracy Day

Last Friday we went to the OKC Art Museum  to see "Sketch to Screen: The Art of Hollywood Costume Design.

Considering all the other amazing clothing and sketches which are part of this exhibit, you might wonder why I chose to draw Dick Tracy's hat on the Inchie which represents our visit.

 

 

 

I have good reasons.

I have lots and lots and lots of good reasons.

I have an entire box full of reasons.

When the movie came out, lo, these many years ago, we were visiting family in Arizona.

Our three oldest boys were treated to the movie as part of their vacation.

Movies didn't happen too often for them 'back in the day'.

And they went Dick Tracy crazy.

They started collecting the Dick Tracy trading cards.

 

 

They collected (multiple sets of) the Dick Tracy action figures...

 

 

...which they kept in their Dick Tracy collector's case.

 

 

They cut out, and memorized, the profiles from the action figure packaging.

 

 

They memorized the Entertainment magazine issue devoted to the Dick Tracy movie and it's stars.

 

 

They bought Dick Tracy postcards.

 

 

 

They wore Dick Tracy shirts...

 

 

...and Dick Tracy underwear and socks.

 

 

They had Dick Tracy pajamas, and belts, and scarves, and sandals...  

 

 
 
 
...and they wore their Dick Tracy shoes until there were more holes than shoe.

 

 

 

And one holiday, when Prince Charming was off work, we woke the boys with music from the movie and told them it was "Dick Tracy Day".

We'd baked a cake and we'd mounted posters for decorations.

The cake had action figures from both sides of the law, shooting it out from behind graham-cracker walls.

They were surprised, and we were happy.

And then they grew up.

And the Dick Tracy cards and magazines, and belts and shoes, and shirts and underwear, and action figures and postcards, all went into a cardboard box.

And the cardboard box went into the attic.

I don't know why we kept it all.

There are many other precious things which were not saved.

But, my goodness, we've got Dick Tracy.

And we've got sweet memories.

And we still see traces of those three little boys sometimes. 
 

They Survived

Me Darlin' Mither is going to have her first visitor staying in her new guest room tonight.

I am packing up the car with the big pillows and coverlet for the bed, and a new lamp for the little dresser.

I'm also taking a vase of flowers from the yard.

 

 

The crepe myrtles are loaded with blooms, and the monkey grass we planted in the little strip out front supplied  three lovely purple stems for the big vase.

Size doesn't matter with such gorgeous color, so I also filled the little vase Miss Helping Hands donated last week.

 

 

And when I saw the big vase of crepe myrtle blossoms right next to the little vase of crepe myrtle blossoms, I remembered a funny story.

One Saturday morning years ago, when we were all much younger, I asked Sam-I-Am to trim up our twelve-foot crepe myrtle for me.

"Everything from three feet down needs to be cut off."

"Okay, mom. I'll do it."

Later in the day, when Prince Charming returned from chauffering the girls to music lessons, he called me at work.

"Honey, did you ask Sam to trim the crepe myrtle?"

"Yes. I did."

"Did you give him any instructions?"

"Yes. I did. I told him to cut off everything from three feet down."

"Well, I just want to warn you, so you can be gentle with him when you come home. He was so proud of himself for doing such a big job for you."

"What happened?"

"Well, the crepe myrtle is now three feet high."

We laughed.

We called it 'crepe murder'.

And we laugh about it every year when the tree blossoms again.

Heck No Techno

My computer has been down for a day or two after being invaded by a worm - according to Techie, who I am very grateful to have 'on staff' in this operation.

Let me just say that I do not understand 'virtual' worms, or the 'virtual' world inside a computer for that matter.

When Techie starts talking to the Prince and I about our technical problems, he uses a foreign language.

He's very smart, and I'm sure I frustrate him.

I once told him I was thinking about taking a computer class at the local vo-tech.

He got so excited to think I wanted to know about his world that he said, "You don't have to take a class, Mom. I can teach you."

"Um. Okay."

"Want to start now?"

"Sure."

He pulled up a screen for me to read.

I read the first paragraph and asked a question.

"Oh. You don't know that?"

"No."

"Oh. Okay."

He pulled up another screen-full of information.

"Maybe you should start here."

I read a paragraph and asked a question.

"Oh. You don't know that, either?"

"No."

"Oh. Okay."

He went 'back' a little further and pulled up some new material for me to read.

I read two sentences and asked a question.

