swansroost

Take Aways From A Visit To The Past

This past weekend I visited with one hundred people who fifty plus years ago were my whole realm of existence. It was “the high school reunion.” It was a roller coaster ride. It was eye opening. It was mind bending. It was a celebration. It was a memorial. It was exhausting.

**The long weekend began with a certain mindset while keeping all the possibilities open.**

The class of 1976 was much larger in number than the folks who gathered this weekend. I made mental note of those not present, many of who I would have greatly enjoyed reconnecting with. I connected with people that I barely knew then but who I have since come to “know ” via sharing on Facebook and such. Also, too many who I mourn the loss of and wishing they were here, and knowing that they would have enjoyed the event.

Relationship [ri-lay-shuhn-ship] Noun 1) a connection, association, or involvement.Synonyms:kinship, alliance, dependenc 2) a connection between persons by blood or marriage.Synonyms:consanguinity, affinity 3) an emotional or other connection between people.the relationship between teachers and students.

Landscaping my refrigerator after a day that started with a monring bike ride, then dinner with old and new friends and drinks (burbon, neat). The wealth and breath of my life illustrated on a few shelves in vibrant detail.

Typically of mostly more than middle class, many of us journeyed elsewhere, furthering education, buidling new connections and lives. NOTE: See my post from 10 years ago ReVisiting….

I am 23 years at this address, my home, in a small community that has seen many changes in recent years. Change happens and the older you get the more you realize that you cannot push against it but learn how to work with (or around!) it. But, what struck me most profoundly this weekend was how very much I value my circle of life, roots, my homebase. Being able to see the very same view, travel the same roads, and sometimes know the same neighbors for a life time has a sense of groundness and stability that warms my heart. It’s generational. Is that Legacy?

The Take Aways:

**Trees Talk. Trees Look Out for Each Other. Trees Make Room. Be a Tree.**

“Smart Casual” dress code these days mostly means that my pj bottoms match my pj tops. And here I sit; unmatched.
I haven’t changed my clothes so often in one weenend’s time in as long as I can remember. 3 pair of jeans in 3 days! Usually it’s…..well…see #1above.
My lanudry hamper runneth over, so again, see #1 above.
I have a peopleing limit.
Some people you are not interested enough in to “know” (hence #4), and some you may want to just move in with. NOTE: I am not naming names but there is a mental list.
If I had a list 50 years ago (see #5), which I know I did not, it probably hasn’t changed much.
Due to advancing short term memory loss any mental list I may be keeping fades away pretty quickly.
Talking and eating is very difficult. Talking and drinking, however, is very easy. Too easy. Better if someone else buys the drinks.
I love my children. I love my grandchilden. I love my life.
I fully recognize how fortunate I am.
FDT

***A woman walked in to a bar…….after 20 plus years to see a framed art work her father had done 30 some years ago. There were tears.***

Shutting Off, or Calming the Creative Mind

My heart breaks for those in and around the raging fires that climate change has wrought. Images from a Disney movie are on replay in my head. I can still remember watching flames consume the forest as frantic creatures dashed about in panic. The adult me realizes that humans are also impacted now. But, oh my oh my, the Thumpers.

The smoke from said fires has also caused some of us with a more sensitive schnozzola to hunker down. Air quality in the red zone and rather dramatic storms caused the postponement of a local makers market.

I was stepping out to vend my wearable makes under a tent in the local church parking lot. It was to be only my second time venturing into the world of selling. Rescheduled for this Saturday, Gaia willing, I hope to have a successful event.

The postponement had me looking at a week with little on the “to do” list but not enough time to move on to the next planned projects so I set up the puzzle table.

Two days in and I discovered a few things: 1) sorting trays are awesome 2) mirror image puzzles are fun, and 3) the process of building calms my creative.

This third thing has me wondering. Building is very left brain; as is math etc. I somehow managed to spend my work life doing left brain stuff. Point of fact: when I applied my “life experience”credits to my college degree the college, much to my dismay, awarded me a science degree not the art one I was anticipating!

From this I deduce that my income generating life stifled my very soul. No wonder I hated it by year 30. And now, I have SO very much lost time to make up for! Carry on! And FDT.

Learning the Process of Creation

Part of coming of a certain age (insert number here) involves a fair amount of self realization. Who am I? Who do I want to become? How? The demise of the federal government, the shredding of the documents that define it, and the continued white washing of our nation’s history shout at the first question.

