Author: swansroost

I started making a simple pocketed, wired mask to wear during this pandemic.  Not because it was recommended by the CDC, but because my instincts told me to start wearing one.  Simple turned out to be an exaggeration.

Two things enter into this equation of “simple”:  1) I am an over thinker.  Yup, it’s true and I know this about myself.  Therefore nothing, repeat, nothing is ever simple.  And 2) the anxiety and angst, let’s call it what it is, Fucking Mental Covid19, is infecting everyone.  No one is immune unless you are in a coma.  Even our pets are suffering; with us and for us.

I know a little bit about functioning under high stress as I was primary care giver for my dying father for 3 years, the last three months of which were under Hospice care.  In many ways this pandemic is dealing with a looming death, obviously in the 2% literal sense but also in living day to day with the unknown, to be on high alert, the need to switch gears constantly, always being off balance.  Yet still carrying on with the normal.

Making the masks is also my way of feeling useful, fighting the battle, contributing.  In a matter of 5 hours I watched tutorials and read instructables of which there are quite a number, until my head hurt.  I struggled especially hard with pleats, literally banging my hand against my head.  Until I remembered that I made my first dress at 9 years old.  Yes, the zipper was in backwards and I never wore it.  I can still see the beautiful lavender and white print of the fabric in my minds eye.  And I made it in the 4th grade. When I was able to battle through the anxiety and see that I had the tools to do this I was able to let go and make it sew.  Pun intended Captain.  Pleats be damned the masks are made, or at least being made.

Today, after finishing two more masks and waiting for more fabric to wash and dry in preparation for more I sought to find that balance again.  I needed to ground.  And where better than in my garden.  It is probably too early to remove the blanket of leaves that protect everything from Winter’s cold.  We may even still have more snow.  But I needed to see growth.  I needed to see that life progresses and Nature perseveres regardless of what is thrown at it.  It adjusts, it compensates, and it keeps on.  Something that we, as the Human Family are being asked to do now.  We must ground.  We must find balance.  No easy task.  But the battle does not wait.

Today is my third day home from a long planned and then abbreviated sojourn into the southern parts of these United States.  It was a journey of discovery and adventure as travel should be, but all the way home the tune from that song in Disney’s Aladdin, “One Jump Ahead…..” kept playing over and over in my head.  I was literally 24 hours ahead of New York’s Governor Cuomo’s (Andy to those of us who have a little crush on him) announcement of major steps to combat this national health crisis.  More on all that later.

Now as the sky brightens and as this cold early Spring day begins I would like to share my thoughts on marketing; as in going to the market; as in grocery store; as in food, which is often on my mind, she says with a grin.  As it should be.

It was initial thought that CORONAVIRUS (CV for short) was most deadly to those over 60, which I am, as I proudly announce that I am due to collect my first SS check next month.  With that understanding the local markets deemed it safer to offer this senior demographic the opportunity to shop early in the morning, after stores have been cleaned and stocked and ideally with less chance of contracting CV.   So last night I prepped for my mission:  to wear a mask or no?  Still undecided, but probably yes.  Washable cotton gloves, yes.  Washable, reusable grocery bags, yes, because in NY there are no more plastic bags in stores (Kudos to Andy).  Into the store with a list organized by aisle for quickest in and out. Cash or card?  Still undecided.   Should I be lining the cart with something?  A washable table cloth? Is that necessary?  Helpful?  Maybe.  Probably.

     The hours of “senior shopping” are 6AM to 7AM.  As I am now fully immersed in this lovely land of retirement as illustrated by my participation in the Q-tip Migration this Winter I had to set my alarm clock for 5:15.  This was a real “wake up call!”  No pun intended.  I had to set my alarm to go grocery shopping so as to possibly save my life or the life of those I know and love.  TO SAVE A LIFE.

I did NOT set my alarm.  I woke at 5:58.  I made coffee.  I am not ready to confront this reality.  Tomorrow.  Probably tomorrow.  Maybe tomorrow.  After all I still have coffee.

NOTE:  I have decided that the reusable bags that can be washed are best.  Wash them after every trip.  I have made some out of old T-shirts.  No sewing required.  This is a nice little tutorial, however I recommend that you always cut the hems off the shirts first as it makes a nicer finish and use square knots, because who doesn’t know how to tie a square knot?! https://helloglow.co/recycle-your-t-shirt-into-a-no-sew-reusable-grocery-bag/

I have been reading blogs, posts, and news feeds about how today’s generation of new nesters don’t want Grandma Ethel’s china dinner ware,  Aunt Elizabeth’s chest of drawers, or sadly not even Great Grandma Edna’s silver tea service.  Second hand stores display them in pleasing array with clearance prices.  Etsy and Ebay are inundated with listings.  These items are often high maintenance requiring hand washing to maintain the gold rims; dark, heavy and huge space hogs, or considered just plain unusable dust collectors.

