Deja Vu All Over Again

Image courtesy of https://askgramps.org/deja-vu-related-pre-existence/

I don't know if any of you remember that little episode in Brogan World about 9 years ago when I had this little cancer thing and Captain had the hip deal.

And during his recovery he copped an attitude and I had a mental breakdown.

No?  That's okay, it was just a blip on the radar in the grand scheme of things, right?  The cancer was gone, I had new big, beautiful boobs, Captain had a shiny new hip that didn't have a monkey wrench in the gear sprocket, i.e. massive bone spurs.  It was all good.

Done and dusted, right?

Well, sort of.  Before anyone hits the panic button, the cancer is NOT back, ease your minds there.  However, the universe decided I had apparently been entirely too vain about the bodacious ta-tas that I...in my own words...finally "earned" after lamenting about baby boobs my entire adult life.  

Don't even question if karma will come around and kick your butt, because she will.  

Last fall, I developed cellulitis in the right breast and ended up in the hospital for two days getting IV antibiotics just in case it was seeded in the implant.  Thankfully, it was not, and I was dismissed home on oral antibiotics to continue my life per usual.  

Then two weeks ago when I was sitting in the KTTC parking lot after my taped interview for Midwest Access, I noticed some swelling and warmth on that right breast again.  When I got home, I took out my black Sharpie and drew a dotted line around the circumference of what I perceived as redness.  

I sent Captain a text telling him to come home for lunch sooner than later, and I returned to work.  When Captain arrived for lunch I flashed him, and he told me to get on the phone and get an appointment becuase that redness wasn't just my imagination and it was now outside the line I had drawn.  

Joy and rapture. 

I was able to secure an appointment that afternoon where the doctor confirmed a cellulititis, and hey...this time there was stuff oozing out of the incision line that needed to be cultured, and I needed a stat ultrasound the next morning to assess for an abcess.  In the meantime, I was to start two different oral antibiotics to start treating the cellulitis.

Oh goody.

I went to the ultrasound the next morning which, thank God, did not show any sort of abcess that needed incision and drainage.  Recommendations were to continue the oral antibiotics and to watch out for increased redness, tenderness, warmth, drainage or fever. 

By suppertime that night, I was running a fever, so we packed ourselves off to the emergency room.  They registered me, took blood, put in an IV, and we sat in the waiting room for H-O-U-R-S!  When we finally got called back to an exam room and talked to all the people and got poked and prodded some more, it was determined that because the cellulitis had recurred within six months in the same breast/implant, the best rcommendation was to have the implant removed.

I sort of figured that was coming and was in 100% agreement.  I told myself and Captain that I could totally rock the uniboob lifestyle.  So for the second time in my life I got an ambulance ride from St. Mary's to Methodist Hospital to be admitted for IV antibiotics as well as surgery.  

I was holding up, honest I was.  I was my usually chirpy, goofball self.  God had my back, I had the best surgical care in the world, and there were a lot of people WAY worse off than I was.  It was all good.  

Until. 

Why is there always an "until" when all of our best laid plans getted knocked to hell and back?

Until the surgeon said that for a whole bunch of reasons, I would need to have both implants removed during the surgery and have what they call a flat closure.  That means no boobs.  None.  

I have never in my life even approached being a girly girl or being all that vain about my looks.  I never wear make up, I don't dress stylishly unless I get hand me downs from Gammy, and I insist on a low maintenance hairstyle because I just don't care that much.  

Given that history, I shocked myself by having a great big sobfest after the surgeon left because once the surgery was over, I wuldn't look "right" anymore.  Then that little self-pitying worm worked it's way into my brain, "this is what you get for being so vain about your implants.  They were becoming too important, so you need to have them taken away."   

I knew it was stupid, and even if I hadn't realized that, my sister by heart told me in no uncertain terms that it was the stupidiest thing she'd heard me say.  

But there it was.  So all I could do was pray over and over and over and over, "Please God, don't let me  be a whiner.  Don't let me be a whiner."  

And He hasn't.  Much.  I've been bucking Him on that a little bit.  

Anyway, the surgery went very well, and I am recovering as expected.  I am off through the middle of July to let it all heal up.  

In the meantime, Captain had an MRI of his right knee which has been bothering him since we got that last big snowfall this spring.  Turns out he has a torn meniscus, a partial fracture of the kneecap, an effusion, and a Baker cyst.  This will all require surgery.  