I was born in a crease in time where my generation was too young for Woodstock and Vietnam. I was aware of the events. My older brothers were at Woodstock. My older sister had a pen pal in the trenches of Vietnam. I, miffed that I couldn’t go to a “concert” and jealous when my sister received a beautiful doll from a grateful solider, was making clothes for Barbie and combing troll doll hair. I was a child of the crease.

When it became time to make grown up choices I and the world were just waking up to women having choices. While I had been earning my own money since the age of 10; baby sitting, house cleaning, paper route, I could not put that money in the bank on my own until I was 13. This was for no good reason except that I was a female.

My parents expected I should go to college, but more to find someone (read husband) to take care of me than to learn to take care of myself. While pushing me to pursue higher education they never asked who I wanted to be; who I wanted to become or why. They never took my who-ness seriously. I started college to study my one true passion, art. I was going to design costumes for the circus. Lofty goals, no high wire pun intended.

I quit college after a semester to follow my heart. Things changed and my path with it. The who became a wanderer still looking to become. I traveled. Spent time in a different country. And the paths, never expected, always creative, merged with the who I wanted to be and some becoming happened.

The creative process is different for everyone. Some may say (instert parents here) that I was lazy, a loser, a wasteral, but all the while, through all the wandering I have come to this place. I am here. I finally understand that my wandering IS the creative process. It has taken me a lifetime to see that when I listen and let the materials dictate my use and direction I create from a deeper place in myself.

These days the need to speak my truth through art conflicts with my need to be kind and understanding. Fear, I think, is wrecking havoc with my struggle to see the beauty. The available materials are screaming but the self doesn’t want to listen. Fatigue has taken hold.

But every day Hope sneaks a peek. I am a glass half full kinda girl. Cheers. And FDT.

Old Houses, Old Dogs, Old Memories

Spring is here and part of my mind is on the cleaning. Notice I say part.

From Webster (on the web): pärt
Interesting that when I tapped on the pronunciation it only said “art.” I didn’t hear the “p.” Selective listening? Perhaps. I am told by those I love that I have lost my filters. Recent hearing tests indicate that I have hearing loss. Maybe my Ps and Qs are on the way out as well?
Back to Webster. Plural – parts Synonyms of part
1a (1): one of the often indefinite or unequal subdivisions into which something is, or is regarded as, divided and which together constitue the whole.

Lately projects begun with time tables and intention have led down lanes of memories with a little mystery thrown in. My efforts at Spring cleaning are a prime example. What started with the idea of a quick fix has turned in to a “well, maybe by October.” For the past few years I have imagined moving a bed of perennials closer to the house where I can see and enjoy them. So on a sunny day a week ago I grabbed a shovel and commenced bed prep.

Much to my archeologist-at-heart delight I unearthed some kind of a stone wall/bed/walkway thingy. There is also some kind of what appears to blue gray ash; probably coal. Further investigation by my seven year old grandson unearthed bits of pottery and old glass. And the cleaning out of a new flower bed is on hold. The boy is returning with his metal detector for a deeper understanding of this mystery. There is speculation about what the site may reveal about the history of this old house with plenty of hopes of buried treasure and fears of buried bones.

Nothing is ever simple with “this old house.”

Research has suggested that if apple trees were in blossom the good bugs and pollinators were safely into their life cycle and I could move the leaves that protected their winter habitat. Having been stalled on the bed building and confirming that the local orchard had blossoms on their apple trees I began the Spring clean up of the yard.

Upon raking the side of a hill under forsythia bushes ready to bloom I discover the “lid” to a ceramic pot I had made 30 or so years ago. The green man lives! And I am more than a little amazed that my creation has endured two homes and so many seasons.

Also in the mounds of leaves and bracken was the remains of another garden pot project. It is also still fairly intact; still able to perform its intended function to be buried in the garden and filled with water to leach at root level. I haven’t planted such a garden in many years so have no need for root watering but part of me says there is another purpose for this relic. Perhaps a toad hall or frog pad is in order. The making is already taking shape in my brain.

I was heavily into clay when I crafted the pot. I was raising two kids, working full time, recent owner of my first home and taking night classes to complete my degree. Those memories, like the glaze on the green man, have faded but concrete evidence remains.