Being an upcycler before upcycling was a thing and having a passion for repurpose I have given much thought to this sad trend.  I see it as a disconnect.  A lapse in memories.  A breakdown in family.  A loss of history.  And the new nesters are not at fault.

Having recently lost another family member, a sibling this time, I am on my third estate desolution.  It is full of anxiety and sadness and remembering.  The anxiety comes from the shear mountain of stuff that I am now responsible for getting rid of.  And being the earth minded person that I am I literally look at every nut, bolt and tea cup to see if I can find it a new home not in the land fill.

The sadness is real.  It is loss.  It is the knowing that that mug will never have his hand around it again or that he will never sit in that chair again.  And to look at the sum total of a life and know that this is what it came down to can be sad.  But it can also be a joyful celebration of a life well lived.

I can trace my memories of seeing a particular nest of blue and white bowls back to my grandmother’s corner china cabinet.  And after her the cabinet and it’s contents became my mother’s.  And now they sit in my (different) cabinet and I remember.  Quite honestly I’d be afraid to use them.  They are old and the glaze is cracked and they probably have a few chips.  But they are a family heirloom nevertheless.  And then there is the ugly pewter plate circa. 1750 and the useless silver pitcher with pin holes in it, and so on.  Not treasures, but treasure-able.  Treasure-able because I remember.  I have a living memory of the associations and presence of these items in my life.  I grew up within an hour of my maternal grandparents.  My father’s parents were only three hours away.  We were familiar: adjective  fa·mil·iar  \ fə-ˈmil-yər  1: closely related, intimate 2: relating to a family

Recently I had tea, complete with beautiful china, crystal goblets and silverware at a friend’s home.  These treasures had belonged to her mother who now lives with her.  The elder spoke of a friend who was traveling to meet  her growing grandchildren for the first time.  The children live in Alaska and have lived a good part of their lives without ever having known their grandmother.   And this, in a nut shell, is why the new nesters don’t want Grandma’s dishes. There is no connection to them.

They have no memory of eating Thanksgiving dinner off of Grandma’s good china.  No idea of the ritual of opening the corner cabinet door and pulling out the depression era fruit bowl and see it over flow with purple grapes, bright tangerines and dark shelled nuts.  They have never seen that old dark sideboard filled with still warm pies and popcorn balls wrapped in waxed paper tied with shinny ribbons.  Social media cannot replace the smells, sights and sounds of the familiar.

Friday is the final garage sale.  Stop by if you are inclined.  The unearthing of treasured memories will go on – forever I hope.  They say remembering doesn’t require visual aides.  When someone passes you are told that you will always have them in your memories and in your heart.  But, this I have learned; memories fade.  So, use the china.  Eat with the silver.  And every morning when you spoon sugar into your coffee from your mother’s familiar fragile sugar bowl you remember and your heart stays warm.

Back in the 70’s I lived in Baja, Mexico.  I met a man wearing a beautiful, tiny mask of silver around his neck.  I admired it and he took it off and gave it to me.  And then he told me that he was from Oaxaca, Mexico.

Hypertufa Pots

  He said it was a region known for it’s masks.   Great crafts-persons made masks out of clay, paper, and silver.  Masks into pots, pipes and jewelry.  He said it was a place of beauty and I should visit some day.  I never did visit Oaxaca and my time in Mexico came to an end.  I wore the necklace often and eventually gifted it to my daughter upon her graduation from high school.

I spent a good part of this week with 80 pounds of Portland concrete and some flower pots.  I experimented with peat moss and perlite to create a fire bowl for my new deck.  In the process I learned a bit of the art of concrete.  And I broke things and learned of the art of Gorilla Glue.  I swore; alot.  All in all it was a good week for me.

While my concrete shattered at my feet my mind returned to that man and his pride in his people; the crafters of the masks.  The people of Oaxaca.  The people of Mexico.

Concrete, a seemingly strong substance that builds walls of homes, schools, and workplaces, breaks in earthquakes.  It turns to heavy dust and rubble.  I KNOW this and so do my toes.  I pray that the hearts of the people of Mexico can withstand the weight of the destruction and that they can piece their lives back together again.  It will take more than a little glue.