Here's the deja vu part.  The last time I was postoperative from major surgery and Captain was recovering from major surgery, it did not go well.  I was mean to him without realizing it, and I wasn't very nice to myself either, to be honest.  But at the time, I didn't realize that a major depressive episode, i.e. nervous breakdown, was fairly common after major surgery so I didn't recognize any of the signs.  

My hope and prayer is, and please join me in those prayers, is that this time around there will be enough time between my surgery and Captain's surgery as well as enough self-awareness going on that should we start sliding toward that scenario again, we can head it off and avoid the worst of it.  

Please God, don't let me be a whiner and don't let me be mean to my husband.

Blessings, my friends!!

The Adventures of Feather Flocklear

 I have always been a farm girl, loud and proud.  I will happily wade through sloppy steer yards, bottle feed a sick calf, make parts runs, and the other myriad tasks that fall to the Assistant Farmer of the family.  In fact, 40 years ago I was an Olmsted County Dairy Princess!

That said, there is one thing I swore...vehemently and at the top of my lungs...I would never do, and that was gather chicken eggs.  

I did not grow up with chickens except for the black and white speckled hen that I remember sat on the handle bars of Baby Brother's tricycle while he rode it up and down the barn floor.  Other than that....not a feather on the place, so I really had no frame of reference for my dislike of these creatures.  

Maybe it was sympathetic loathing in solidarity with my sister from another mister, Veronica.  Her deep and lasting hatred of the cursed fowl is known far and wide, and us gal pals have to stick together, right?

Whatever the basis for the resistance to having a flock of feathered friends (did you like that alliteration?), there it was.  

So imagine my surprise and horror about a month ago when one of the chicken's from Captain's boss's house stowed away in the bed of his pickup and came home with him.  Given the lack of experience for either one of us, we were unable to catch the hen to return her to her rightful owner. 

Well, crap.  We are now the owners of a stupid chicken.  And she needs a name.  After much robust discussion and disagreement, we settled on Miss Feather Flocklear.  Readers of a certain age will get the reference.

Miss Feather Flocklear thought she could roost in our garage over my van, but I disabused her of this notion in a non-negotiable way, so she relocated to the calf shed.  Over the last three weeks or so, Captain has caught glimpses of her in the rafters of the back bay of the shed and in the middle bay where the extra corn stalk bales are stored.  And which, on a side note, is where mama kitty, Black Olive, has her litter of babies at the moment.  

But I digress.

Even though we saw her repeatedly in the middle and back bays of the shed, we couldn't find her nest.  We searched behind the round bales, between the walls, and around teh foundation to no avail.  

Until this morning.  Captain was feeding calves in the front section of the shed, and Lucy had her nose in the corner having a conniption fit.  When Captain investigated, he finally found her nest....with 17 eggs in it!

So today I did that one thing I swore up and down I would never, ever do.  I gathered eggs from a chicken nest.  We couldn't use these eggs as we had no way of knowing which ones were good and which were stale.  They all got tossed out into the big steer yard, which was actually kind of fun!

After my one--and I vow, only--experience of collecting eggs, I decided to leave that job to Captain from now on as he is the one who is out there every morning!  I'll cook them without complaint, but I"m not going to collect them.  I"m firm on that.

Herein lies the problem.  Because we are both chicken virgins and have absolutely no clue on proper care for the cursed fowl, we didn't realize that by taking ALL of the eggs, Feather Flocklear would not come back to that nest.  She is still here, and we assume still producing eggs, but we have not been able to locate her nest.

She has chosen a tree on the north side of the calf shed as her roosting spot, and we have searched high and low in and around the shed to no avail.  Captain even used the bush hog over the weekend to knock down the burdocks and ragweeds in the grove without uncovering (or running over) her nest.  

If anyone who actually does know a thing or two about raising chickens has a hint on how to find her stupid nest, please let us know!

Oh, and those kitties I talked about?  They are much more adorable than Miss Feather Flocklear or her eggs!  They are old enough now that they are out and about exploring the calf shed.  Georgie (the first mama cat) has retired from nursing and the kitties are eating solid food and drinking water from a dish.  Black Olive (the second mama cat) still has her litter semi-hidden in the round bales, but we have seen glimpses of them roaming further afield as well.  

