The Chosen

I was always the last one chosen for teams when I was a child.  I was small and skinny, and I came from a family that prized brains, because we had no brawn.  It didn't bother me, because I didn't want to play anyway -- secretly, I hoped the gym teachers would just say, "Oh, it's alright, Jackie.  We'll give you credit for your outstanding reading skills.  You don't have to play."  That never happened.  Not even once.  Character-building came through failed efforts to serve the volleyball, pop flies that I either missed or that landed on my face, and an inability to put a basketball through the hoop.

Recently, however, I had a different kind of experience with not being chosen.  American Spring, the exhibit put together by the Fiber Artists for Hope, is in Little Rock, Arkansas as part of the commemoration of the 55th Anniversary of Central High School's desegregation.  All of the quilts were shipped to Arkansas but the two venues did not have room for all of them, so the people setting up the displays selected what they wanted based on the story they were trying to tell.

My piece was not among the chosen.

I shrugged it off at first, but then I went back and looked at what seemed like an awfully long list of the pieces that were selected.  Instead of being happy for the other group members, I was getting grumbly.  Was I the only one that didn't get picked?  What was wrong with mine?  This isn't volleyball, people, so why didn't I get picked?  In my jealous fog I even went back and compared the "yesses" to the complete list.

I am not proud of this.

Reason and calm returned when I saw that no, mine wasn't the only one, and that there were recurring themes in the works that would be hung in Little Rock.  The organizers had chosen wisely.  I was embarrassed about my mental tantrum and no one even knew about it.

I felt even more ridiculous this morning when I read the email notifying me that my quilt, along with seven others, would be travelling to Philadelphia to be displayed at a youth anti-violence conference.  Dick Gregory and Trayvon Martin's parents will be speaking.  This venue is perfect for these eight quilts and I am thrilled that mine is going.  What was that about good things and waiting?  Maybe next time, I'll hold off on the indignation and see what happens.


Linking up with Yeah Write again this week, because I can't seem to stop myself.

Too Early for Christmas?

Erinn

1.  I am the first person to roll my eyes in disgust and mutter to myself when I see Christmas decorations in stores any time before Thanksgiving.

2.  I have been known to mute the TV when holiday commercials air before Thanksgiving.

That said, I am running a small business whose main products are handmade.  I have to plan ahead.

And there is my dilemma.  How do I encourage early shopping without becoming the very thing I hate?  Suggestions?

Lunchtime

It was a productive morning.  I was almost finished with a child's quilt  

and was starting to think about lunch when I heard a loud noise.  It sounded like something slamming into the front door or the living room window.  I was home alone, and I froze.

What if that was someone trying to break into the house? Our neighborhood is pretty safe, but you can never be too sure.  I debated investigating.  Nervous Me wanted to stay upstairs and wait.  Worried Me didn't hear any more noise and thought it might be safe to go downstairs and check.  Worried me won.

I grabbed the phone so I could call 911 if necessary and glanced around for something that could be used as a weapon.  My choices: a pile of fabric, a plastic trash can, and a pool noodle. I was going to have to go downstairs unarmed.  Maybe I could throw the phone.

I took off my shoes, walked softly to the stairs, and placed my foot on the first step.  Creeeeeak!  There went my element of surprise.  The house is 80 years old; the stairs are noisy.  If there was anyone in the house or trying to get in, they would know that someone was home and, if I was lucky, leave.

From halfway down it was clear that the front door was still closed and the living room window looked uncompromised.  I relaxed a bit and continued down, now more curious than worried.  After testing the front door (securely locked), I went to the window to see if there was any evidence of what caused that bang.

The answer was sitting on the porch railing, settling its ruffled feathers.  A beautiful hawk turned and looked at me, its expression clearly saying, "There's nothing to see here, silly flightless creature."  Then it turned its back and launched itself off the railing, quickly rising into the afternoon sky.

Surprised and a little awestruck, I wanted to go out on the porch to try to catch another glimpse of the hawk.  I opened the door and looked down just before my foot landed on the source of the hawk's collision.  A small bird lay on the doorstep, fatally wounded.  The hawk had lost its lunch, and I suddenly didn't feel quite so hungry myself.



Hanging out with the awesome bloggers at yeahwrite.me again this week! 

A Very Short Trip

We were in the middle of the intersection when the light changed.

"It's okay," I said in my most confident voice.  "They won't hit us."  I hoped that saying it would make it so.  She continued her slow and careful progress across the street, and I kept an eye on the drivers of the truck and two cars, hoping that we wouldn't need a second light cycle to get across the remaining two lanes of traffic.

Maybe parking across the street from the restaurant had been a bad idea.

We were out because I needed supplies.  Or maybe I really didn't, but I needed to get away from my studio so I invented an outing.  I hadn't seen my friend in a while so I called and invited her to go with me and get some lunch.  Always eager for a reason to get out of the house (and good food), she said she would be ready in an hour.

