It’s that time again–time for our beloved family friend Slim and his pack of devoted pups to jump back wholeheartedly into the life of our household. For the past eleven months they’ve been keeping a low profile up in their attic hideaway. In years past, my mother’s basement has served as their quiet refuge during the non-October months. This changed last year when Slim made his acquaintance with the recently finished upper room at our house. He loved it so much he found no reason to leave, as long as I promised not to be overly intrusive. He has a good four weeks of chatty, jovial cordiality in him per year, but no more. I understand. I need my alone time, too.
Slim and the gang enjoyed tucking themselves into the attic’s odd and cozy spaces. When they were huddled silently behind the screen, as in the top photo, I sometimes forgot they were in the house. Other times they nestled into the dormers, where they could lounge with a pile of books and keep occasional watch on the neighborhood below.
As planned, Slim caught up on his reading, delving deep into some of his favorite periods in art history.
Inspired by our intention that the attic serve as a studio for my painting and craft projects, Slim had rekindled his interest in a variety of artistic pursuits. His building of a miniature medieval manor house turned out to be no more than a passing fancy, rather as I had expected. He offered advice as I fiddled with the restoration of an old family mantel clock. When I encouraged him to take on the task of gold-leafing the column bases and capitals, he claimed to be overtired. What can I say, he was off duty.
As fall approached, Slim’s energy increased. He painted a couple of dried gourds, delighting in their arresting shapes and textures.
And in early October, he offered encouragement, if not actual assistance, when I began repainting our church’s battered old nativity figures, those that spend Advent and Christmas in the outdoor manger.
There was considerable room for improvement, as these “before” photos of the lamb and donkey show. Slim was by my side as I worked on the animals. The human figures–the holy family, shepherd, angel and three kings–will be more challenging. I wish I could entrust their makeovers to Slim. But Halloween is upon us, and I know he will certainly be “overtired” in the days ahead.
I can hear Slim now, starting to make ready for the big day. He’s dragging out the orange and green lights. Onward, to Halloween!
When Slim desired an indoor spot to rest and ruminate, he sought out a window seat in our recently finished third level. He was surprised to see that our attic project had, in fact, been completed. This time last year, the initial demo and removal process had barely begun. He knows us. He’s aware of our inclination to put off and procrastinate. And he knew how much there was in the attic to be removed and/or re-situated: the enormous whole-house fan in the floor, bulky HVAC ducts, chimney supports, the cedar closet (the only semi-finished space), and loads and loads of old insulation. Not to mention the diverse accumulation of stuff the attic had housed.
“You astound me! I thought you’d still be waffling over first steps!,” Slim exclaimed. I noticed that he subtly directed these comments more to my husband than to me.
He and the pack quickly made their way to the front dormer. “The ideal look-out! From up here, we can keep watch on the property and the road. And how nice to have a floor that goes all the way to the window!”
Slim appreciated the exposed-beam aesthetic. “Looks like one of those medieval half-timbered manor house rooms you like so much. I didn’t realize this was what you had in mind!” This remark he directed squarely at me. As I said, he knows us.
I didn’t have that concept in mind. But fortuitously, and thanks to the patience, talent, and vision of our contractor, who happens to be a master craftsman, it turned out that way.
Slim loved the built-in art table that extends from a wall of vintage wood, both of which were conceived and created by that expert craftsman. I’d wanted an expansive work surface, suitable for painting and building my miniature houses. Because the large central duct would be difficult to relocate, our contractor suggested encasing it in wood and positioning the table above. He’d carefully saved the old planks that covered the attic’s limited floor space. He planed down each piece, preserving the original saw marks, and reassembled them, quilt-like, to make a support wall. Another of his clever ideas was a roomy pull-out storage compartment located at each end of the wall.
“I’m getting inspired, just sitting here!, ” Slim proclaimed, leafing through a book of paintings by John Constable. “In all my decades kicking around this big wide world, I haven’t tried my hand at art. Never too late, right?”
Slim’s thoughts continued. “Maybe I’ll do some painting. Or take up wood-working. I do love architecture, and I’ve sure seen most styles and epochs first-hand. ” Eyeing my dollhouses, he offered, “This room calls out for a miniature medieval manor house, doesn’t it?”
He’s right, of course. Looks like I’ve found a partner in craft.
“But first, a little reading,” pronounced Slim, as he headed toward the cane-backed sofa. “And perhaps just the slightest bit of restorative shut-eye. We creative types need our rest.”