But the best addition to the Brogan Ranch is a new friend for Famous Amos.  Amos is our 42-year-old donkey who is the last survivor of the group of equines we had which included a paint horse, two Belgian draft horses, and Amos.  

After the last of his herd passed on, he was lonely in his pen by himself so he would escape and travel half a mile down the road to visit the neighbor's horses.  Then he decided he was actually a holstein steer and stayed in the yard with the bovines.

On Saturday, however, we got a new friend for him from some friends of ours.  Meet Andy, the miniature donkey!  Isn't he precious??  And only those of a certain age will get the Amos and Andy reference.  

So now we have become the Old MacDonald farm of the neighborhood, and we are completely okay with that!

From Banjos to Bourbon to BBQ

 

After surviving our first night of scary ladders and full bladders, we recovered our sensibilities over coffee.  I will say, the shack was well-stocked with Keurig K-pods, so points there!

We hadn't stopped for groceries last night, so our options for breakfast in the shack was Twizzlers, oatmeal raisin cookies, or chocolate chip cookies.  While all of those are tasty options, they weren't what we wanted for the most important meal of the day.  

Out come four smart phones to see who can come up with a nearby dining facility the fastest.  Pretty sure it was a tie for JJ's Family Diner in Odessa.  Since we were more hungry than stinky, we decided breakfast first, then hygiene.  

Given our present surroundings, I cannot be blamed for assuming that Odessa was going to be a podunk backwater unincorporated collection of ramshackle buildings with one gas station (think Gomer Pyle in Mayberry), one church, and 14 bars.  

You all know what happens when you assume, so you can pin the tail on this donkey becuase Odessa was actually a thriving, affluent-appearing town that sort of put Pine Island to shame.  Color me corrected.  

We found JJ's Diner on Main Street and of the two entrance doors, chose the non-smoking one.  It's easy to forget that not all states have no-smoking laws!  If any of you happen to find yourself in Odessa, Missouri, I highly recommend JJ's Family Diner.  They had excellent food, friendly service, and reasonable prices.  

As I always do when we are traveling, I asked our waitress where she would take out-of-town guests for good BBQ.  I had a place in mind where Carol and I had eaten at during the dragon boat festival in September, but I am always open to suggestions.  Our waitress suggested Gates BBQ in Independence rather than Q39 in Midtown that I had penciled in.  Sounded good to us, so we added that to the list of things for the day.  

Back at the Shack on the Puddle Pond, we agree that none of us are amazingly stupid, so showering in the death-sentence shower was not an option, but neither was being sttinky for the next three days.  It was too cold to go rinse off in the puddle-pond, and even if it wasn't, I'm pretty sure there were radioactive sea monsters in there that I didn't want to deal with.  

Keep in mind that we are used to Minnesota state parks that have wonderful shower facilities, so this was a new dilemma for us.  However, since there was a Love's track stop just off the interstate 10 miles away that had shower facilities, we opted to go there.

I have never experienced a truck stop showering facility so I have nothing to compare to, but I will give high marks to Love's for theirs.  Granted, paying $17 for the use of their space was a little hard to swallow, but since we were in sort of a bind, we paid it.  

I don't know about you, but I tend to have great philosophical epiphanies in the shower because I'm (1) alone and (2) relaxed under the hot water.  While the Love's enclosed shower/bathroom unit was clean and neat, it was a little too wide open for my comlete comfort.  Thus, I skip the philosophizing and just got down to bathing because it was just a little disconcerting to have Captain standing there tapping his toe waiting for his turn.  

At any rate, a short while later we emerged from the showers all shiny and clean.  We poked around the store for a little bit waiting for Kevin and Carol.  Man, if Love's doesn't have something, you just don't need it!  They had everything from Skittles to the long stick things that I think were for checking the fuel level in the semi fuel tanks, but maybe they were just industrial-level wienie roasting sticks...not sure.  Again, I am not a truck stop regular.  

The only thing set in stone on our itinerary for the day was a tour of Tom's Town Distillery at 4:30 so we had plenty of time to sightsee.  AFter robust discussion of the merits between the American Jazz Museum, the National Negro League Museum, and the World War I Museum, we opted for the World War I Museum.

Our three main goals when we vacation are to relax, experience local cuisine, and learn something new.  We were ticking off the local cuisine box nicely, and we were as relaxed as we could be with lodging in Banjoland, so it was time to learn something new.

