tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44593950583113309902024-03-13T16:55:57.757-05:00small works in woolre-purposing old sweaters since 2003.susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.comBlogger537125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-23850681457115528362013-01-09T16:27:00.000-06:002013-01-09T16:48:51.613-06:00Marching orders.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #93c47d; font-size: x-large;"><b>It's Moving Day!</b></span><br />
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Seems like as good a day as any...<br />
please visit me in my new neighborhood:<br />
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(It won't feel like home until you get there.)</div>
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susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-20076950250395447932013-01-03T15:37:00.003-06:002013-01-03T17:58:13.733-06:00It's about time.<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #76a5af; font-size: large;">So. I guess I should begin with <i>hello.</i></span></b><br />
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And perhaps even introduce myself...it has been, after all, <i>SOOO</i> long! Much longer than I expected it to be when I said<i> "so long".</i> And for that, Dear Reader, I apologize. I have missed you so! Truly. It has been a bit like losing a best friend.<br />
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There are choices to be made today, as a result of the lapse...do I fill you in on every detail? Do I pick up where we left off? Do I begin now as if nothing has happened in the 4 months since we last met?<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #76a5af; font-size: large;">Since art is, in its essence, about editing and choice-making, I shall endeavor to make a few.<i> </i></span></b><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>Here's the story in a nutshell...</i></span></b></span><br />
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We moved to Phoenix, which included among other things, saying good-bye to my daughters, putting all my possessions in the dubious care of United Van Lines, leaving Cooper at camp in MN, a never-ending trek across the country in a loaded van, and a 6 week stay in a corporate apartment. There was not much to complain about there...hot tub and frozen yogurt every night, maid service, nothing in the world to do but twiddle my thumbs. <i> (So why wasn't I here? I will try to answer that.)</i><br />
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After re-doing every inch of our 4000 sq. ft. home in order to sell it, I had no intention of buying a fixer-upper. I intended to choose CAREFULLY. I intended to stay in that corporate apartment for as long as it took to get it right...therefore, I went out and bought the very first house I saw. <br />
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It has the kind of charm that should be illegal in a fixer-upper! And the price was so right! It left us with <i>almost </i>enough money to fix (half of) what we needed to fix! Irresistible. Insane, but irresistible. And I stand by my decision, most days. We did live without any kitchen for 3 weeks...and re-paint every single paintable surface in the house, including insides of cabinets...and do it all with the stuff from our 4000 sq. ft. home crammed into less than 2000 sq. ft. (of charm!)...We accomplished all the work while living in a rat maze. And there are battle scars -- some days, we both limp. Now we are trying to unpack -- and sort -- the maze. <i>(So why wasn't I playing hooky and hanging out here? I will still try to answer that.)</i><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #76a5af;">Big life changes are hard.</span> </i></span></b> No news there, I know...but I say it to remind myself. I put down my needle after the Baltimore show early last year to work full time on re-doing, then selling, my house. So I was already feeling a little displaced. Now I find myself in a new home that requires endless work...my studio is still floor-to-ceiling boxes. Someday I will find my desk, hopefully be able to reassemble it, unpack my computer, wish Chelsea were here to plug it in for me, and possibly even thread a needle again. But not yet.<br />
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If you've hung out at <i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #9fc5e8;">Small Works</span></b></i> for awhile, you may know that I love the sunshine. I am happy as can be to have landed in my beloved desert, where I can expect more sun than I'll ever be able to absorb. But you might also know that I am susceptible to depression/anxiety problems. I've always been pretty up-front about that. I wouldn't have minded if United Van Lines had lost those problems for me, but unfortunately it seems that wherever I go, here I am. And big life changes are hard. So there's been some couch-sitting. Hand-wringing. Floor-pacing. Swedish Fish eating. Copious amounts of all those things, in fact. So much so that I've been unable to hang out here. Because it reminds me of what I'm NOT doing...and of what I'm doing instead. And it's terrifying.<br />
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There's been plenty of time for reflection. Time to decide what I want to do next. I do, after all, have the opportunity to completely re-invent myself if I so choose. No one here knows a thing about me. They don't expect me to make art, or anything else...the only expectations are probably from the lady who sells me my large diet coke every morning. (But I could change stores and she'd never give me another thought.)<br />
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So to make a long story short...<i>much too late, I know</i>...I have come to a decision of sorts. Writing this blog has been my favorite thing I have ever done in all my 50 years. I have loved every second. It has fed my soul. I have loved the connections I have made, loved exploring art in many forms, loved having a place to gossip and spout off and poke fun at 1950's magazine illustrations. But did you notice what I just said? <br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #9fc5e8;"><i><b>Writing this blog...</b></i> </span>has been my favorite thing. Writing about the art. I love that more than making it.<br />
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So I think it's time to stop putting off the dream. I've never been very comfortable in my artist-skin. I am completely comfortable in my writer-skin. Also scared to death of it. But since everything else in my life seems to have taken a leap, I figure it must be time for me to follow. Try to grab the dream, or at least be able to say I tried. That's the important part, I guess. <br />
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I have signed on for the San Francisco ACC Show in August. I don't really have any intention of stopping my stitching, but it will take a back seat for now -- perhaps fewer pieces, bigger pieces -- who knows? I'll keep you posted.<br />
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And since <b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #9fc5e8;">Small Works </span></i></b>was invented as a vehicle to acquaint the world with my stitched work, I don't really feel my writing belongs here now. Perhaps there will be things that are appropriate in the future, so I will be leaving the blog intact. Feel free to visit old post friends, if you have them. And check back from time to time. When I do find my needles and thread, I may pick up here again. <br />
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But now it's time for me to talk -- <i>write</i> -- about other things for awhile. Maybe about what it means to be approaching 50. Or to be chasing a dream. Or to be staring into the gulf of re-inventing myself. Or to be a mother whose children live in other time zones. Or perhaps a novel about another woman altogether...although I would not be surprised if she finds herself in a similar situation. And if that voice finds another blog home, I'll let you know.<br />
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And thank you, thank you for being part of my favorite thing! <br />
You'll never know what that has meant to me. <br />
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Thank you, Dear Readers, my friends. From the bottom of my heart. xo<br />