May you, too, get some rest before a very happy Halloween!
A while ago, my friend Amy was immersed in the ongoing process of emptying out her childhood home and preparing it for sale. I’d struggled with years of anticipatory dread before having to face such a prospect, and I admired her matter-of-fact approach. (Interestingly, and as is usually the case, my experience turned out to be not nearly as bad as I had expected.) But I found myself batting away pangs of melancholy as I thought about what she was going through. Our families have grown close over the years, often spending Thanksgivings, and even the occasional vacation, together. I’ve written before about the special friendship that our daughters, who grew up together, continue to enjoy. We’ve gotten to know Amy’s parents, who are gracious and good-humored, like the rest of the family. Her father passed away in 2016, as did mine. Her mother was planning a move to assisted living. Even if Amy wasn’t particularly sad about saying goodbye to her girlhood home and all its contents, lovingly gathered in over the decades, I found myself feeling sad for her.
One item with an uncertain future was a dollhouse that her mother had built, decorated and painted in the 80s. Since then, it had sat, largely untouched, on a table in an upstairs bedroom. Would I be interested?
She doesn’t want it? I asked, knowing full well the answer. I could hear her mom chuckling at the ridiculous suggestion of carting a dollhouse along to her more limited quarters in assisted living. Like her daughter, she steers clear of sentimentality.
I do not, at least in cases like this. Given an easy opportunity to save a once-beloved home, whether full-size or miniature, my instinct is to say yes. Of course I wanted the house.
I had never been inside Amy’s girlhood home, but the pretty bedroom with the dollhouse prominently displayed was instantly familiar. Decorated in shades of pale blue and white, a trellis-patterned paper covered the walls. At the windows were floor-length floral draperies, expertly sewn by her mother. The furniture was graceful white wicker. I grew up with rooms like this. I spent sleep-overs with friends in rooms like this.
The blue palette of the dollhouse perfectly matched that of the bedroom. The house is larger than any I’ve made. I recognized it as the Magnolia kit from Greenleaf Dollhouses, described as a “classic country farmhouse.” I had expected to be impressed, and I was. Amy and her mother are talented in a wide range of endeavors, practical, artistic, and everything in between. Only a confident crafts person would take on as sizable and complicated a miniature house as this in a first attempt. It was one that I might have worked up to, eventually. But now, I didn’t have to. I could simply welcome the ambitious creation into my collection.
I could also happily receive its extensive and charming furnishings. Amy’s mother was nothing if not attentive to detail. She outfitted every room and hallway thoroughly, with thoughtful touches that make the difference between house and home. She painstakingly painted and papered the walls and ceilings, stained the floors, staircase and doors. She made curtains for many of the windows. There’s a wealth of delightful little objects: books, newspapers, potted plants, framed artwork, lamps, candlesticks, and ornate rugs. In the upstairs bedroom, a fancy hat rests on a stand, and a pair of dainty lady’s slippers lies beside the bed. The effect throughout is cozy, warm and inviting.
The house was in great shape, requiring only a few minor repairs. I re-glued some parts that had popped apart during forty-odd years of existence. I touched up some of the white paint, but I didn’t change the blues of the exterior, which are still fresh and clean. I love the tiny brass lights, the working French doors on the upstairs porches, and the little window boxes filled with bright red geraniums.
On the front exterior, I painted a pair of terracotta pots filled with impatiens, and some climbing roses. I added more variety to the colors of the brick foundation and chimney. I painted the shingled roof dark green, and added a white roof crest. A cheery touch that needed no refurbishment is the white chimney trellis covered with miniature silk flowers.
On the front porch, the white sofa and table remain exactly where Amy’s mom placed them, as does the blue metal mailbox, painted with the message “Welcome Friends.”
The Magnolia Farmhouse has a new place of honor next door at my mother’s. It fits in well. Nothing in that spare bedroom is new; every item has a long and winding history. Most have been enjoyed by multiple generations. The painted yellow furniture, which dates from the 1920s, was originally in my father’s childhood home in eastern Kentucky. There are dolls and stuffed animals–my mother’s, mine, and my daughter’s, and Mama’s Pretty Maid toy oven, ca. 1940. There’s a red rocking chair that was my daughter’s favorite seat at age three. There’s a tall thin chest devoted to my mother’s multitude of sewing notions. Framed prints from the 1960s were rescued from a trash bin in a church Sunday School closet. The room has become a compact museum of pleasant family memories. How appropriate that it’s now home to the miniature house so carefully assembled by Amy’s mom. Its presence reminds me of the many ways that the lives of our two families are intertwined. As I’ve learned, friends are the family that we choose.