"Oh. You don't know about that?"

"No."

His next words came without a nanosecond pause.

"You might really enjoy a class at the vo-tech."

Yep. He couldn't even back up far enough for me.

No Sleeping Bags, Motels, Rest Stops, Fighting in the Car

I went to the library with Miss Mary Mack last Tuesday evening, after we'd both spent the day doing chores.

 

 
 

It's summer time and the livin' is easy.

And when the livin' is easy, I don't want to run out of easy reading.

I checked out some Zane Grey westerns, one of Fannie Flagg's books, Paradise Lost, and Slaughterhouse Five by Vonnegut.

I only got the Vonnegut title because I've never read any of his work and I want to understand the references to him next time I hear/read them...they've cropped up so frequently lately that it's taken the bliss out of 'blissfully ignorant'.

(If you need to warn me, go ahead.)

Anyway, I got to thinking about the olden days, when I would take all six of the shoots to the library every two weeks and let them check out their limit of reading material.

If I recall correctly, we usually brought 56 books home each trip.

So you can imagine my alarm the day I discovered we'd somehow managed to lose a week and had returned our books exactly seven days late.

A library fine of that size blew a substantial hole in our finely-tuned budget during those years.

I'm sure it meant a few more meals of rice and beans or 'essence of chicken' soup.

During those busy home-schooling years, our time was as carefully spent as our money, and the kids loved to go to the library.

So, when the dentist asked one of the girls at her yearly check-up if she was going anywhere, or doing anything special on her summer vacation, she didn't know why he found her reply humorous.

"Yes. During the summer we get to go the library as often as we want, and we get to stay there as long as we want."

No motels.

No tents or sleeping bags.

No "She's touching me!" or "Are we almost there?"

Yep, those were our cheap and stress-free vacations.

And we still take 'em.

Touché!

Creative Genius decided to celebrate his birthday with a party for family and friends at Oklahoma City's oldest bowling alley last Friday.

 

We got "our kicks on Route 66", but it was a bittersweet experience to bowl at the landmark 66 Bowl for, what may have been, the last time.

The family-owned and operated business was recently sold, and will soon be an Indian grocery store.

Alas.

At least our last memory of the place will be a happy one.

We had a really good time for a bunch of non-bowlers.

And today, as I was thinking back over the fun and conversation, I remembered a little "incident" from eight or nine years ago which had to do with bowling.

I had gone to buy some paint from Sherwin Williams (for years he was the other man in my life - until I met Benjamin Moore and Ralph Lauren).

The salesman decided to make polite small talk as he carried the paint to my car.

"So. You like to bowl?"

(What?! Who on earth starts a conversation with a question like that?)

"Um. Well. I guess. But I don't bowl very often."

"Oh. I just asked because I saw your license plate."

"What license plate?"

"The one on the front of your car."

I opened the car so he could put the paint in and went back to the front to see what he was talking about.

This is the license plate that was on the front of my car:

 

 

I'd never seen it before.

I told him so.

I also started laughing.

I told him I was sure my teenage boys had put it there as a prank.

That evening I casually asked the boys if they were busy on the coming Friday night.

"No. Why?"

"I thought maybe I could take you bowling."

"What?"

"I thought maybe you'd like to go bowling with me."

"Is there a special reason you want to take us bowling?"

"No. It's just that...you know...I love bowling."

The lights suddenly came on.

"Mom, we put that license plate on your car three months ago. You're always saying men are so oblivious to things (new haircuts, changes in the wall color, furniture rearrangement, etc.). We thought we'd see how long it took a woman to notice."

Oh, snap.

Mary Telephones

In the early days of our nearly thirty years of pediatric visits, on the walk from the waiting room to the exam room we would pass the desk of the lovely lady who took our many calls to the doctor.

On her desk was a name plate which read "Mary-Telephones".

Our beloved pediatrician retired many years ago, but Mary Telephones (as I learned to think of her)has been answering our calls to one, and then another, pediatrician's office all these years.

Until last Tuesday.

Last Tuesday I had the privilege of attending Mary Telephones' retirement party.

 

I had the privilege of thanking her again for being "a kindness in our world" since our first shoot was a toddler.

We reminisced.

We talked about all the changes there had been in the clinic over the years.

The office is no longer open on Saturday mornings for 'emergency' visits, as it once was.

But, during those days, we were some of the Saturday morning 'back door' visitors fairly often.