We became friends in college.  As working young women after college, we would regularly go shopping on the weekends and then have lunch.  If the shopping trip was stressful, we would just have dessert.  We had more than one "lunch" that consisted of soup or salad and a giant piece of chocolate cake.

Her energy was starting to flag by the time I parked at the restaurant, and we were both hungry, which leads to poor decision-making as evidenced by my parking across from the restaurant.  It doesn't sound like a big deal, but here's the thing about my friend: she has multiple sclerosis.  She has been using a walker for the past year.  The last time that we went out without the walker we both almost ended up on the ground and decided that we shouldn't do that again.  Imagine, if you will, two women on a rainy day, one trying to balance the other's lack of balance, as they try to step up onto a curb with piles of soggy leaves.  It looked quite perilous, and a truck driver stopped and got out to make sure we were okay, but we were laughing at the absolute ridiculousness of the situation.  It's like that with her.

So there we were in the middle of the street.  She kept walking and I apprehensively watched the slowly increasing number of cars that were waiting for us.  We made it to the other side just as the light changed again.  We were safe.  No one had honked at us.  No one had tried to intimidate us by nosing their car forward.

"Maybe that wasn't the best idea," we said simultaneously, looking back at the intersection and laughing at our folly.


Hanging out with some awesome bloggers at yeahwrite this week.

Music Soothes the Savage...Fabric?

A few months ago I asked the members of the QuiltArt list whether they listen to anything while they work, or if background noise is a distraction.  I had been quilting along to some Run-DMC (quilting and old school rap DO go together) and just wondered what music, if any, gets other people creating.

The responses were tremendously varied, from Gregorian chants to heavy metal to folk (not so much on the hip hop, though), and I enjoyed reading all of the responses.  There was one response of the dozens that came in that made me think:

Doesn't anyone work in silence and let the work speak to them?

After some real consideration, I decided that the music or NPR serve a critical function for me.  If the left side of my brain is engaged in listening to a discussion of singing along (badly) to music from my college years, the right side is freed up to just create.  The good inner critic that says, "Try this quilting design" or "Purple would be beautiful there" comes through loud and clear while the negative critic --  "Are you nuts? You can't do this!" -- is occupied remembering the words to Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger."

That's just me, though.  Does the music serve a function for you? Or is it just to cover up the creaks and pops your house/studio make everyday?

Best Laid Plans

Ready...
Tuesday, 7:30 PM

I couldn't get my husband out of the house fast enough.  He was going to be gone until Thursday afternoon.  The next day, Wednesday, the kids had after-school activities until 4:30. I would be alone in my house ALL DAY.

A silly, giddy grin spread across my face as I planned out what was surely going to be the best work day I had had in a long time. I cut the strips for a small child's quilt.  I took pictures of a work in progress so I could post to the blog, and cut batting and backing for a new piece.  I might have giggled.  And maybe danced.

Set...
Wednesday, 10:30 AM

The children were at school.  I had walked 2.5 miles, showered, and read the news.  I started winding a bobbin so I could get to work.

Stop!
10:35 AM

The phone rang.  I was not planning to answer it, I just wanted to make sure it wasn't a school nurse calling to tell me to come retrieve a sick or injured child.  Anyone else could leave a message.

Anyone else except for my 83-year-old mother-in-law, Ms.G, that is.  I always answer the phone when she calls because she is 83.

She had a doctor's appointment that my husband and I did not have on our schedule.  In 25 minutes.  It was going to take me an hour to get her there under ideal conditions.  With my husband out of town, it was going to be up to me to get her there.  I asked her to call the doctor's office and tell them what the problem was.  I finished winding my bobbin and selected some music to work by while I waited for her to call me back, because I was sure they would just reschedule for another day.

But no.  They said to come on in later and they would work her in.  My day was imploding.  Rational Me tried reminding myself that I was fortunate to be in a position to go help her, and that she has been a wonderful MIL, but Derailed Me wasn't trying to hear that.

My voice

My brain

That is how my perfect day became a 7-hour odyssey through DC on a rainy winter day.  I picked up Ms.G, took her to the doctor, and waited around for a couple of hours hoping they would get to her before I had to go get my daughter from school.  A foolish hope, really, because this had become One of Those Days.  Thwarted and muttering, I drove an hour round-trip to get my daughter, drop her at home, and return to the doctor's office to collect Ms.G.

When I finally got home, I could not bear to even turn on the light in my studio.  Even so, I could hear the taunts of my carefully prepared fabrics.  I closed the door.

We had waffles for dinner that night.

I was looking forward to my husband's return.

Diversity comes to Jacq's Girls!

Until now, all of the dolls pictured on my website have been African-American.  One could assume that I don't make dolls of other ethnicities.  One would be mistaken.

I have made a number of Caucasian dolls over the last two years, but either the photographs were not good quality or they were not photographed at all.  All of that is now changing.

I have now added five Caucasian dolls to my regular line-up.  Please welcome Amanda, Charlotte, Hayley, Jenna, and Lucy!  More to come...

Charlotte

Amanda

  

Jenna

Hayley

Lucy