If there’s a little house in your life that needs a loving second home, let me know. I bet I can make room.
Until today, the homemade clothespin nativity that shelters beneath our little alpine trees in the dining room has included only Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus, and one shepherd. (Sparkly arctic critters happen to fit in with the high-tech “white sheet as snow” decor.)
The three wise men from the East, along with their flamboyantly curly-haired camel, have been waiting patiently in the background since Advent began in early December.
And now, on the sixth of January, known in the Christian calendar as Epiphany, the long journey of the Magi is complete. They join the Holy Family and pay their tribute to the infant messiah. Their participation in the Biblical nativity narrative is indicative of this important message: God sent his son to be a savior not only for the Hebrew people, but for all the nations. For all of us. For all God’s children.
So in our house, we don’t take the Christmas decorations down until well after January 6th. To do so, it seems, would represent an attempt to symbolically stifle the powerful message of God’s love for all. (It also happens that I’m never ready at this point to begin the laborious process of un-decorating. And it would be inhospitable to kick the Magi out immediately after their arrival.)
On this last day of Christmas, I’ll continue to enjoy the look and lights of the season. They’ll be no boxing up for a while yet.
May the spirit of Christmas sustain, strengthen and bless us all year long. And may it remind us to treat our brothers and sisters near and far, like the family they are.
In May I started work on another dollhouse project, an Orchid House kit from Greenleaf. This was to be my Red Panda House. I envisioned it as home to an extended family of red pandas, to be painted on the house, inside and out. The red panda is a strong contender for my vote for world’s cutest animal. I first learned of the existence of this delightful-looking critter when it was featured in the Pandamania curriculum for Vacation Bible School used by our church in 2011. Since then, it’s become a fixture in pop culture, as in this year’s Disney Pixar film, Turning Red. Development and climate change increasingly threaten the animal’s native habitat, the high-altitude forests of Asia. As a result, the red panda is now considered endangered. I felt the need to build a little painted house that, in my mind, at least, would be a sanctuary for several of these distinctively marked, adorably furry charmers.
This summer, my thoughts rarely strayed too far from Kiko, as I watched his health decline precipitously. My formerly aloof little dog, who typically preferred his own, undisturbed space, had become my constant, needy, anxious shadow. I couldn’t concentrate enough to write much of anything. Few subjects seemed worthwhile or interesting. Plus, it was nearly always time to take Kiko out for another hot, uncomfortable walk. He would be miserable, but perhaps less miserable than he was pacing the house. My mind was a muddle of discordant and undisciplined thoughts. The task of stringing together even a few sentences was often too daunting to tackle.
But work on the Red Panda House helped unclutter my brain. I could cut out a few balsa wood pieces, do some gluing, a touch of painting. I could do it little by little, here and there, a few minutes at a time, yet still know I was making progress. It was slow going, but that didn’t matter. I proceeded methodically, step by small step. Assembling my Red Panda House became, therefore, a therapeutic venture.
In July, as I began to see that we’d be heartless and selfish to let our beloved dog continue to suffer much further in this life, my mother said, “When Kiko is gone, you should paint a picture of him.” She was right, of course. I started thinking about how best to memorialize him. I’d paint a big picture, at some point. But I could also, more immediately, give him a place among the red pandas on the house in progress. I’d completed the front, but the sides still needed inhabitants.
One of the reasons I find the red panda so emphatically appealing is that it reminds me of Kiko. They could be cousins. While the face of the panda is flatter, more like that of a teddy-bear, the muzzle less pointed, the distinctive, perfectly symmetrical markings are similar, as are the ever-perky ears. Like my dog, they have thick, primarily dark red, double-coated fur. Kiko would appear to be very much at home with a group of red pandas, at least when that home was a cozy painted dollhouse of my own creation.
Not long after we said our final goodbye, I painted Kiko onto the house, twice. On one side, he’s a puppy, at about twelve weeks. On the other, he looks as he did on his last day in this realm, at fourteen years, eleven months and three weeks. And like his companions the red pandas, he’s out of harm’s way among the brightly colored flowers and foliage. Never at risk, never worried, never confused. Always present, always confident, always content. And when I’m at home, never far from me.
