A Door Wreath for Lucille

I'm not sure how we got on the conversation, but a couple weeks ago, I asked Beau if his Mother still had that same wreath that I had made her three years ago.  He said yes, and it was quite sad looking.  I told him the next time I was in Hobby Lobby and they had floral on 50% off,  I would pick up the makings and create a new wreath.

Well, made a quick stop at Hobby Lobby yesterday to pick up a bag of plastic pellets.   I promised I'd only be 10 minutes (Beau is not a Hobby Lobby fan and is waiting in the car).   And, of course, floral was on 50% off, so my 10 minutes turned into 20 while I grabbed up wreath makings.

I've been knowing MIL for 20 years now.  I learned that she was two-faced very early in our relationship.  We took her to a Mardi Gras parade and she saw people she knew.   She went over to them, hugged,  kissed and spent a good 30 minutes talking with them.   When she came back, the only comment she had was how fat and ugly one of the ladies was. 

It's been like this through the years.  With the exception of one son, someone in the family was always 'IT'; the one not in favor.   For their designated time,  very ugly things were said about 'IT'. Some might say she is elderly and  but she knew what she was doing as she'd frequently follow up with the standard 'Don't tell anyone I said that'.  

After Katrina, she came to live with us for 4 months while her neighborhood rebuilt / repopulated.  Two years later she fell to great arthretic pain and needed help bathing and dressing, doctors appointments and such; staying with us a couple more months. It was during this time, that we stopped allowing her to talk bad about others.   It was a slow process.  She'd say something ugly about 'IT' and we would disagree with her, reinforcing how much we liked 'IT', etc. etc. etc.    She didn't like this much.

She moved to assisted living in 2009, a great move for her in that it gave her companionship.   She now had a group of ladies who, over lunch and afternoon coffee, could designate their IT's and tear them apart as group activity.   We continued to see her regularly.  We would pick her up every Thursday, take her to the grocery, then bring her to our home for dinner. 

It was here, dinner, that my final stand took place.   We were talking about the items left in her house and she indicated that she didn't care what happened to them; throw them out for all she cared.   I asked her if we could have one of the couches (for our son's apartment) and she said No.   At this moment, I realized We, or perhaps just Me, had been IT for sometime.   By having her over weekly, we continued giving her new material.   We weren't the ones who took her in, cared for her, entertained her, developed faithful routines involving her.  And yet, we were the ones she talked ugly about to the rest of the family and her friends. 

I was deeply hurt.  I told her how I felt.  Beau took her home.   After that, all the routines stopped.   I waited for months for an apology.   And, then, one day, I didn't care anymore that I would be her forever 'IT'.

 (Uh oh, looks like the camera finally bit the dust)

I suppose I volunteered to make the wreath as I am sorry that Beau has to go and visit her weekly alone.  In retrospect, I hope she doesn't think it is a peace offering.   

I hope I don't volunteer to do this again.

Wish Upon a Star Applique Wallhanging and Food Story 1

 I selected Wish Upon A Star Quilt Wallhanging from my inventory as my next 'Adventures in Sewing' project.     It looked a great beginner pr oject.  

The pattern called for tracing the appliques to make the pattern pieces (versus cutting out the paper pattern), but I photocopied instead.   I discovered a short time later that step is not necessary as the fusible web is fairly see-through and you can just lay it over the pattern and trace.   I managed to get everything cut out and the applique in place before lunch.   The picture has rosy cheeks, and there was not such template ib the pattern sheet, so I just cut little circles.

 After a little practice and a few unmentionable words, I finally got the zig-zag function on my inferior machine figured out got the outline stitching done.

I hauled it back to my workbench to read up on putting in the eyes and the rest of the features and OH WOE IS ME ... I can't find the instructions.    I looked all around my room, at this stack and that.   Went through the recycle as well as the garbage, twice.   Checked the bathroom, kitchen, refrigerator, the other bathroom.   Everywhere I'd been and no ... I can't find.  This type of thing drives me to distraction.   I know that I should be able to figure it out from here, but the plan was to follow the directions, learn what needed learned, before I start freelancing. 

So, it's on the back table, awaiting the return of the instructions.   They will probably be there tomorrow.  

I started clearing my workbench when the CD Changer brought a Simon and Garfunkle song.   This got me to thinking ....

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I started the 6th grade in El Cajon, Ca, where I quickly learned that the only thing worse than being short and fat, with red hair and freckles, is being all of that while wearing a dress. California girls do not wear the standard dress or skirt to school as did Oregon girls, but instead have fun tops and pants.  Even if we could have afforded these clothes, Mother believed girls belonged in dresses.

Mother and I lived with Penny, her best friend from High School, and her much older daughters, Marcy and Diane.  Fortunately, for me, the apartment was only 2 blocks from my school.  This allowed me, along with a note, to go home for lunch.

I loved being in the apartment alone for that 45 minutes each day.   Typically, I made a bologna sandwich with a side of ice cream.    I'd put an album on the record player.  Growing up, my mother had music; 1000 string instrumental Lawrence Welk kinda stuff.  But Marcy and Diane had lots of other music.   My favorite, at the time, being Simon and Garfunkle.    I'd turn up the volume, much louder than would have been allowed, and I 'd sing.   I knew the words to every song.  I'd sing as loud as the music.  During pauses, I'd have bites of my lunch.    And then, I'd shut it all down, putting the album carefully back into the cover (as I'd never received permission to touch them), and I'd go back to school.

It was one such lunch and I was belting out the 'la la la' chorus of The Boxer, when I realized I wasn't alone.  Marcy had appeared, and without even cracking a smile, turned down the stereo, and disappeared back to her bedroom.   I thought I was going to die.   I thought I was going to get in trouble for playing with the record player.   I thought I wasn't going to be able to come home for lunch anymore.  

That night I waited for the reprimand.   I knew that Marcy would tell her Mother, who would tell my Mother, who would proceed with The Talk.    But, it didn't happen.

Instead, Marcy took up singing The Boxer, slightly under her breath whenever I was around.  And, whenever I came home for lunch,  I checked the rooms before I put on the music. 

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Thanks for dropping by,

Lorrie