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #9fc5e8;">Susan</span></i></b><br />
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-55139513347407115692012-08-31T15:09:00.001-05:002012-08-31T23:00:19.028-05:00<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">Barbie shoes have long been a metaphor in our family for overwhelm . . .</span></span></b> <br />
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They are the kind of annoying little thing that can multiply until they seem to be turning up everywhere. They rarely stay on Barbie's feet, where they belong.<br />
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Their significance originated when Hannah was very young. Cleaning up her room was an overwhelming prospect for her, so I would have to break it down into manageable tasks. We would often begin with,<i> <b style="color: #a2c4c9;">"Just pick up all the Barbie shoes. Then come back and report." </b></i><br />
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With three daughters, there never seemed to be a shortage of Barbie shoes (or barrettes, or figurines, or books, or <i>whatever)</i> laying around waiting to be stepped on. But for some reason, Barbie shoes are the thing that has remained code for,<i style="color: #a2c4c9;"><b> "Help! I'm drowning in all this little stuff...someone please just take over and tell me what to do!"</b></i><br />
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<b style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yes, this is a cry for help.</span></b> I am drowning in 30 years' worth of Barbie shoes. There's something very comforting about family junk -- 30 years of tangible history -- and something terribly disquieting about watching it get carted out the door. Even if it is to a new life with someone who really needs it. Or to a daughter who has been eying it for years and hoping she could take it to her own home. Or to the landfill, where it should have gone 25 years ago.<br />
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Fact is, my brain isn't functioning terribly well right now. I'm not much of a friend, mother, wife, blogger, or anything else. Mostly I want to curl up in my chair and watch old television shows and eat candy. And I've spent a good deal of time doing those things....until now. With the packers coming next week, there is no more time for wallowing. The Barbie shoes MUST be sorted, and sort them I will. And am.<br />
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I've never missed a move yet. But I'm a little out of practice.<br />
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All of our possessions that make the cut will be going into storage in Phoenix for an unspecified amount of time. We'll be moving into a corporate apartment for the first month, then <i>who-knows-where</i> until we decide what we want to do next. So much freedom! All the things I've told my daughters are being repeated to me: <i> <b style="color: #a2c4c9;">"The world is your oyster....You can do anything you want to do...Look at it as an </b><b style="color: #a2c4c9;">adventure....We can do hard things...." </b></i> (But I like all that advice much more when I'm the one giving it.)<br />
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<b style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Small Works</i> will return....<i>sometime.</i> </span></b> Once the dust settles. Once at least the Barbie shoes have been put away, and maybe even a few other things. Heaven knows there's plenty to be done, on both ends of the move. Thanks for your friendship and your patience during my technical difficulties<b style="color: #a2c4c9;"> (read: failure to cope)</b>. It gives me a great deal of comfort to know that, no matter where I go, my blog neighborhood goes with me.<br />
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susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-78168212517467821392012-08-21T15:51:00.001-05:002012-08-21T15:54:38.723-05:00poemcrazy<br />
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<b style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-size: large;">I laughed at this cartoon when I came across it the other day -</span></b> well, shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot trying to combat a vague sense of anxiety, more than laughed, I guess. Yes, I'm a dinosaur. We've documented it here so often before. This was just another reminder. <br />
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Then I showed it to my daughter (the newly minted teacher) to see what she thought. And for emphasis, I added the information that, in my hometown, cursive has just been struck from the curriculum - hit by a meteor at last and destined to become quaint hieroglyphics to future generations.<br />
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As with most things, she's keeping an open mind. It's one of her best qualities.<br />
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She replied that it remains to be seen whether penmanship was important for fine motor development or not, whether those hours and hours of practice we endured actually benefited us in some way. Or whether today's kids might be better served by spending the time learning about technologies that have a direct impact on the world they live in and the one they will grow into.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">She was right, of course.</span></b></div>
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And I guess my anxiety actually comes from a worry that words themselves might become extinct. I wonder whether kids can have the kind of relationship I have with words if they are never given the opportunity to master their creation from the ground up - to tame hands and pencils and use them to give tangible shape and meaning to their thoughts. I guess it remains to be seen.<br />
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<b style="color: #9fc5e8;">Maybe</b> -<i> keeping an open mind</i> - the speed at which kids can connect words using all the technologies at their fingertips will allow them an even freer rein, to think faster and to record those thoughts and feelings in words more completely and accurately than ever before.<br />
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<b style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-size: large;">Back when I studied writing in college, </span></b><br />
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I was working on a manual typewriter. I had to really <i style="color: #9fc5e8;"><b>want </b></i>every word. The beast had a very stiff touch and a reluctant return, and every error meant one kind of messy and time-consuming correction or another. Usually I wrote first drafts longhand, on a yellow pad, then refined them on my trusty typewriter. I was continually frustrated that my hands could never quite move at the speed of my mind. I can't imagine how much work I might have turned out if I had possessed the technology that I do now. On the other hand, each completed piece might have felt less satisfying. We love most the things for which we work hardest.<br />
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Recently I've been enjoying the book<i><b> <span style="color: #9fc5e8;">poemcrazy</span> </b></i>by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge. Actually, I've been savoring every word. The book is just a celebration of words, really - poetry reduced to its most basic components. If you are a lover of ideas, and more specifically of the magical ways in which words can convey meaning, you should pick it up. <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>"Poetry has an interesting function. </b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">It helps people <i>be</i> where they are."</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span>-- Gary Snyder </b></div>
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If words strung perfectly help us "be" where we are, and perhaps more importantly, understand where others are, then I guess I should make room for the possibility that words will always be much more than the sum of the letters that create them, and that how they come together is immaterial.<br />
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And if that's the case, I guess I need to let kids be where <i><b>they</b></i> are, and that is definitely in a world of fonts. Not penmanship.<br />