We consider ourselves fairly history literate as we watch a fair number of documentaries and such.  Nope.  We were blown away by the amount of information we did not know about World War I.  This museum was huge!  The artifact displays were organized and well documented with footnotes.  There were short films to watch for context, and replications of the trenches that soldiers lived in and fought from.  For any history buff, this is a must-see attraction!  

Once we were done at that museum, we didn't have enough time to do the jazz museum before it would be time for our distillery tour.  Instead we opted for a late lunch stop at a bar and grill we stumbled across called Cliff's Tavern.  If you ever get there, I highly recommend the macaroni and cheese!

From there we made our way a few blocks down the street to Tom's Town Distillery.  We were pretty early, but there was ample seating in the cocktail lounge area to wait.  Might as well have a drink while we're there, right?  Captain had an Old Fashioned, Kevin had beer, Carol had what amounted to a White Russian, and I had something that was supposed to have citrusy notes under the gin.  Apparently I forgot I don't care for gin.  

Friends, when your really expensive fancy drink comes with a pine tree twig in it, you know you are in trouble.  I sheet you knot, it was like drinking pine tree sap.  Blech!  But hey...I wasn't going to waste the money I spent on it, so over the course of the 45 minutes we had to wait, I choked it down.  Note to self:  you don't like gin!!

Then it was time for the tour.  This particular establishment was founded by a guy named Tom Pendergast.  He was Kansas City's version of Chicago's Al Capone.  He sort of controlled the town, particularly during prohibition.  Let the record showe that Kansas City did not have one single citation from law enforcement during Prohibition but there were hundreds of speakeasys in town.  

After the tour of the distilling room where they make bourbon, gin, and vodka, we ascended to the third floor for a short video message from the two co-owners and a tasting of spirits.  Interestingly, each had blood ties to players in the hey-dey of Tom's hold on Kansas City. The tasting was enjoyable, but I still favour bourbon over the other two.  After a quick stop in the gift shop for a T-shirt, we set off to find Gates BBQ on our way back to the shack.  

Gates BBQ reminded me a lot of the steak place that used to be where Olive Garden is now north of Miracle Mile.  Ponderosa Steak House...is that right?  Anyway, doesn't matter.  Our server at JJ's had recommended getting the sampler platter, and it was a hit!  

By the time we headed back to the shack, it was full dark.  Let me tell you, if those roads were sketchy during full daylight, they were downright terrifying in full dark!  So much so that the sight of the VRBO was a truly welcome sight when we got there!  

It was too cold to sit outside that night, so we hauled the patio chairs into the kitchen area and kicked back with adult beverages to unwind, but not so many that I wouldn't be able to get up the ladder and into the loft.  Then again, if I was three sheets to the wind and fell off the ladder, I probably wouldn't feel it.  Still, bad idea.  

We did make it up the ladder and into the loft safely once again to rest up for Day 3!

Adventures in the Land of the Banjos

Captain and I traveled this past weekend with our good friends, Kevin & Carol, to Odessa, Missouri for a long weekend getaway.  

For those of you who--like me--did not know where Odessa was, it is about 45 minutes east of Kansas City.  Nice little town with a fantastic family diner called JJ's Family Diner.  I would highly recommend it if you are ever in the area.  

Let me back up and give a back story here.  Normally we take a long weekend with Kevin and Carol during the summer to a state park but were not able to do so this past summer.  Instead, I got on the VRBO website and looked for reasonably priced rentals near Kansas City.

I happened upon a listing for a cute little cabin on a private pond with inviting ourdoor spaces and room to sleep 4 people.  Awesome sauce, I grabbed it up.  

Here's where I am going to do a public service announcement.  

For those of us who use VRBO and similar sites:  READ.THE.FINE.PRINT.  And read any available reviews.  

For the record...I failed on both of those points and relied strictly on the available images on the listing.  I mean, come on, isn't this cute?!

We headed out Friday morning and had an easy drive down I-35 around Kansas City and east on I-70.  There was the little glitch of slow-and-go traffic due to construction, but we weren't in a big hurry so we didn't stress.  

We found our exit off of I-70 and followed the instructions of Ms. GPS toward our getaway spot.  We started to get concerned when we had to "turn off the paved road."  

We really got concerned when we left the unpaved road for the driveway of our destination, and the gaurdrails over the very large culvert were made of scrap 2x4s, and the entire right railing was missing.  