Several of our six shoots had chronic ear infections.

One Saturday morning I was in the waiting room with the three youngest shoots; ages 2 months, 2 years, and 3 years.

After 15 minutes of studying us from across the room, a young mother of one asked me, "Are all those kids yours?"

(If only I'd collected a quarter for every time I was asked that question...)

"Yes. And there are three more at home."

"Oh, bless your heart! How do you do it?"

"I stay home. All the time."

"Oh, goodness! You need a break. You need someone to come watch them while you go to Target by yourself and just browse around or something."

"Lady, I don't need someone to come watch them so I can go to Target by myself...

...I want someone to come watch them so I can go to the bathroom by myself."

Are you a cutter or a shredder?

"Oh, darn! It won't fit in the bag."

Something about the way one of the college shoots put away her leftover, late-night frozen pizza yesterday reminded me of a story from back in the "old days".

Back when Naomi was still predominant.

I had a friend who was a Creative Memories consultant, and when she saw the way I had "stored" our family photographs, she told me I could be her poster child for "what not to do".

She couldn't live with the thought of what was happening to our precious pictures, so one day she came over to make a first attempt at bringing them to order.

She brought several plastic totes/bins full of supplies and spent the day showing me how to get the photos in chronological order.

When it was time for her to leave, I asked Techie to help her load her things into her van.

He grabbed one of the crates and followed her out to the van.

After she'd loaded the things she'd brought out, she came in for more while Techie tried to fit his crate in among the other boxes.

She was surprised to see him still struggling to make the box fit when she returned.

"Oh, Techie. Just shove it in there."

"I didn't do that because my mom always tells me, "The rule is: If it doesn't fit, don't force it."

"Oh, really?

"Know what I always tell my kids?"

"The rule is: Beat to fit, paint to match."

Techie nearly fainted.

Years later, when my Seester and her grown daughter were painting her kitchen, I remarked about how fast they seemed to be getting the job done.

Her daughter said, "That's because we're shredders."

Shredders?

"You're one of those people who goes searching for the scissors so you can carefully cut the tags off of new purchases. You're a cutter. We just yank 'em off. We're shredders. And it takes less time."

Don't tell Naomi, but...

Gwen is a shredder, and she beats to fit and paints to match.

Hungry? Eat a project.

 

Did you, or someone you love, enjoy this book as a child?

How about as a grown-up?

I loved it for the art.

Today I love it because I, also, am hungry all the time.

I wish that eating through all the things I'd like to eat through would do for me what it did for the caterpillar.

Alas.

I think not.

But there is another reason I'm looking at this book today.

Back when our last three Shoots (Ps.128:3) were in elementary school, Beanie Babies were all the rage.

The Shoots were raised commercial free, though, and that had a couple of nice side effects.

They read books.

That's one.

And, though they heard all about the latest rages at school, they usually made up their own minds as to whether or not they liked a thing.

That's the second.

They liked the Beanies.

But they didn't care about the brand.

So, when I found a big sale on Beanie knock-offs one summer, I splurged on a nice big bunch of them.

Everything from ladybugs to fish.

And I did not give them to the Shoots.

I did not even show them to the Shoots.

I checked out children's library books of the nature kind.

One to correspond to every Beanie I'd purchased.

Read a book, get a Beanie.

That's the way it was.

Reward or bribe?

You decide.

This is the decision I made this week:

I want to drop my next toy for The Toy Society at the library.

That's what got me thinking about those Beanies.

So, yesterday I checked out this book and read it.

 

"On Monday he ate through one apple. But he was still hungry."

 

And today I raided my scrap stash.

 

"On Tuesday he ate through two pears. But he was still hungry." 

 

And I made some plans...

 

"On Wednesday he ate through three plums. But he was still hungry."

...of the sewing kind.

 

 

 

 

Which will have to wait.

Because I have to go to the grocery store now.

To get some things to eat through.

Leftovers. Edible or not.

Back in the day, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and there were six minors in this house majoring in eating, we used to have one meal a week we just called C.O.R.N.

I can't say anyone loved Clean Out Regrigerator Night, but the first ones in line at the bar usually didn't hate it.

I think.

And if anyone complained, I'd just just say:

"Look. I've been feeding you for 16 (or 15, 13, 10, 9, 7) years.  Aren't you full yet? "

There aren't any strappers around here these days, and Prince Charming is...let's say...resistant to leftovers.