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-62369277513122922892012-08-17T10:56:00.000-05:002012-08-17T10:58:14.668-05:00Magpie Fri.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">detail from image by Francesca Woodman</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Beckoning</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I put my ear</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">against tomorrow</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">listening for a sound</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">a beat, a sign, the wave</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">of drumming fingers</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">to a future song</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">and I can almost hear</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">to sing along</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">but almost says it hasn't</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">quite become, half-born</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">a foot, one hand, a hint</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">and who knows what</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">will happen when we get</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">to then and there</span></div>
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<i>--smh</i></div>
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<b>I know, I know -- still AWOL, because I've been sicker than sick all week. Brought back a nasty little souvenir of some kind from Phoenix. But I did manage this. Thanks to Tess at <a href="http://www.magpietales.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #76a5af;">Magpie Tales</span></a><span style="color: #76a5af;"> </span>for luring me to the keyboard. Click over there now to explore a hundred more...</b></div>
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-10152666863010123922012-08-09T08:57:00.000-05:002012-08-09T08:57:04.458-05:00Meanwhile.<div style="color: #93c47d;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #93c47d;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>We sold it! </b></span></div>
<div style="color: #93c47d;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>It's a miracle!</b></span></i></div>
<div style="color: #93c47d;">
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wbzmpPXe2PA/TftxAMEr4JI/AAAAAAAAHXU/zyFxGehJNH4/s1600/drawing+22+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="163" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wbzmpPXe2PA/TftxAMEr4JI/AAAAAAAAHXU/zyFxGehJNH4/s400/drawing+22+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div style="color: #93c47d;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div style="color: #93c47d;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Getting all the closets cleaned out before the packers come will be an even bigger one.</span></b></div>
<div style="color: #93c47d;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div style="color: #93c47d;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">To celebrate/recover...I took a little 10 day trip without really mentioning it to anyone -- anyone being, in this case specifically, YOU, Dear Reader!</span></b></div>
<div style="color: #93c47d;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div style="color: #93c47d;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">I couldn't tell you, because the sale did not really become final until I was already well into my vacation. You understand, I hope!</span></b></div>
<div style="color: #93c47d;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div style="color: #93c47d;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Since we signed the papers, I believe I have gained 5 pounds. The revelry must end.</span></b></div>
<div style="color: #93c47d;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div style="color: #93c47d;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">And it will....Monday. </span></b></div>
<div style="color: #93c47d;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Small Works</i> will return on Tuesday, August 14.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Miss you!</span></b></div>
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<b>(sorry, I said that with my mouth full and while wearing a swimsuit, but it isn't the first time in our friendship that I've been glad we're not blogging via Skype...)</b></div>
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<b> </b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-31796344532064249612012-08-01T20:50:00.002-05:002012-08-01T22:59:02.511-05:00<br />
<div style="color: #6fa8dc;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Someone smart once told me, </span></b></div>
<div style="color: #6fa8dc;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #6fa8dc; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>"Art asks questions. Ask good ones."</b></span></div>
<div style="color: #6fa8dc; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #6fa8dc; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q9amZ6PjrYY/UBncZCX6NTI/AAAAAAAAJxE/Xli7AgxqKcQ/s1600/179.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q9amZ6PjrYY/UBncZCX6NTI/AAAAAAAAJxE/Xli7AgxqKcQ/s320/179.jpg" width="164" /></a></div>
<div style="color: #6fa8dc;">
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Actually, it was Hannah while we were eating lunch yesterday...she threw that wise gem out over fried chicken tacos and a bowl of melty queso studded with green chiles. It was a perfect lunch and a perfect conversation.<br />
<br />
I thought of it again today while I was eating a much less-perfect lunch alone with the August issue of <i style="color: #9fc5e8;"><b>American Craft</b></i> magazine. In the "From the Editor" feature, by Monica Moses, I read about a new book called<i> <b style="color: #9fc5e8;">Unintended Consequences</b></i> by Edward Conard, an uber-wealthy investor who uses the term "art history majors" to slam people he thinks aren't contributing enough to the economy.<br />
<br />
Guilty. I haven't contributed enough to the economy in years, actually -- and I shudder to think what he might say about an English-major-turned-fiber-artist.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
But Monica Moses offers a perfect response:<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #9fc5e8;">
<i><b>"Yet what endures in a civilization is not its spreadsheets and financial instruments but its plays and sculptures, its sonatas and paintings. As John F. Kennedy put it, 'Aeschylus and Plato are remembered today long after the triumphs of imperial Athens are gone. Dante outlived the ambitions of 13th-century Florence.' What has power in the long run is the creative stuff. So shouldn't we invest in the art of our own age? Shouldn't we appreciate the art of the ages? In their own way, isn't that what the art history majors of the world are doing?</b></i></div>
<div style="color: #9fc5e8;">
<i><b><br /></b></i></div>
<div style="color: #9fc5e8;">
<i><b>Money is a funny thing. Central as it is in our culture, it is only a means to an end. The Edward Conards of this country don't hang financial documents on their walls. Even they see beauty and meaning elsewhere. Money is the middleman, and the real value is in experience, feeling, and art."</b></i></div>
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<br />
<div style="color: #6fa8dc;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">It seems to me that the reason art endures is that the questions remain largely unanswered. </span></b></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IYrKEWMS7u0/UBnbaTLeoFI/AAAAAAAAJw0/R0hvdYnyT-I/s1600/286_cather_about.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IYrKEWMS7u0/UBnbaTLeoFI/AAAAAAAAJw0/R0hvdYnyT-I/s1600/286_cather_about.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div style="color: #9fc5e8;">
<b>Willa Cather said, </b></div>
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<div style="color: #6fa8dc;">
<i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">"There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before."</span></b></i></div>
<br />
<br />