When we started passing abandoned RVs and trailer houses with windows missing, we could hear faint notes from banjos.  

When we arrived at our "cabin," we realized that we were probably within spitting distance of at least one meth lab.  

Upon unlocking the door of the rental and entering, we discovered that (1) the second sleeping area required climbing a ladder--not steps; ladder--and crawling into a loft area with a mattress on the floor and (2) the murphy bed on the "main floor" took up all of the non-kitchen area, and there was no available seating.  

I was so traumatized by now that I needed the bathroom.  

Holy Mary, Mother of God.  

The shower was in a corner with the plastic shower floor insert, corrugated metal walls, and heat tape plugged in with an extension cord.  Ummm...metal, moisture, and electricity....NOPE, not doing that!

The toilet was another creature altogether.  I lifted the lid and rather than a porcelain bowl, there was a lining that looked like aluminum foil.  Well, that was interesting.  But, I have men in my life who have been ice fishing and told stories about frozen porta potties that have plastic bags that must be removed and discarded after use.  Okay, gross...but I'm no sissy.  

However, when I went to remove the aluminum foil type lining...I couldn't.  The foil lining just kept pulling out and extending.  So I did what any bamboozled Midwestern white old lady would do.  

I just twisted the liner to enclose what was in there and moved on with my life and joined my travel companions on the little covered deck outside.  There was a large glass of wine waiting for me, thank goodness!

Several minutes later, I received an in-app VRBO message from the host with a YouTube how-to video for the toilet.  Apparently it is something called a dry flush toilet, and I'll just let y'all look up that video for yourselves.  Suffice to say, if you push the right button, the machine will do the twisting for you.  However, you will never look at Jiffy Pop Popcorn the same way.  

By this time, I was ready for some sleep.  We went back into the cabin and I faced...The Ladder.  Folks, I'm not good with heights at the best of times, and these were far from the best of times.  

Up the ladder I went, one painful rung at a time.  When I got as high as I could by holding onto the ladder itself, I needed to somehow get myself into the loft which is now level with my chest and no handholds that I could find.  Turns out, the handle was over my right shoulder.  Oh goody.

I get my right hand on the handle and still have my left hand on the top of the ladder frame....now what?  I had to let go of the top of the ladder and twist my upper body to get my left hand around the frame of the loft and pull myself up and into this space.

Think obese harbor seal launching itself onto a dock, and you'll have an accuragte picture of what just happened.  

I was done.  I put my glasses and my phone on the window sill and flopped face first onto the pillow.  I don't remember anything after that.

Until.

4:00 a.m., and I woke up realizing I need to pee.  I asked myself if I could wait and not risk using the ladder and the weird toilet in the wee hours of the morning in the dark.

4:07 a.m. after much internal debate, I had to take my chances on the ladder and scary facilities.  For the record, an obese harbor seal is much more agile getting off the dock than I was getting onto and down the ladder.  Just saying.

4:10 a.m. much internal debate on if it's time to just stay up and scroll through Facebook or go back up the ladder for the potential of more sleep.  Ask anyone who knows and loves me, and they will tell you I am not a morning person.  I went back up the ladder for more sleep. 

Stayed tuned for Day 2 of our Adventures in the Land of Banjos!

Sourdough Surprises

Hello, friends!

Let me tell you, this sourdough bandwagon is a roller coaster!  At least for me, it is.  I think, maybe, that's called a learning curve.  I could be wrong, though. 

I struggled with the starter--VALLEY--but then figured that out and made a most excellent loaf of bread in my ceremic coated dutch oven--PEAK.  However, the high temps required for baking was playing hell with the coating on the dutch oven--VALLEY.  

Back to YouTube/Google/Pinterest and found out that I could use my brand new cast iron bread loaf pans to make a sandwich bread loaf.  The steam required for baking was created by placing one bread pan upside down on the other pan--PEAK. 

 

Then it was back to struggles with the starter.  I thought I was doing it all right by replacing the amount I took out for a recipe with equal parts of flour and water to feed it.  Meaning, if I used 1/2 cup of starter then I aded 1/2 cup of flour and 1/2 cup of water to feed it.  After several days I ended up with...soup--VALLEY!

Back to YouTube/Google/Pinterest and realized that I needed to measure out what I needed for my recipe, measure out enough to keep an active starter, and discard the rest of it--PEAK.