I have been blessed with the memories of love and warmth from more than a few beings but none as currently poignent as the ones of a precious grandpuppy. She left us after 15 years of unbounded joy of life and unconditional love for her humans. Part of my heart she took with her, but the part of her that she left behind will be forever etched in my heart and mind that was made richer and fuller for having had the honor of her love.

Seasons change. Time passes. But the heart and mind hold on to that which is important and precious. Part of my thoughts are on what needs or wants to be done today but a good part of me wonders as I wander……Oh, that’s a song…🎶

On Cleaning Up and Mental Clarity, or Cluttered Space, Cluttered Mind, and Perspective

I recently stood on the roof of the ETEC building of the State University of New York at Albany’s campus and looked west toward home. The day was clear and sunny and the view was a stunner. I live at the base of the Helderberg Mountains (hills really) which are, I think, the dark blue line above the tree line (photo 1), also known as an escarpment. Along this escarpment, and part of a state park, is the Indian Ladder Trail. It is a worn rocky cliff edge path with small caves and seasonal falls of water. It is said that Native American’s used it to travel north and south through the area.

I not often enough travel the 15 minutes from my house to the John Boyd Thacher State Park and look east into the distance at the white shiny rooftops and towers of the SUNY campus. In autumn the view is unbeatable. On this day I had perspective from the opposite direction.

Due to the most recent murder and mayhem that has become these United States I have been thinking about things having to do with perspective. I have newly found that I and some of my family are strongly divided by truth and belief. Others that I have only a shallow FB relationship with are canonizing an evil racists rabblerouser. They are perpetuating his belief that empathy is a new-age fake term for weakness and deception. I can only say that the man was documented as having said bad things about good people all in the name of making money. Murder is wrong, but “how you die doesn’t redeem how you lived.”

As perspective changes with the view so the view changes with some much needed clean up. I KNOW that being the visual person I am my brain functions better when I have a clean palette. When I see space in my world I feel space in my being. Perhaps that is why the view from the park overlook is so soothing to me.

And that is why when I finish one project I do a cleaning of my space in preparation of the next project. However, sometimes that cleansing itself becomes a project. Most recently I picked up a few items along side the road; castoffs of someone else’s life. These were “free to a good home.” My favorite price. Cheap is good. Free is better.

This cabinet tempted me for days before I finally convinced my 6 year old grandson that we needed to load it into my car and bring it home. He, being a kindred spirit, was happy to oblige. And, for the brief 2 block ride home he sat, illegally, in the front seat of my car. Yes, we told his mom. Yes, She was angry. No, it will (probably) not happen again. And the cabinet fits the space next to the dryer perfectly.

I scored this charming set (!) of vintage luggage down the street from the same grandson’s 7th birthday celebration. As I was loading them in the car the “owner” came out of the house and said that her mother had used them on her honeymoon after her 1961 wedding. I’ve given them a cursery inspection and scrub with more to come, but oh, the story these bags can tell! I felt like a old movie bell hop as I tucked them under my arms and marched them into my house. Not gonna lie, I giggled.

I already have a small collection of vintage luggage that I use for storage and display. I have repurposed some and have plans for others. I refer you to a previous post June 20, 2016 “Reflections on an Old Suitcase on a Solstice Day,” But the beauty of this blue matched set is like something, well, from a movie. While I would like to keep them together I am not sure I have the space, physically or mentally. I am thinking of dontating them to the local drama club for their prop room.

As clean up and de-cluttering continue in preparation for the next project in the qeue I practice empathy for the children that have lost parents, the spouses who have lost partners and for the rest of us who have lost the perspective of kindness and understanding while the whole world is on fire.

The High Cost of Small Needs

As predicted I had to toss more than half a box of crackers due to expired staleness. I had to buy them when I needed them and then when I needed them again “it’s too late baby, now.” I hate being right.

About 45 years ago crackers sat next to my alarm clock on the night stand. Nine months or so later they were back in the cupboard and became a go to accompaniment to a bowl of Campbells tomato soup, or still the occassional tummy upset. Having hungry children to feed they also served as a makeshift PB&J. And this is where I was today; in need of a makeshift.

A week ago Saturday I bought a lovely loaf of rye bread at the local co-op. It was only $4.99. I say only beacuse my usual loaf from the local grocery store has gone up to $5.99. This beautiful loaf was still far bigger than I knew I needed or wanted but it was the smallest I could find. Today, along with the no longer “premium” saltines, I had to toss about $3.99 worth of that loaf because it had become a science project.