So although I am feeling a great deal of personal uncertainty about what my exact artistic direction should be, I am glad to be reminded that asking the questions remains valid and meaningful -- important even! -- no matter what form they take.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SRBOiYNmlow/UBncHrAgGdI/AAAAAAAAJw8/TW6EAaFp7V8/s1600/drawing+45+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SRBOiYNmlow/UBncHrAgGdI/AAAAAAAAJw8/TW6EAaFp7V8/s200/drawing+45+crop.jpg" width="127" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Nice to remember I'm really happy<br />
being exactly what I am.<br />
Whatever that is...artist, writer...<br />
maybe I'll even think about going<br />
back to school for an MFA in art history.<br />
<br />
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-37086467267143137682012-07-26T17:01:00.001-05:002012-07-26T17:09:43.934-05:00<div style="color: #6aa84f;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #6aa84f;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">I've got a bit of a problem. </span></b></div>
<br />
Okay, it's a whopper, actually. An epic struggle. Like I'm trapped under an enormous rock.<br />
<br />
Luckily I can still barely wiggle one finger.<br />
I'm using it to type this post.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K5OanDTV1Ck/UBG7q-UDYEI/AAAAAAAAJvI/Du36QxT9m8E/s1600/newscan221.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="346" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K5OanDTV1Ck/UBG7q-UDYEI/AAAAAAAAJvI/Du36QxT9m8E/s400/newscan221.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">The problem is not as simple as a rock, however.</span> It is infinitely more complex. The most basic components consist of a house that refuses to be sold, a studio that is unable to be used, a life that is in what seems to be a permanent state of limbo...and all the accompanying psychic distress.<br />
<br />
Things were iffy in the world of high-end fine craft before all this started, of course. Which doesn't help.<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #6aa84f;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The result is, I can't work, and even if I could, </span></b></div>
<div style="color: #6aa84f;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">would I have the wherewithal to do so? <i>Not sure. </i></span></b></div>
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I do know I can eat candy, exercise in a losing battle to combat the all-candy diet, and clean house. And read books in my pajamas. And watch <i>Arrested Development</i> -- it's only funny the first 400 times, btw...<br />
<br />
That's about it.<br />
<br />
All my friends and loved ones have wisely pointed out that this time is a gift. That this is my chance to finally<i> (finally!)</i> devote myself to writing. They are right, of course. But for some reason, their well intentioned counsel feels like they just set another rock on top of the enormous rock. And then all climbed on top to stand on it while they wait for me to start typing.<br />
<br />
<b style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-size: large;">So it felt like a tiny little shred of grace today</span></b> when I came across this article on <a href="http://www.thinkjarcollective.com/" target="_blank">Think Jar Collective</a>. It focuses on Richard Feynman, a Nobel prize winning physicist who obviously knew a thing or two about how things work. This excerpt from his writing provided me a bit of hope.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wvIz2esqaKM/UBG8E4hrzqI/AAAAAAAAJvc/M-4Jx3rEllU/s1600/newscan090.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="315" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wvIz2esqaKM/UBG8E4hrzqI/AAAAAAAAJvc/M-4Jx3rEllU/s400/newscan090.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<blockquote style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Then I had another thought: Physics disgusts me a
little bit now, but I used to enjoy doing physics. Why did I enjoy it? I
used to play with it. I used to do whatever I felt like doing – it
didn’t have to do with whether it was important for the development of
nuclear physics, but whether it was interesting and amusing for me to
play with. When I was in high school, I’d see water running out of a
faucet growing narrower, and wonder if I could figure out what
determines that curve. I found it was rather easy to do. I
didn’t have to do it; it wasn’t important for the future of science;
somebody else had already done it. That didn’t make any difference. I’d
invent things and play with things for my own entertainment.</i></span></blockquote>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>So I got this new attitude. Now that I am burned out and I’ll
never accomplish anything, I’ve got this nice position at the university
teaching classes which I rather enjoy, and just like I read the <cite>Arabian Nights</cite> for pleasure, I’m going to play with physics, whenever I want to, without worrying about any importance whatsoever.</i></span></blockquote>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Within a week I was in the cafeteria and some guy, fooling
around, throws a plate in the air. As the plate went up in the air I saw
it wobble, and I noticed the red medallion of Cornell on the plate
going around. It was pretty obvious to me that the medallion went around
faster than the wobbling.</i></span></blockquote>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I had nothing to do, so I start to figure out the motion of the
rotating plate. I discover that when the angle is very slight, the
medallion rotates twice as fast as the wobble rate. Then I thought, “Is
there some way I can see in a more fundamental way, by looking at the
forces or the dynamics?”</i></span></blockquote>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I don’t remember how I did it, but I ultimately worked out what
the motion of the mass particles is, and how all the accelerations
balance… </i><i>I still remember going to Hans Bethe and saying, “Hey,
Hans! I noticed something interesting. Here the plate goes around so,
and the reason it’s two to one is …” and I showed him the accelerations.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i></i></span></blockquote>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<blockquote style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>He says, “Feynman, that’s pretty interesting, but what’s the importance of it? Why are you doing it?”</i></span></blockquote>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>“Hah!” I say. “There’s no importance whatsoever. I’m just doing
it for the fun of it.” His reaction didn’t discourage me; I had made up
my mind I was going to enjoy physics and do whatever I liked.</i></span></blockquote>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>It was effortless. It was easy to play with these things. It was
like uncorking a bottle: Everything flowed out effortlessly. I almost
tried to resist it! There was no importance to what I was doing, but
ultimately there was. <b>The diagrams and the whole business that I got the Nobel Prize for came from that piddling around with the wobbling plate. </b></i></span></blockquote>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<blockquote style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>-- Richard Feynman (1918-1988)</b></i></span></blockquote>
[Feynman<i>, R. </i>(1985). <i>Surely you’re joking, Mr. Feynman, pg. 157-158</i>]<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-size: large;">So now I'm going to take that little bit of hope</span></b> and fire up my new (to me) mac laptop, graciously provided me by my daughter who believes in my writing dreams. And I'm going to play for a bit, and see if I can't lighten things up. Try to somehow shift it from something that adds pressure to something that can alleviate it.<br />
<br />
These are my old friends <b><i>words </i></b>we're talking about, after all. We have known each other a long time.<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sfKavnM41w8/UBG7zRd82dI/AAAAAAAAJvQ/F_rnzaPI19I/s1600/newscan222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sfKavnM41w8/UBG7zRd82dI/AAAAAAAAJvQ/F_rnzaPI19I/s400/newscan222.jpg" width="187" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />
(Now if someone wants to come along<br />
and lift the house off my back,<br />
that would be okay too.)<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #6aa84f;">
<i><b><span style="font-size: large;">I'll keep you posted. </span></b></i></div>