I'd been wondering why everyone was always talking about sourdough discard--VALLEY!  Once again my ADHD brain and selective reading flubbed me up.  You have no idea how many tests I could have done better on if I'd slowed down and read more thoroughly.

So I "reset" my starter over the weekend and, lo and behold, I have a lovely active starter on my counter again!  I also have a discard jar in the fridge because apparently there are a bazillion recipes that use sourdough discard--PEAK.

I am using my new, active starter this morning to make cinnamon swirl bread which is a particular favorite of mine!

In between struggling with the sourdough journey, I have been expanind my crafting skills with my new-to-me Cricut Explor Air2 machine.  I made Bigger a T-shirt and Nugget a little onesie over the weekend, plus I made some Valentine cards to send to people.  I am d-i-g-g-i-n-g this stuff!

My sewing machine isn't sitting by idly, don't worry!  I've made several patchwork quilts that are crib-sized or wheelchair sized that I will find homes for at some point.  I have a larger quilt that is more of a couch throw size but I need to buy more batting to finish that one.  

On the sewing journey, I figured out how to completely dismantle the machine so I could clean it.  I found an entire community of dust bunnies in there--no wonder it wasn't working at peak performance!  

Crocheting is still my first love and passion but I was sidelined from that for a couple of months due to severe carpal tunnel symptoms.  However, with a steroid injection and scheduled chiropractic treatments, I am back in tip-top shape for, as Cubby calls it, "yarning" again. 

Who is holding down the domenstic fort while I dabble in all of these extracurricular activities?  That would be Captain, as always.  He still does all of the grocery shopping and the cooking, and our robovac named Izzy does the bulk of the sweeping.  I don't contribute much to the minutae of daily living in our house, and I am grateful every day that Captain enjoys picking up that slack. 

Oh geez, I almost forgot this!  Gardening is once again occupying space in my brain.  I ordered some seeds a couple of weeks ago, and they arrived over the weekend.  

Because the raised bed experiment last year went so well, we are planning on a second raised bed this year, and I am going to plan some cucamelons--also known as Mexican Gherkins.  They are cucumbers that look like gumball-sized watermelons that taste a little like lime.  

We decided to go back to Blue Lake pole green beans this year.  The bush bean varieties just didn't work in our soil, and we need more green beans!  

For flowers, I ordered Flowering Tobacco seeds because I can never find those in stores.  They are so pretty and fragrant and don't smell a thing like tobacco, thank goodness.  

I also ordered butterfly and hummingbird annual seed packets to try.  We do love our hummingbirds around here, so we are hopeful.

I know the rodent meteorologist predicted six more weeks of winter--gee, observe my shocked face--but knowing that spring is closer every day makes me happy.

Sorry for the long ramble; blessings to you, my friends!

 

Sew Many Projects, Sew Little Skill

When I was a teenager in a land long ago and far away, my dad bought a new Viking sewing machine for my mom with the caveat that I would inherit it someday.  For the early 1980s, this was machine was state-of-the-art and could do anything but file your taxes.  

It did all the basic stitches plus about three dozen more that I didn't even know existed and had no clue as to why you would use them.  This, my mom said, is why they have sewing classes at Matzke's Sewing Center.  

And I just realized I have dated myself seven ways from Sunday with that name.  But I digress.

Mom and I faithfully attended the weekly classes for the six or eight weeks they were offered.  Mom soaked is all up like a sponge.  Me, I was teflon and absolutely nothing stuck.  But I powered through because I was in the sewing project in 4-H and had taken a sewing elective at school.  

I was...okay, brutal honesty here...I was barely competent, and that was only because I didn't have the patience to try and get better.  The seam wasn't quite perfectly straight?  That's okay, it's in a place that no one will notice.  The old "it's good enough" mindset that I operate on most of the time was my enemy once again.  

That was okay because about that same time, I met this guy and no longer had time for lame domestic pursuits such as sewing.  Disclaimer:  Captain did NOT tell me I had to give up sewing or any other domestic activity to be in a relationship.  I just figured I had way better things to do than fabric crafts.  

Fast forward a few years, and that guy and I are now married and living on his family's home farm near Pine Island.  There is an elderly neighbor lady who geniusly uses the backs of worn out jeans to use as liners for potholders.  Since Captain provided her wtih dozens of pairs of worn out jeans, we were the recipients of many of these potholders, and I loved them!  