One fabulous winter not too many years ago I was hanging out with my then new friend, Dedre.  We were enjoying all the winter delights:  XC skis, snowshoes, snowmobiles, warm fires, hot toddies, pretty lights, cold beer, colder toes, wet mittens, snow removal, icy roads, more snow removal…..all in celebration of living in the great Northeast during the winter months.  One event in particular stands out in my memory.

Dee’s friend Dotty lives on a sizable farm with hills and valleys perfectly suited to the making of ice runs for inner tubes.  After many years of development and design the runs just kept getting bigger, higher and more complex.  Four wheelers tow the tubes and carry the “riders” up the steep hills to the top of the run.  The run has sloped sides of hard packed snow and twists and turns comparable to an Olympic bobsled run.  At the top one is expected to belly down on the tube and plunge oneself head first off a steep takeoff into the deep winter darkness and an unknown decent.  All in the name of good fun.

Prepping for the party – hookers in a bubble bath. LOL

I was, and still am in many ways, an unworldly girl.  Even in my 50th year I had not yet ridden the back of a 4-wheeler up a narrow snowy trail in the dark.  I was unsure of my perching abilities and balking at the prospect, determined to walk up the hill.  How hard could it be?  Dedre, the bold and daring, told me that I’d never make it up the hill on foot and assured me that the ride was a piece of cake.  The ten minute ride, while holding on for dear life, assured me that her assessment was correct; I would not have made it on foot.

Prepping for the party.

After the vehicles dropped the two of us at the top and their sound faded away we stood surrounded by trees, in the deep silence of a winter wood.  The stars shone like diamonds in the clear sky.  It was magical.  And then we moved to the top of the run and I looked off into the abyss and again I balked.  And I was thinking maybe I’d wait for that cake ride back down the hill.  And Dee, the bold and daring, said, “Oh, Sue, I’m afraid.” and “You go first.”  I thought we could go together and so saying to my new friend, set myself up; belly down, head first, inching forward and waiting.  And then Dee pushed me.  And I think I screamed.

This story deserved the telling to illustrate what compels the spirit to leap into the dark.  The faith that is placed on self to carry one into new experiences and accomplishments.  In the above tale I was pushed on to the ride.  And a ride it was!  It was thrilling and scary.  And at the bottom of the run I was laughing so hard I could not stand.   Pushed yes, but only a little nudge.  I put myself on the ready at the top of that run.

A few times I have chosen to step off that ledge into a new beginning.  And last Saturday night was one of them. Together with Donna, my friend of 30 years, we began a venture in sharing our love of creating with others.  We have combined the discovery of creating with high spirits, comradery, and delectable delights.  In doing so we hope to open eyes to new possibilities and share the sincere happiness that that brings to our hearts.  We have partnered with my youngest daughter who herself is leaping into the new.  Her life long love of baking has manifest into Casey’s Confections, Global Sweets Locally, which are served along side the canvas. 

Saturday night Casey made her wonderful gingerbread with a chi spice caramel sauce and whipped cream.  I’m sorry Casey.  It was SO good that we ate it before I could get a picture! Trust me.  It was as pretty  as it tasted.  Our beverage was a Merry Moscow Mule.  It was my take on the 1940’s cocktail traditionally served in a copper mug.  Tracey from TracingGraceArts on Etsy provided these adorable copper color vintage mugs. Imagine 1970 as being vintage!  Imagine too what a little vodka and ginger beer can do for a paint brush and canvas!

The laughter was loud and the smiles were genuine.   It is my and Donna’s hope that everyone went home with a new piece of themselves discovered and shinning for display.  Please continue to follow my blogging for updates into our journey of creating and discovering and the power of sharing happy!  And maybe you can join in.  I promise not to push.  

Let me just start this post by saying that my house smells like just baked cookies  – snickerdoodles to be exact.  My grandson’s favorite cookie.  I put Heath Bar bits in them to take them “over the top. ”  I’ve often wondered where that phrase comes from?

 “Going over the top“, a military phrase derived from the trench warfare of the First World War. – Wikipedia

Media has been saturated with comment or criticism on what seems every breath that the big news makers take.  In this season of “silent night,” “all is calm,” and “how still we see thee lie” nothing about it is silent, calm, or still.  Authority is being abused in truth at Standing Rock, and in theory by our highest leaders.  And I want off this ride.  I want to go over to my happy place.  Just for a little while.  Just long enough.