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-90977269471518392822012-07-23T19:31:00.005-05:002012-07-23T19:31:58.722-05:00Monday Magpie<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Vc8buQkLYeU/UA3rvS-PhII/AAAAAAAAJsQ/H9svqE2qs1Y/s1600/kline,+franz,+figure+eight,+1952.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Vc8buQkLYeU/UA3rvS-PhII/AAAAAAAAJsQ/H9svqE2qs1Y/s400/kline,+franz,+figure+eight,+1952.jpg" width="301" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Figure Eight</i>, 1952, Franz Kline</span></b></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Notation</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I want to be a poet, I have always</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">known it, my hopeless flow</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">of words forever trying</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">to arrange themselves just so --</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">my grandfather, his deep</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">vault of thoughts</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">and father, his dialogue</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">reciting what was sung or said</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">and mother, how her ink marks</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">became music</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">these are to thank, or blame</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">but poetry is for the eyes</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">that hear it, the ears</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">that can see what it is trying to say</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">hands that find a way to move</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">the pen and person</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">also for the grass, trees</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">in wind, the birds, the mind</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">and everything else that was made</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">to sing, the dance and sway</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">of numbers, science and the way</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">it fits its pieces perfectly</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">rhythm, rhyme, spot-on surprise</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">the sharp breath and the sigh</span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #999999;">
<span style="font-size: large;">the pattern of all things</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">the privilege, still</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I want to be a poet,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">at least I have always known it</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><i>--smh</i></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VlYJ4gKFFeo/UA3svGOSC-I/AAAAAAAAJsY/TiMNYGlhkes/s1600/drawing+202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VlYJ4gKFFeo/UA3svGOSC-I/AAAAAAAAJsY/TiMNYGlhkes/s200/drawing+202.jpg" width="156" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">This poem is a response </span></b></div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #76a5af;">to a prompt from</span> <a href="http://www.magpietales.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><i>The Mag.</i></a> </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #76a5af;">Stop by to add your own twist to the story . . .</span> </span></b><br />
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-50766044470513697812012-07-16T17:42:00.000-05:002012-07-16T18:00:31.888-05:00<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IG0nZlYWpSU/UASQD1lAbOI/AAAAAAAAJpM/BGyxLa1ydQo/s1600/newscan220+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IG0nZlYWpSU/UASQD1lAbOI/AAAAAAAAJpM/BGyxLa1ydQo/s640/newscan220+%282%29.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Yeah, I know....<i>right?</i></span></b></div>
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I'll admit it -- it's been a bit of a rough patch. My apologies to all! If you think my blog is boring, you should take a peek at my life!<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gjWlntWMKuQ/UASV5KtlkWI/AAAAAAAAJqg/zqg6z-iE1WU/s1600/sez+me+101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gjWlntWMKuQ/UASV5KtlkWI/AAAAAAAAJqg/zqg6z-iE1WU/s200/sez+me+101.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
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Being an artist is infinitely more fun than being a property manager. Or a cleaning lady. I admit it. In fact, it's probably been good for me to dabble in these alternative careers just to appreciate the joy of being able to putz around a studio with a work table so messy you're not even sure you can recall its original color.<br />
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<b style="color: #76a5af;"><span style="font-size: large;">But I've learned my lesson! </span></b><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZdbNLyCX14M/UASZRebPbJI/AAAAAAAAJq4/3qtjwB7Tmrk/s1600/sez+me+51.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZdbNLyCX14M/UASZRebPbJI/AAAAAAAAJq4/3qtjwB7Tmrk/s320/sez+me+51.jpg" width="257" /></a></div>
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I'll never take my messy studio for granted again! I promise! No complaining about show deadlines, or sore fingers, or uncooperative stitches, or a dearth of good ideas, or the economy, or...ANYTHING!<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2yIwCP2mPdQ/UASV-lI6FSI/AAAAAAAAJqo/b6n71OEriLc/s1600/imagine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="168" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2yIwCP2mPdQ/UASV-lI6FSI/AAAAAAAAJqo/b6n71OEriLc/s320/imagine.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">What, you don't believe me?! </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">I'm hurt.<i> Truly. </i></span></b></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ps3G7Aew_o4/UASXbXPGvrI/AAAAAAAAJqw/HQuhzUFh4vg/s1600/change+the+channel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ps3G7Aew_o4/UASXbXPGvrI/AAAAAAAAJqw/HQuhzUFh4vg/s400/change+the+channel.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><b><span style="font-size: large;">Just stay tuned....</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b style="color: #76a5af;">People can change. </b></span></div>
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<b style="color: #a2c4c9;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(at least I want to believe they can....I've heard it both ways of course -- some think they can, some think they can't, but I think we should give people, and in this case specifically <i>me</i>, the benefit of the doubt and assume that, given the opportunity to become better it could happen....couldn't it?)</span></b><br />
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-79296171105762740082012-07-10T16:35:00.001-05:002012-07-10T17:01:17.186-05:00Reality check.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">It's really hot in Phoenix.</span></b></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SuWZKj6Tsh4/T_yeQtUgKLI/AAAAAAAAJnw/CW_0SXr-Vzg/s1600/drawing+360+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SuWZKj6Tsh4/T_yeQtUgKLI/AAAAAAAAJnw/CW_0SXr-Vzg/s400/drawing+360+crop.jpg" width="303" /></a></div>
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I knew this of course, not a revelation...after all, I have visited Phoenix many times in the summer and exclaimed<i> <b><span style="color: #9fc5e8;">"It's really hot here!"</span></b></i> at least once per hour for the duration of my visit.<br />
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<i><b><span style="font-size: large;">HOWEVER...</span></b></i></div>
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Until last week, I had never visited Phoenix with the intention of living there myself. Interesting how just the slightest little shift in perspective changes everything.<br />
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<i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Perspective is worth 80 IQ points.</span></b></i></div>
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<div style="color: #ffe599; text-align: center;">