In fact, I loved them so much that when our neighbor passed away, I got the bright idea that I could take over that project because I would never run out of worn out jeans and I could borrow that fancy-schmancy sewing machine of Mom's!

While both of those things were true, I quickly discovered that I was still enslaved by that "it's good enough" mindset.  I did manage to make a dozen or so adequate potholders that I think I gave as gifts one Christmas, but I realized that the sewing machine was much more practical in my mom's possession than mine. 

I've talked about this before, but it's worth repeating.  My kids were the envy of the playground because my mom patched their britches, not just with square denim patches.  Oh no, she could do much better than that.  Bigger's britches that had holes in both knees came back with a brown polyester baseball bat on one knee and a white cotton baseball, complete with red stitching, on the other knee.  Molly's hot pink snow pants that had a hole in the butt came back with a green terrycloth pine tree patch.  

She made beautiful heirloom quilts for all three of her kids for their wedding and for Bigger when he got married.  She could make clothes, curtains, and Halloween costumes.  She was an absolute whiz with a sewing machine.  

That's why by the time the machine came to me when Mom had to enter memory care, it was completely worn out.  I wanted to get it fixed, but the model had been discontinued years earlier and parts were hard to find on top of being insanely expensive.  So the machine was retired and given a proper burial, and I put away thoughts of being the next Betsy Ross.  

Then, several years ago, a friend was helping his parents downsize, and his mother had a sewing machine that needed a home.   I decided that I had matured enough now that I could do a sewing machine justice, so I brought it home.  When I opened it up and took one look at all the doo-dads and gee-gaws on it, I was immediately intimidated and put the cover back on it to wait a while to try it out. 

I finally got up the gumption to tackle the potholder project again since I had a pile of worn out jeans in my closet that needed to be used.  I bought some clearance sale cotton fabric and thread and got down to it.  

Remember I said I took sewing classes at Matzke, did 4-H projects, and a high school sewing class?  Yep, those were all decades ago, and it took me almost an hour to figure out to even thread the dang machine!  The pride that I felt from accomplishing that was quickly doused when I realized I had to wind a bobbin and couldn't even find the bobbin holder  much less wind the thread around that way!  Luckily for me, the owner's manual was right there in the case and 45 minutes later I had a full bobbin of thread.  

Then I remembered what the worst part of using a sewing machine is:  threading the needle!  I had trouble with this 40 years ago, and my eyesight hasn't improve any since then.  Good gravy Marie, there has to be a better way to do this than blindly stabbing the end of a spool of thread toward a teeny-tiny space that is (1) hard to see and (2) hard to maneuver around.  But I rose to the challenge and got it done with much gnashing and wailing.  

I was off to the races.  I had the fabric cut to size and pinned together, so I placed it on the machine, put the presser foot down, and stepped on the foot feed.  I even remembered to backspace a couple of stitches to anchor the seam.  I kept the fabric straight and was halfway along the seam when the needle broke.  

So.Many.Bad.Words.  I dragged the owner's manual out again and figured out how to change the dang needle, but now I had to thread the freaking thing again!  I swear, I would pay someone millions of dollars to come up with a stress-free way to thread that stupid needle!

After successfully changing the needle and threading it, I made it to the first corner.  I remembered to stop with the needle down so I could make the 90-degree turn to make the next seam.  I managed to sew three side seams in neat, straight seams.  I also remembered to do that back stitch thing again to anchor the seam.  

I got the fabric turned right-side out and used a needle to pull the corners out so they weren't all bunched up and messy.  I got the denim lining inserted and pinned down.  

And then my brain just shut off.  I was looking at that last side that needed a seam, but now the fabric was right-side out and I couldn't just sew the edges together...even I knew that much.  But I couldn't for the life of me remember how that got sewed shut neatly without doing it by hand.  That would be a deal-breaker for me.  

Bring on the YouTube videos!  I ask you...what did we do before YouTube?!  It's saved my butt more times than I can count, and this was no exception.  I followed the instructions and had a nice potholder!  So exciting!

Then I decided to go rogue because apparently I know considered myself some sort of expert.  Yeah...no.  

I decided that it would be much smarter and efficient to attach the denim BEFORE turning the potholder right-side out.  It was great in theory but made the corners so bulky that I couldn't get them to lay neat and flat to make a 90-degree seam.  I had to settle--it was that old "it's good enough" gambit--for making a 45-degree seam at each corner.  It turned out...okay, but nothing I was terribly proud of.  