So here I was, PB on the ready and no slice for my smeer. Fortunately I am not above eating a spoon full of peanut butter. Immediate problem solved. But there is still the dilemma of what one does to get around a too large loaf or a too short shelf life. For starters I am pulling out my recipe for starter. I can try, again, to bake a 1/2 loaf of brick, I mean bread.

Last night, as sleep eluded me, I thought I might make myself a cute pair of brown cords to wear in the coming chill of Autumn. I finally fell asleep with images of warm cocoa brown legs making that fun swish-rub noise when I walked.

Over the morning coffee I searched on-line at my go-to store for fabric. At Michael’s.com I searched ‘brown corduroy cotton fabric’. Scrolling through the wrong colors, and less than cotton choices I clicked on what I thought was the price for a whole bolt of fabric. I was seriously shocked to see that they are asking almost $56 a yard (!) for cotton corduroy. I cannot even begin to tell you of the spiral I went down on. If this is the cost of fabric how much are britches ready made at Walmart? Or Macy’s?

This, I think, is the effect of the pumpkin-head-president and his insanity over tariffs. I am truly afraid for people with families that need to dress their babies. I can only imagine that places like second hand stores and Good Will will be very necessary to many. Will we again be saving flour sacks to make clothing? Hardly. These days flour comes in paper bags.

My sister had a paper dress in the 60s. Gee, I wonder what happen to that?

Across the street from the food co-op is this fabulous new little shop called Up Stitch. They sell fabric, yarn, patterns, threads; all the things for crafters of textiles. They too will now be a lifeline for many, including me.

The cords are on hold. I’m off to the grocery store. The starter calls for flour. On the way I am going to swing by the food pantry. That $6 I’m saving will help someone else feed their family.

Fuck Trump.

Shifting Seasons

As this ‘second season in a row that I have not paddled’ begins to close I have come to accept that I no longer crave a kayak. After 15 years of needing to chase every paddle I now accept this change. The feel of a summer afternoon on my skin and the scent of the river at dusk no longer makes my blood tingle with the need to be in a boat. Where once I would trembled with the desire now I just acknowledge the beauty of past experiences and value of those memories. I can still assemble the gear and tie the knots but the need to run to the next launch is gone. The rush of adrenalin has slowed. The fever has cured. Mostly.

Instead I hosed away spider webs and two winters of dirt and debris from the boats, gathered paddles and PFDs, and staged the whole pile for my grandson to haul north for his kayaking adventures. As preparations were being made we shared the memories of our many camping trips together. Paddling was always a part of our trip and it warms my heart to know that he cherishes those memories as much as I do. My season comes to an end. His is beginning.

Upon the boats’ return a break in the hottest summer in my memory gave me a boost of energy to tackle some clean up. Rather than just returning the boats to previous style storage I decided to update my system to suit my new roll. A new design was needed for this new ‘Season of Susan.’

Years ago when the grandson out grew the A-frame swing set I slapped on some 2bys and tarped up a pretty impressive storage system for, at one point, 4 boats. The system turned out to be perfect for storing lumber and bits of wood as well. If I ever have a need for some 150 year old boards from my 150 year old basement walls, complete with hand forged square nails, I’ve got them at the ready.

When I added my 2 E-trikes into this makeshift shed access became complicated. In this new season of bikes not boats I determined that the boats needed to take a “back seat”on the rack. Now I can get to the trikes without moving a boat first. And angels, on a dismantled fireplace mantel that had also come to its’ end of season, watch over my trikes.

From re-purposing swing sets and reusing old lumber to now “Frankensteining” garments, I live with the constant thought of “what can this be next?” It seems to me that by refashioning a blanket or towel into a shirt or jacket gives that item another season in which to shine with purpose. It celebrates the often stunning art of the textile and showcases the talent and craftspersonship of its original maker. I feel great pleasure working with these fabrics and honoring all that they were before.

Thrifted or purchased at an estate or garage sale these castoffs join together to have a new season. A life time of sewing has given me the skills and a lifetime of curiosity has given me the courage to take scissor to slightly worn and maybe no longer loved items and marry them in new ways. It’s fun and a bit of a surprise every time.