<b>-- Alan Kay</b></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6eKY3GQ-KXs/T_yfVFatKSI/AAAAAAAAJn4/4WF5mZNxreM/s1600/off+to+work+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6eKY3GQ-KXs/T_yfVFatKSI/AAAAAAAAJn4/4WF5mZNxreM/s200/off+to+work+2.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
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So when my husband sent me a text this morning saying:<br />
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<i><b style="color: #9fc5e8;">"it's 114 degrees today, Darling -- </b></i><br />
<i><b style="color: #9fc5e8;">hurry and sell the house </b></i><br />
<i><b style="color: #9fc5e8;">so you can come and live with me in hell..."</b></i><br />
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I had to laugh, but I also had to look out the window and sort of appreciate the "for sale" sign on my lawn, swinging gently in the breeze of an 80 degree blue Minnesota sky under a green canopy of leaves shading an even greener lawn...<br />
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<b style="color: #f6b26b;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Life ain't half bad. </span></b><br />
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-21757570458886365102012-07-04T08:35:00.003-05:002012-07-04T09:13:48.008-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tbjv6YrbOdc/Te_D6p_SB2I/AAAAAAAAHUU/SM-nVYvSmWo/s1600/cooking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="382" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tbjv6YrbOdc/Te_D6p_SB2I/AAAAAAAAHUU/SM-nVYvSmWo/s400/cooking.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Wishing one and all </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>a happy <i>(hot!)</i> holiday!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Light a sparkler, </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>enjoy a parade, </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>eat a hot dog, </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>or drink lemonade --</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>or perhaps just make the most</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>of a shady spot </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>with someone you love . . . </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Hope you find something to make you <i>ooh-and-aah.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Happy 4th!</b></span></div>
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-34129170866027989172012-06-28T17:07:00.000-05:002012-06-28T17:20:41.686-05:00Thursday already? Time flies...<div style="color: #6fa8dc;">
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">First, an update on my little bird friends --</span></b></div>
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All 4 babies successfully made it off the ledge, eventually.<br />
And I was lucky enough to get to see 3 of them take the leap!<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mzpXcA5fjUc/T-zKYGrLbiI/AAAAAAAAJk4/R9NXFra_zLc/s1600/newscan218.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="361" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mzpXcA5fjUc/T-zKYGrLbiI/AAAAAAAAJk4/R9NXFra_zLc/s400/newscan218.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><b><span style="font-size: large;">It was amazing! </span></b></i></div>
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But then Russ asked me how I am going to entertain myself now that my "science project" has come to an end....and he makes a valid point. The dining room suddenly seems a lot more boring than it has for the past several weeks.<br />
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I immediately looked in the refrigerator to see if I had any accidental science projects started that I could use to replace my baby robin adventure. But unfortunately (and in a rare turn of events) there's no current candidate for a mold-farm there, since these days I have to keep my refrigerator ever ready for inspection.<br />
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Perhaps I should make a tiny<b style="color: #9fc5e8;"> "for sale" </b>sign for the nest, in hopes that another family will take up residence? Hopefully it would get more action than the one in my front yard seems to be generating... <br />
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<div style="color: #9fc5e8;">
<b>Which reminds me -- I found this while cleaning out my purse this morning:</b></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hO-8s_UwJ9U/T-zMrBNuALI/AAAAAAAAJlI/3j_4JFCpwMQ/s1600/newscan219.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="128" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hO-8s_UwJ9U/T-zMrBNuALI/AAAAAAAAJlI/3j_4JFCpwMQ/s640/newscan219.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Who knows how long it has been there? But I have a long-standing rule that any fortune cookie fortune freshly re-discovered is just as valid as one that tumbles directly from the cookie onto your plate. I immediately thanked Ms. Fate for reaching out to give me a pat -- a little "there, there" from the universe to indicate that I'm completely justified in my crankiness at the approaching 4th of July holiday for which I find myself....STILL HERE.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-c5dHTqi8GZw/T-zSOK4YM6I/AAAAAAAAJmc/U6Hrz2g43jY/s1600/drawing+337crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-c5dHTqi8GZw/T-zSOK4YM6I/AAAAAAAAJmc/U6Hrz2g43jY/s400/drawing+337crop.jpg" width="305" /></a></div>
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<b>Oh well -- not much rush by any sane person to get to Phoenix in July anyway, now is there? </b></div>
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<b>But think how smart I will seem when I am <i>FINALLY </i>moving there next February! </b></div>
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-38201229453989860362012-06-26T16:06:00.001-05:002012-06-26T16:13:48.298-05:00Tough love. <br />
<b style="color: #ea9999;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Today I am painfully aware . . . </span></b><br />
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of the reason baby robins should not be raised in the dining room. It is because the people living in the house may not have the stomach for it.<br />
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As you may recall, several weeks ago 2 robins built a nest on my dining room window ledge. Then there were 4 perfectly blue eggs. Then 4 perfectly ugly featherless things. Fast forward a few weeks, and now there are 4 absolutely perfect miniature robins, fluffing their feathers and pretty much looking for handouts full-time with 4 constantly gaping beaks.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RsOPGZXhHGA/T-oj4Cq7SrI/AAAAAAAAJjk/Hw9tiHqccxU/s1600/002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RsOPGZXhHGA/T-oj4Cq7SrI/AAAAAAAAJjk/Hw9tiHqccxU/s640/002.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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It's been a fairly dramatic illustration of the parent-child relationship. Russ pretty much laughed every time he walked past them over the weekend. Guess he's getting tired of paying for kids' car insurance.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b style="color: #ea9999;">But suddenly, today is graduation day!</b></span> <br />
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Time for the fledglings to . . . fledge! For several days now, the babies have looked just about as ridiculous trying to fit in that nest as a bunch of 30-somethings would look living in their parents' basement. This morning, they were quite literally taking turns standing on top of one another, because there was no longer enough room for them to be side by side.<br />
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<b>I was excited! </b></div>
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<b>They've made it this far! BUT --</b></div>
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How to get them to leave? A tricky question, and obviously one best left to the experts, of which I am not one.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5v1r_ToSftU/T-ojMEM_90I/AAAAAAAAJjY/4siHvFFODOs/s1600/newscan198.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5v1r_ToSftU/T-ojMEM_90I/AAAAAAAAJjY/4siHvFFODOs/s400/newscan198.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The parents, who have been feeding the birds tag-team and non-stop for nearly two weeks, have stopped feeding them today. I've seen the father plunk himself down somewhat disgustedly several times near the nest and on the ground under it, but so far he is turning a deaf ear to his babies' cries of hunger. <b style="color: #9fc5e8;">AND IT IS KILLING ME.</b><br />