When September 11th happened to the world I was working for the New York State Department of Corrections in their central fiscal office.  I had access at a key stroke to huge funds to move and spend where ever they were needed to provide whatever was needed during this monstrous tragedy.   My very first response was to surround myself with family.  To keep them close and closer and to clean house – literally.  I sat in a chair with my daughter on my lap until I couldn’t sit still anymore.  And then in defense of the helplessness I felt I cleaned my house top to bottom.  That was my happy place.

And then I went back to work and was plummeted with the calls for urgent response and emergency supplies, and news reports of death and darkness.  And I remember a few days afterward just lying spread eagle in the grass on my back in the yard.  I felt Mother Earth absorb my grief and the grief of so many others.  I felt the sun’s warmth on my face and deep into my soul and I was renewed to go back into the world and do what I could all over again amidst the reports of death and darkness.  I hadn’t cried, or screamed profanities, or ranted and blamed, or rioted.  I just kept going in and out of my happy place, somehow renewed.

And why would I compare what is happening in my world now with 9/11?  I am most certainly as helpless today as I was back then.  But I cannot seem to find my way to my happy place. To find that recharge and renewal.  There are no cookie crumbs to follow.  No candle light at the end of the tunnel.  That wave of unity that I felt with my fellow man in the aftermath of 9/11 has not happened.  As a Nation we have lost our purpose.  We are a shattered people.   This too is a great tragedy.

Weeks after 9/11 the truth of it finally came home.  I was at work, a seemingly normal day and suddenly I started sobbing and could not stop.  My boss escorted me to a more private place, gave me a box of tissues and a closed door and I cried for three hours.  Heart wrenching, soul deep keening for the loss of all those lives and the sorrow for those that are left to carry on.

Now I fear the future for so many, my children and my grandchildren, who have so much life ahead of them. So many lives will be impacted by the decisions that our leaders make in the coming days.  I used to be excited for the prospect of the future but right now I am just afraid.

I thought I had my happy place secure, locked in and well stocked.  Seriously, I have a message on my cell phone with my 4 year plan on it.  Call me:  518-322-5266.  Chances are if I don’t recognize your number I won’t pick up and you can listen to my game plan.  But I have discovered that for some reason I am caught in a limbo, unable to move forward or even for a little while into my happy place.

I know that it is there. Waiting for me to find my way via whatever avenue I stumble upon.  And I will recharge and get back to the game plan.  There are letters to write and Facts vs. Fictions to decipher and sort.  And, of course there are cookies to bake, dogs to walk, and family to hug.  Perhaps there is how my path must lend – over the river and through the woods.  Trust the horse.

This weekend I spent at/in what is called reunion.  It has been a bit more than 40 years since, at 18, I graduated high school and moved into the bigger world.  I was then considered an adult and was expected to make my way, one way or another, in a gigantic world full of choice and opportunity.  It was assumed that I had been given the tools by my familial upbringing and my public school education to build a happy and successful “rest of my life.”  And for the most part I believe that I have done just that.

It has not been a straight line from Point BC (Bethlehem Central) to Point S (success).  I seem to recall that some folks might have tried to instill the idea that following the E(effort) + DTRT(doing the right thing) = S(success) formula was a guarantee to S. They may have even believed it themselves (my church leaders come to mind).  But being one who has never been able to draw a straight line, even with a ruler, my life line has taken many detours.  One has only to look at my palm to see the hills and dales, bumps and divots, dead ends and U-turns blending with callus’, scars and arthritic fingers that have made up my life.

This reunion, like Face Book, has given all that attended a glimpse into each others journey.  And, like FB, the brief encounter showed only the straight lines.  Palms were not exposed to reveal the miss directions, road blocks, and detours that many or most of us have traversed to become the persons we carry today.  But the 25% of our 1976 class that was present at the event carried the journey well.

Whether this was a result of E + DTRT = S or simply just putting the best foot forward I don’t know.  I believe that I have reached Point S although not necessarily  by way of E + DTRT.  Or, has it always been DTRT for me?

When I was in high school circa 1975 my BF, Susan, was sporting silver bangle bracelets crafted by a brilliant silversmith, Ed Levin.  His small collection was sold out of the local ladies shop, Town and Tweed.

I coveted Susan’s bracelets and was, after scrimping and saving, able to buy  myself a then very expensive pair of silver earrings.  I loved them and wore them constantly.  Sadly, at some point I lost one.  

Recently, in my post retirement clean-out, I found the single still fabulous earring.  In the vast reaches of the internet I found that the Ed Levin workshop still exists in Cambridge, New York and that they had all the original designs on file for re-creation.   The website sent me to a local dealer to have my earring sent for “refurbishment” and a copy made.