And I hate waste.

So, I quit cooking.

And I started blogging.

Now I have leftover photos.

Images from along the way that defy categorizing or I've simply forgotten to include elsewhere.

They've been stored safely, so they should be okay to take in.

Guess who I'm going to serve them to?

Bwahahaha!

 

Do you ever think about how many stories-without-words you read in a day?

Some of the stories are scary and kind of sad, like these.

I never take this (rather sharply-curved) off-ramp without feeling badly for the drivers who wrote these stories.

 

 

And does anyone else feel heightened anxiety when they get stopped in traffic directly under an overpass? 

I sure do.

And it doesn't help anything to be sitting there looking at crumbling concrete and exposed rebar. 

Sometimes, the world scares me.

 

 

And sometimes there are unexpected bits of cheer.

This one was on the wall of the OU Children's Hospital.

 

 

And so was this.

All the framed art on the walls there is done by children.

This one had no signature, I'm sorry to say

It is done in pointillism, minus the color.

And it is sooooo very cool.

I wanted it.

Bad.

 

 

I don't remember why I took this picture, but I LOVE THIS TOOL!

This is a glue-tape gun.

I've actually never come across one in a store, but you can find them online here.

I don't know what I did before I had this given to me by one of my wonderful friends.

Gee.

Good tools and great friends.

Life is good.

 

 

Sometimes.

This is the final tally (Prince Charming took over when he returned from the salt mines) from the tracking I told you about here.

I keep repeating to myself, "A righteous man careth for the needs of his animal." (Prov. 12:10)

But it does say man.

And who's defining needs?

 

 

I made this again this month.

You should try this recipe if you like to bake bread.

It's simple.

It's delicious.

You can easily modify it for conventional mixing and baking.

And you can add an egg wash and some coarse salt for extra beauty and flavor.

You won't be sorry.

Gosh.

I'm licking the screen.

Leftovers aren't so bad after all. 
 

Blackheart the Postman

 

I've been stitching and stuffing these little Valentine felties this week while Prince Charming and I listen to a series of talks from these good people.

 

 

I'm not sure what is driving me to mix blue with my standard red and white this Valentine's 'season'.

 

But I do know what drove me to include the black heart.

A little bit of guilt.

Mixed with a whole lot of laughter.

I'll tell you about it in this little story we'll call "Blackheart the Postman".

There is a good reason the title is not "Blackheart the Letter Carrier", as you will see.

 

Blackheart the Postman

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away in a nearby city, there were four little boys and two little girls. They were sick of having to pose for pictures cheerful little childen who lived in a overcrowded cozy little home with...

 

 

 

...their two under-prepared gorgeous, young parents.

As our story opens, the youngest boy and his two little sisters are fighting over playing sweetly and quietly with their building blocks and dollies.

The three older boys are sitting at the dining room table fidgeting and grumbling dutifully laboring over their school books.

Their overwhelmed stunning and brilliant young mother is teaching them how to carry to the ten's place, sound out the "ough" phonogram, and say their spelling words in American sign language.

The little boys are so sick of enthralled with their studies that when the postman is seen approaching their mail box, they all shout, "Can I go get the mail? reluctantly, though selflessly, ask, "Mother dear, shall I bring in the mail for you?"

Their distracted sweet and gentle mother gives permission to leans upon Techie, the eldest.  She is never ever fair and just in dispensing asking favors, having no idea, a sure knowledge of whose turn it is.

Techie walks as slowly as possible eagerly to, and then from, the mailbox. He knows this may be his only escape from the school desk he will benefit from the fresh air and will return to his studies with increased aptitude .

He returns emptyhanded and mumbling.

"Blackheart."

"What did you say darling?" says his wary patient and understanding mother. She knows that Techie and his brothers sometimes try to get away with saying things they shouldn't are waiting for something they ordered to arrive.

"He didn't leave us any mail, so I called him Blackheart," Techie confesses.

"I see," says his mother.  "That is a very funny name. You have chosen wisely, Grasshopper Techie."

And, so, from that time forth, the postman was always referred to as Blackheart when he failed to carry a letter to the four little boys, two little girls, and two news-starved generous and talented parents who lived in the crowded little cottage on 15th Street so far, far away.

And he still is.

The end. 

 

I'm sorry, Blackheart.

We know it's not your fault.

But we still blame you.