Puppy Kiko on an exterior side. The house interior is partially visible as a reflection in the mirror.
Old Man Kiko, with two red pandas.
Two red pandas, a cub and an adult, at home inside.
Yesterday, January 6, was the twelfth and final day of Christmas. In the Christian calendar, it’s commemorated as the Feast of the Epiphany, marking the visit of the Magi to honor and worship the baby Jesus. Accordingly, our clothespin nativity now includes three richly dressed figures, accompanied by a fluffy and festively adorned camel. The biblical account reveals little about the identity of these visitors. They’re described as “wise men from the East,” likely astrologers, as they were led by a star to Bethlehem and the home of the holy family (Matthew 2:1-12). Their offerings of gold, frankincense and myrrh attest to their substantial wealth. Because of their Eastern origins, they were probably not Jews. Some sources suggest that they could have been priests of the Zoroastrian religion, widely practiced throughout Persia. Their inclusion in the nativity story serves to demonstrate that the baby Jesus was sent by God to be a savior not only for the Hebrew people, but for all nations. The first to arrive on the scene of the holy birth could not have been more different from the Magi. They were the shepherds, lowly Jewish locals who received a direct invitation from an angel. Thus, the message is clear: the divine child was sent for the good of every one of us. For people of all societal levels, poor and rich, servant and king, near and far. May those of us who profess to be Christians do our best to extend the message of Epiphany, and the message of God’s love, to all our brothers and sisters.
This post was delayed by a day because yesterday I was transfixed, like people the world over, by images of a mob storming our nation’s Capitol. Ironically, this attempt to subvert our democratic process was carried out by supporters directly incited by the “Law and Order” president. A pastor friend of mine has referred to the calamitous events of the day as the “Epiphany Riots.” I join her in hoping that the sight of these disturbing images might prompt at least some Americans toward an epiphany* of their own.
*According to the Mirriam-Webster dictionary, an epiphany is a “usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something.”
During my daughter’s younger years, she and I continued the tradition of making Christmas ornaments that my mother and I had begun in my childhood. (See Working Like Elves, and Next-Generation Elves, both from December 2011.) It’s been quite a while since D and I have created a new ornament, but with the unusual circumstances of this holiday season, the conditions were conducive for at-home crafting again.
In a long-forgotten handmade box among the Christmas decorations at my mother’s house, we found brightly colored vintage bulbs and various other odds and ends. Amidst the jumble were toothpick and pipe-cleaner arms from two of our past creations, the pinecone and cork people.
Cork and pinecone people, among pasta angels and Cape Cod shell angels.
My daughter and I had the same idea at once: Christmas bulb beings. Equipped with a newly uncovered box of miscellaneous ornament makings from Mama’s basement, we spent several happy hours, much as in Yuletide days of yore, working together at the playroom table. (We spent additional time attempting to remove Superglue from our fingers.)
Our new group of Christmas characters includes several with wooden beads for heads, like these red and green twins in acorn caps and sparkly pipe-cleaner scarves. . .
. . .and this royal-looking girl with gold accessories.
There is one apple-headed figure. My daughter enjoys the surrealist touch.
A pom-pom headed boy in a straw hat carries two miniature Christmas ornaments.
A cowboy in a black hat holds a lasso. There’s room in our bulb bunch for all types.
We made a few angels with wings of silk flower petals or glitter-covered card stock.
The bulb beings appear to be settling in well with their fellow ornaments. They owe their existence to the pandemic. Another Covid silver lining. The biggest, for me, of course, is having our daughter here for an extended stay. May you and your family find special blessings during this most peculiar holiday season.
As I was writing my last post, Spring’s New Box of Crayons, an image kept popping up in my mind, a blurry picture from years long past. One of my most memorable gifts as a child was, indeed, a fabulous box of crayons. I was very little, no more than three, but I can’t forget my first glimpse of it under the tree on Christmas morning. The package was unusual for a crayon box. It was long and flat, and it showed two kids drawing. Those crayons saw constant use. Even in our family of thrifty savers and recyclers, the box disappeared many years ago. I’ve often tried to remember its details, wishing I could see it again.