A few days ago I picked up my “new” earrings.  I paid twice for one what I had paid for the pair 40 years ago – not so bad really.  But, I am sorry to say I was disappointed.  The match is okay, but not even close to perfect.  I will wear the earrings; the original in my left ear, the copy in my right.

The artist can be copied but never duplicated.

When my niece paid me the great compliment of saying that I was up-cycling and re-purposing before it was the “in” thing to do I laughed.  But, in fact I have been doing the “in” thing for years – out of necessity.  My junior prom dress a few years later became a maternity smock.  An old wooden cable spool became a bistro height table with stools for my first kitchen and an old oak dresser became the buffet with tiled top.   Which, by the way, I still have, although it has seen better days.

One of my favorite re-purposes was my grandfather’s old suitcase that I casually threw into the back of the car and used as a storage container for jumper cables, umbrellas, or any other little thing that needed corralling in the huge cavern trunk of my ’77 T-bird.  Eventually that old thing, abused and neglected, became moldy and sadly beyond saving (the suitcase, and eventually the car too).

Recently I determined that it was time to revisit the old suitcase.  I am in sore need of someplace to store all my fabric remnants and bits of this and that and the suitcase seemed ideal.  They are sturdy, stack-able, and come in a variety of shapes and colors.  But, they also stink!  Seriously;  much like musty attics, moldy basements, and stale perfume.

And what is a girl to do?  I sure don’t want my bits of this and that to smell like a long forgotten trip to Great Aunt Bessie’s house!  So when I stumbled upon these fabulous wooden screens (on clearance of course) at the craft store I KNEW what I had to do.  Out came the Dremel and this old suitcase had a new ventilation system.

But then something happened….The project took on a life of it’s own, (not the first time this has happened) and I try always to follow where the spirit leads.  I suddenly realized that this old suitcase needed a new purpose in life.  More than just storage on a shelf, it needed to become useful again, recognized for it’s past and celebrated into it’s future.  It needed to become a picnic basket!  NOTE:  This is the 3rd case from the top in the first picture.

As I worked on duct taping the tattered sides, and using yellow India ink to brighten the panels I kept seeing flashes of Gene Kelly singing, “Gotta Dance” from Singing In The Rain.  You know, that guy with the too short (plaid?) jacket and the funny hat, carrying a tattered old suitcase to the big city?  And then I remembered that I had some handmade paper with sheet music embedded in it, and an old poster from my daughter’s dorm room days and it morphed.
     Interestingly this suitcase like many, has a monogram, R. R..  At first, being a warm blooded woman of a certain age I thought “Robert Reford,”  but then it dawned on me, “Richard Rogers.”  So now this picnic basket has a name, The Richard Rogers, complete with musical notes flowing from a summer wine….sure is funny how things just flow when you allow it.

I made an insulated bag for food and an insulated ice bucket for beverages out of fun fabrics – storage of left over scraps still TBD!  And  I used reclaimed straps, buttons, and buckles to hold them in place.  Happy Summer Solstice!  Let the picnics begin!

NOTE #2:  The next case (bottom of the stack) is Miss C.C..  The stories she could tell.  I can’t wait to get started.  Also, this one of a kind picnic basket is for sale.  $125.

This Monday marked the tenth year since my father passed away.  The events surrounding his passing profoundly changed my life.  I was witness to his struggle with the process.  His planning; when weeks before his death I sat with him on a sunny afternoon and he said, “this is a good time of day to die.”  And he did, at that time a few short weeks later.

His acceptance; when my daughter presented him with a new shirt and tie she had purchased for him to be buried in.  She told him it matched the dress we had buried my mother in three years earlier.  He was deeply touched and accepted them gratefully.  Then he said, “don’t forget my long johns because I’m going to be cold.”  When he realized what he had said, much to his chagrin, he laughed at himself and my daughters and I laughed with him.

His fear; when deep in the night very close to the end he struggled to stand and said in anguish, “I can’t find my way.”  I told him to look for mom, that she would help him find his way and like a child he settled and slept.

And finally, at that very moment when he took his final breath I held his hand.   And I felt, no I knew more surely than anything I have ever felt or known in my entire life, except the love for my babies, that he and my mother were together again and I smiled through my tears and very nearly laughed out loud for the joy of it.  Today, as I walked in a beautiful wood a blue jay crossed my path to sit on a tree ahead at a fork in the trail.  These ten years I have “seen” my father come to me as the blue jay in times when I need direction, guidance, and support.  Today I took the route marked by that blue jay and I came upon this beautiful old tree standing on a carpet of forget me nots.  Message received Dad.  With Love, Susan