Back to YouTube to see how other people might approach the whole denim-line potholder conundrum.  I ran across a video that seemed to maybe offer a workable solution.  Instead of folding a piece of 14x7 inch fabric in half to make a 7x7 inch square into which a 6x12 piece of denim folded in half to a 6x6 inch square was inserted and sewn in, this pattern had two 6x6 inch pieces of denim sewn together and then laid on the wrong side of a 7x7 inch piece of fabric.  Then the 1/2-inch edges of the fabric were folded in half, pressed, and folded in half again and then top-sewed onto the denim to give a lovely 1/4-inch border.

At this point, I realized I needed some sewing accessories if I was going to do this thing right.  I made a trip to Michaels and got a cutting mat, a rotary cutting wheel, straight pins, an iron (which I have never owned in my life) and fabric.  Now I was committed!

Well heck, I could do that!  Except...once again going rogue...I sewed the double layer of denim to a 6x6 inch square of one fabric and then used an 8x8 inch square of a different fabric to create the opposite side plus the hemmed border.  That one is probably the best one I've done so far but was much more labor-intensive than I had figured on. 

Anyway, short story long, I am trying to channel my inner Mom and do neat, precise work that I won't be embarrassed to share as gifts.  Wish me luck, and if I gift you a slightly wonky potholder, please don't judge; maybe next year's attempts will be better.  

In the meantime, my delusions of grandeur are telling me that I could maybe attempt a small quilt.  Stay tuned for that debacle!

  

Loved To Death

Image courtesy of YouTube

I'm going to throw this out there as a heads up for you:  if I give you a crocheted blanket, I expect it to be used.  I do not expect it to be put behind glass or on a hanger as display.  They are made to wrap you in comfort, love, and peace.  Make note and don't forget.  

My mom and I disagreed on this.  She made us a beautiful quilt for our bed when we got married.  I put it on the bed.  Over 10 years or so of use and washings, it started to show its age, and I would find small tears in it.  When I asked Mom is she could mend it, she got mad that I hadn't taken better care of it....preserved it, if you will.  Why wouldn't I use something that's useful?  It didn't make sense then, and it still doesn't.  

I am only pondering this now because over the weekend, I received a text message from Captain's aunt.  She was visiting her daughter and grandchildren, and her oldest grandson brought out the blanket I made for his baby shower 10 years ago.

The text said "Can this be fixed?  Easton is very sad about this." and was accompanied by this picture:

Friends, this made my heart so happy!  That might seem contrary to what would be expected, but this kid literally loved this blanket to death!  They say the sincerest form of flattery is imitation.  Nope, I saw the sincerest form of flattery is a beloved blanket in tatters from use.  

I replied to Captain's aunt that fixing it might be possible but I would have to actually see it to know for certain.  Since Easton's family lives over an hour away, the timeframe for this to happen was uncertain.  

However, two days later I had to make a parts run for Captain that would bring me within minutes of Easton's house, so I texted his mom and asked if she would be home so I could look at the blanket and probably take it with me.  Yes, that would work fine.  

Unfortunately, the blanket had come apart from the middle out rather than at an edge, so there was no fix to it.  I explained that the yarn used originally was still in production and easily available, so I could deconstruct the blanket, get some new yarn to crochet a new blanket and then use the old yarn as the border so that Easton would have part of his beloved blanket still with him. 

When I got home, I started the deconstruction process, which was much more complicated than I had expected because it hadn't come apart in such a way that I could just unravel the blanket.  I had to undo each stitch individually going backwards until I hit a joining knot that would then allow me to unravel it.  

Once I was able to quickly unravel the yarn, I soon ended up with a coconut-sized ball of yarn plus half a dozen little piles of the yarn I had undone stitch by stitch.

  

This is where the project currently is at a standstill until I can get to Hobby Lobby to get new yarn.  Plus, I have another idea for a surprise for Easton that I can get at Hobby Lobby.  Retail therapy....YAY!

I hope that there comes a day when I get another text, maybe from Easton himself, that says "Can you fix this?" with another picture of a tattered, well-loved blanket.  

If I have ever made a blanket for you, please know that prayers and love are included in every stitch, and my sincere hope is that those prayers and love wrap up with you under your blanket.  

Blessings, my friends!