With the shift in seasons comes the closet swap; sleeveless to sleeved, short to long, and so on. I was certain I’d find a Tee or two that could gleefully find continued life as a piece of a new whole. Interestingly all I discovered was that in this season of white hair and paler skin tone all I have is far too many gray toned tee shirts. It would seem that with the seeping of color from my person so has the color seeped from my wardrobe. No better excuse to be off to the thrifts in search of new treasures!

Insulation not Isolation, and a Little Inspiration

Surrounding myself with things I love makes me happy. The thoughtful arrangement of trinkets, tools, and toys (!) makes the ordinary everyday a celebration. And finding reasons to celebrate in these crazy times is essential to my mental health. To create beautiful insulation from the ugly reality while practicing self care and not going so far as to become a Long Island Edith is a difficult battle for balance.

Here we are in the first full week of August, 2025. The promises made in the cold weeks of March and rainy days of April to have more frequent and larger protests of this Regime of Crazies have not been realized; at least not locally. I am prepared, anxious even, to DO something to demonstrate my anger. And it feels like protest is on summer vacation.

So, I paint my protest; that canvas, the subject of future posts. I arrange summer blossoms and I prepare summer’s bounty. But the anger is barely contained. So I lash out at yard weeds and hovering wasps (carefully). I sweep stray leaves from the porch and bat at ants that appear to be nesting in my deck chair cushion (!).

What started as hand wringing angst and heart chilling fear has turned in to hard core anger. I want to lash out. I want to punch and hit, and quite honestly cut the tiny dicks off all these cowardly white males who are destroying the futures of our children (their children included, duh) and tie their hands and watch them wither in pain and slowly bleed out. And as they lay dying I want them to watch me take their precious dollars and share them with the hungry and destitute that these white men’s book of myths says they must do to earn their rewards in a heaven that they cannot be sure exists. But I sure hope their hell exists, because that is straight where I wish them going.

Rather than imagining mutilation and murder my younger daughter has taken up boxing to vent her anger. I don’t doubt she has images of slow, painful death for white christian (note the intentional lower case letter “c”) nationalists thriving in her imagination as she “floats like a butterfly,” wanting to “sting like a bee.” Her training goals, “to punch nazis in the face.”

My older daughter, the empath, copes by cultivating a physical space of serenity and hope. She has planted native milkweeds and cosmos next to sugar snap peas and tomatos to create a safe haven for heart, mind, nature and humanity. I fear for her whole health as she feels the pain for ALL inflicted “by man and all his greed.”*

Still we struggle. When my oldest said she is just about ready to go to D.C. to “punch the f**kers in the face” I said I would ride shot gun but that we have to wait until September because everyone is on summer vacation.

*Summers of My Life – Gino Vannelli, 1976

Yesterday I Cried.

I cannot fathom how as a nation we force our fellow humans to eat like a shackled dog. I am angry and I want to punch, hit, and draw blood on all those who participate.

My brilliant zen like brother once said,”Susan, you expect everyone to be as honest and kind as you are. And when they aren’t you beat yourself up about it.”

I participated. I admit culpability in my ignorance and naivety.

I’m not beating myself up anymore. And I sure as hell want to punch someone. I’m pretty sure it will hurt me more than them.

Boxing classes start Monday at the Y.

A Break is Good

A new peace to my mind has been completed and awaiting final installation details.

The Whatever the F*ck Season Is This? has arrived in full splendor. My 3 year old garden beds are showing, finally. I was beginning to think that my life time of knowledge gleaned watching and helping my Great Depression era grandparents grow a successful garden and carefully can the offerings and then my mother doing the same, was gone. Stolen away by memory loss and climate change.

Bee Balm, or bee bomb? Cause wowza, they look like fireworks!

The Puzzle House looks planted in situ. Vision accomplished.

And Gaia is startlingly adaptable; except for the vegetables. I would have thought that just one year of mostly zero tomato success is on me, but two? Something is happening to the season as I’ve known it. The process has changed. The formulas are different. It may be subtle to most and welcome by more than a few but the zone I’m in just ain’t the same.

It’s a delightfully rainy day. A very gentle, cooling mist floats over the modesty rail as I sit here on my front porch listening to the birds sing and the earth sigh. Gaia will be fine without her failed custodians.

And then my mind goes back to my studio where the scream comes from and resistance lives. And I say, “Break over, gotta go back. These F*ckers can’t win. For. SO. Many. Reasons.”