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Personally, I would like to set the dining room table with some delicious fruit, nuts, and yes, if I have to, worms -- and invite them in for tea before they leave.<br />
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He'd like them to just get on with the business of becoming robins.<br />
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This afternoon, one has made its way out onto the ledge and is standing there looking wistful and like it truly regrets its first life decision. It would like nothing more than to climb back in. (I don't know if it is male or female, but I am calling it Hannah.)<br />
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The others seem to be watching to see what will happen next before they do anything rash. For one thing, with the first one out, the nest is a little roomier than it was. But surely they are all getting very, very hungry.<br />
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One problem is that they are shaded from the world by a curtain of ivy, so to them it looks much easier to step in through my window than to find a way out through the leaves. They keep pressing themselves up against the glass, looking at me hopefully for signs of something to eat.<br />
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I've been mesmerized all day. Can't stand to watch, can't bear to look away for fear I might miss the leap. If I can't feed them myself, then flicking them off the ledge with my finger seems like the second best option. Or just telling the parents to please EXPLAIN the situation to them a bit more clearly. Help them understand that this is really in their best interest. Take the edge off their fear. And maybe mine.<br />
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Perhaps if I were sure that<b style="color: #9fc5e8;"><i> SOMEONE</i></b> knew what they were doing, I'd feel a bit more at ease about the whole thing.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qmCbwvSMl0Y/T-oiBgbhhKI/AAAAAAAAJjI/0JBJI5VG7hA/s1600/logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qmCbwvSMl0Y/T-oiBgbhhKI/AAAAAAAAJjI/0JBJI5VG7hA/s200/logo.jpg" width="199" /></a><br />
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<i style="color: #ea9999;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Hmmmm...</span></b></i><br />
<i style="color: #ea9999;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">perhaps.</span></b></i><br />
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-38755881975922493692012-06-22T17:35:00.004-05:002012-06-24T08:22:07.094-05:00A Cautionary Tale.<br />
<b style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-size: large;">Today's story is of a more...<i>ahem</i>....personal nature than is our usual fare,</span></b><br />
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including intimate details, and may be uncomfortable or not well-suited to the more sensitive among us....so proceed with caution, <i><b style="color: #9fc5e8;">Dear Reader.</b></i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Still with me?</i></b></span></div>
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Okay, here we go...<br />
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I went into the bathroom<br />
<i> </i><br />
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<i>-- now, if you can't get past the opening line, here's your chance to bail out -- </i></div>
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for a routine visit -- just doing the kind of thing girls sometimes do in the bathroom (if you are a boy, use your imagination) without a care in the world. Thinking about how I needed to do some deadheading on the potted flowers on the front porch, actually....<br />
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<b>When suddenly, and as a matter of course, I happened to glance down.</b></div>
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Now boys, let me stop here and explain that girls are accustomed to the<i> ins and outs</i> of dealing with foreign objects in personal areas, and think nothing of finding, for instance, a string hanging there, because they probably placed it there themselves with good reason and are in fact in the bathroom performing a managerial task related to it in some way...but I digress...<br />
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<i><b style="color: #9fc5e8;">Anyway,</b></i> in this instance I glanced down and, adjacent to the expected string....<i style="color: #9fc5e8;"><b>a thread</b></i>...<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">WITH A SPIDER HANGING FROM IT. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">A SPIDER WAS SPINNING A WEB....<i>THERE</i>???!!!</span></b></div>
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The scene got a little noisy and dramatic at that point, especially for a routine bathroom visit, so I will spare you any further details, but if you have been a <b style="color: #9fc5e8;"><i>Small Works</i></b> reader for any time at all you probably know how I feel about spiders. Just about the last thing I'd want....dangling from my...<i><b style="color: #9fc5e8;">whatever.</b></i><br />
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A twisted nightmare version of <b style="color: #9fc5e8;"><i>Little Miss Muffet</i></b> in which the spider has somehow taken up permanent residence in her <i>tuffet</i> AND believes he is entitled to have unlimited access to her curds and whey...<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>It raises several questions, of course -- I wanted to know:</b></span></div>
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a) how it got there<br />
b) how long it had been there, and<br />
c) whether it was actually making any kind of future plans whatsoever....<i><b style="color: #9fc5e8;">I shudder to think.</b></i><br />
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Hannah suggested the new Swiffer 360 duster, which she says they claim can fit just about anywhere. <br />
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It all reminded me of the Dr. House episode in which they finally figure out that a tick has crawled into a girl's<b style="color: #9fc5e8;"> <i>thingamajig</i></b> and bitten her and as a result she is dying from an array of bizarre and horrifying symptoms. (So will someone please keep an eye on me . . . ?)<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">I don't know what the moral of the story is, </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">I only know I wish it didn't involve <i>ME. </i></span></b></div>
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And I guess it's now become painfully obvious that I've been living alone for too long -- actually DEVELOPING COBWEBS and not just in a metaphorical sense.<br />
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<b style="color: #9fc5e8;">We're talking about actual cobwebs, people. With tenants.</b><br />
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Someone buy my house, <i>please.</i><br />
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-88116597466978766272012-06-20T22:20:00.000-05:002012-06-20T22:35:45.581-05:00All wet.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><b style="color: #6fa8dc;">Plans, plans, plans....</b> </i></span><br />
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say what you want about them. They are usually pretty useless. The act of planning has value, but the plans themselves? Often of much less importance in the end. Because when it comes to most things, we're just not really in charge.<br />
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For instance, Minnesotans were planning on a hot, dry summer. The weather people thought so -- all signs pointed to it. And yet late spring has broken all kinds of rain records. In fact, a zoo up north got so much rain overnight, the seals and a polar bear planned their escape and swam away.<br />
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True story<i> (and actually a sad one -- 11 animals died)</i>. Anyway, our much talked-about plans for coping with the sure and dreaded drought? All wet.<br />