Today, I did. Thanks to the web, even the vaguest of childhood memories are literally at our fingertips. I googled “Vintage 1960s crayons,” and it appeared, as though I’d snapped my fingers and conjured it by magic, much like Samantha used to do in Bewitched:
72 Different colors including 8 fluorescent crayons.
There was the white box, bearing an image of two ideal early 60s-era children, happily creating Crayola masterpieces. The girl wears a pink, full-skirted jumper and white blouse, a pink bow in her neatly ponytailed hair. She sits with her feet tucked up under her in a ladylike position. The boy wears a striped blue and green shirt and belted khakis. His bright red hair has a rakish flip, and he lies stretched out on the floor. One odd detail I certainly didn’t remember: next to the boy’s elbow is a toy dagger. Why in the world is that there? Perhaps to show that wholesome, red-blooded American boys willingly lay down their weapons for a chance to enjoy Crayola crayons? Tough guys color? No need to worry, macho Dads: these crayons won’t turn your son into a sissy?
Inside the box lies the real treasure (and not a single knife): the crayons themselves, arrayed in two long, beautiful parallel rows. My mother has remarked that she was rarely happier as a child than she was upon opening a brand-new box of crayons. For her, growing up during the Great Depression, that was a rare pleasure. I was lucky to open many new boxes of crayons, but I know what she means. And never was the elation more pronounced than when I first peered at all those perfect crayons inside that new white box.
My daughter understands, as well. She returned home from fourth grade one day talking excitedly about her friend’s wonderful new crayons. That the girl was a talented and imaginative artist gave the crayons all the more appeal. They were in a circular, clear plastic box, so all the colors, arranged by shade, were visible. They were so cool! Could she get some? Please? By the end of the week, she, too, was a proud owner.
Along with two classic boxes of 64 crayons, they still remain on the shelves of our former playroom. Barbies and stuffed animals were boxed up (and some even given away) during this summer’s room redo, but the crayons survive. They’re still used, still fun, still relevant. They abide. And now, with the prevalence of coloring books geared toward grown-ups, more likely to be used by all generations.
Even now I love the idea of opening a new box of crayons for the first time. There’s something close to magical in the sight of those flawless little cylinders of color, each paper cover intact, each point sharp and unused. Such potential. The chance for multiple new beginnings. Much like the promise of spring on an April day like today, when the sun is bright and the breeze is fresh.
These clothespin creatures are some of my favorite Halloween decorations. I made them about ten years ago, when my daughter was small. Seems she helped in some way, but I can’t remember exactly how. Maybe she painted the clothespins? Whatever she did or didn’t do, she enjoyed them after they were finished. We both look forward to unpacking them every year.
Because we fared well with our first batch of decorated eggs this season, my daughter and I pushed on. We experimented with natural dyes, without success. Boiled red cabbage suffuses the kitchen with a pungent smell and yields a vibrant reddish-blue color in the pan. Yet eggs left in this liquid for an extended period emerge an innocuous, industrial shade of gray-white. The same is true for beet juice. This might not be the case if we had boiled the eggs slowly with the vegetables, as we have done, with good results, to make our reddish-brown onion skin eggs (See post from April 2012). Surprisingly, only frozen blueberries mixed with water imparted a substantial but subtle color (a dull gray-blue, seen on the egg in the top center, above).
D and I soon turned to the stand-by, store-bought egg-coloring kit. We wanted to try some easy techniques that did not involve paint or markers. Outside in the biting March wind, we foraged for interesting bits of foliage and flowers. We arranged a sprig or a leaf on each egg, wrapped the egg tightly in cheesecloth, tied the ends with yarn and immersed the egg in the dye. We had used the cheesecloth technique before when decorating some of our onion skin eggs. (Pieces of old nylon stocking, recommended by some, did not work for us; they didn’t create a secure enough hold.) This cheesecloth process produces messily impressionistic images, as on the eggs above, instead of clear-cut stencil designs, which suits us fine.
My daughter created this interesting design with nandina leaves, wrapped very tightly to show the weave of the cheesecloth.
We made bolder patterns by simply wrapping rubber bands
tightly around the eggs before dyeing them.
For this design we used a sprig of pine needles bound with a rubber band. It reminds me of waving seagrass in front of a beach fence.
We made polka-dotted eggs by applying stickers before dyeing.
We used a variety of stickers for the eggs above. Our failure to remove the stickers immediately after dyeing made for the only stress of the evening. We spent considerable time trying,
with incomplete success, to scrape off the shredded stickers and the gooey residue.
We used tape to create simple rectilinear designs. It peels off far more easily than stickers.
Happy Easter-Egging!
A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.