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Right now my own life is also failing miserably to conform to my plans. I am supposed to be dealing with moving vans and whatnot....<b style="color: #9fc5e8;"><i style="color: #9fc5e8;">instead, I am what? </i> Not.</b><br />
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I am twiddling. My thumbs, my toes, my brain, anything that can be twiddled.<br />
Spinning my wheels,<br />
cooling my heels --<br />
would be watching paint dry, but the paint dried about 6 weeks ago, so even the entertainment value of that exercise has now evaporated. <br />
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At least we now have a definitive answer to the question of home vs. off-site studio. Off-site wins! If you want to keep working while Ms. Fate is throwing water on your plans and having a good chuckle about it. So I'm making note of that, for future reference.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">One good thing that my current <i>lack-of-a-life</i> is affording me, however, is time to do things like read, and see movies! </span></b></div>
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I've always been a huge fan of YA -- never stopped reading books for Y after I became an A, actually. It's a guilty pleasure, only I don't always feel guilty about it because thank goodness there's a whole lot of very worthwhile literature for young people, and it seems to be on the increase. <br />
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<b>Two of my recent favorites:</b></div>
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Both sophisticated, quirky and interesting. Both spunky, charming and romantic. Both written by men, which I found to be particularly intriguing --<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--XsWQEPHW5U/T-KVDXhRB4I/AAAAAAAAJgA/sCgc0i7EUkM/s1600/sez+me+24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--XsWQEPHW5U/T-KVDXhRB4I/AAAAAAAAJgA/sCgc0i7EUkM/s200/sez+me+24.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
teenage love stories written by men?<br />
Fascinating and a breath of fresh air.<br />
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<b>About time, I say.</b></div>
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One is obviously (and heavily!) illustrated by Maira Kalman -- a definite plus!<br />
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I'd highly recommend both, if you're looking for breezy summer reading that will make you laugh and smile and sigh a bit.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>And speaking of smiling and sighing...</b></span></div>
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Another kiddie love story by a man --<br />
a movie that I am completely smitten with:<br />
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<b><i></i></b></div>
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Even if you're not busy raising time-wasting to an art form (as I am) you should take a little time out to see this magical movie! Take the kids! Or better yet, leave them home! It is pure delight. And yes, I admit I love Wes Anderson so I was biased from the moment I bought the ticket. But still . . . Were you ever a kid? If so, see the movie.<br />
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<b>And I'd love to know what you're reading! Please share! Because I have a feeling I'm going to have a little more time to kill, before all is said and done... </b></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b style="color: #6fa8dc;">Yikes! June 20 already?!</b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b style="color: #6fa8dc;">Well then . . . Happy Summer!</b></span></i><br />
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-64083181171668766302012-06-17T12:12:00.000-05:002012-06-20T22:31:14.160-05:00Sunday Scribble.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0D9iBngl0-4/T94Ms-c1boI/AAAAAAAAJbw/RSFbXHkP6Iw/s1600/escher,+m+c+puddle+1952.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0D9iBngl0-4/T94Ms-c1boI/AAAAAAAAJbw/RSFbXHkP6Iw/s640/escher,+m+c+puddle+1952.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Puddle, 1952, M. C. Escher</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Wish You Were Here</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">it rained that day, we woke</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">to find morning dark gray</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">sky rumpled as the bed </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">windows slick-streaked</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">but okay since we were here</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">together, not much to do just</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">be, the rain tapping its toes</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">to our forever song, punctuation</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">marking memories -- now</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">there are footprints, reminders</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">tracked across my thoughts</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">my mind a puddle, our picture</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">a rippled postcard sent to show</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">exactly where we were </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">and how, that day it rained </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: small;">-- smh</span></i></span><br />
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<b>Thanks to M. C. Escher, </b></div>
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<b>and Tess at</b></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="http://www.magpietales.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Magpie Tales </a></b></span></i></div>
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<b>for the prompt -- </b></div>
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<b>click over for a few good reads</b></div>
<b><span style="color: #999999;">and then leave an idea of your own . . .</span></b><br />
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-75779246271914483532012-06-13T15:03:00.003-05:002012-06-13T15:16:07.473-05:00<div style="text-align: center;">
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<i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">When we try </span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">to pick out anything by itself, </span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">we find it hitched </span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">to everything else in the universe.</span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>-- John Muir</b></i></span></div>
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<b>Chelsea turned me on to this quote while we were having lunch today, and I just loved it! </b></div>
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<b>It offers plenty of food for thought . . . </b><br />
<b>so many idea paths to pursue, </b><br />
<b>from physics to spirituality to ecology </b><br />
<b>and<i> on and on.</i> </b></div>
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<b>What would be nice to know is, are the things I'm doing today impacting everyone and everything else to which I am hitched? And if so, how?</b></div>
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<i><b><span style="font-size: large;">Sort of the ultimate good question! </span></b></i></div>
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<b>And an interesting one to consider, especially at a time when I am existing in a life fermata of sorts: occupied daily by the mindless, big-picture insignificance of things like keeping my house clean for showings, but also considering many options for reinventing my course when my journey resumes.</b><br />
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<b style="color: #9fc5e8;">I should take it as a welcome pause. They don't come often in life. And I'll be forced to leap soon enough. But I do so love it when I hear something or read something or see something that gets my attention and causes me to look around at </b><b style="color: #9fc5e8;">where I am and see it in a new light.</b><br />
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<b>Thanks, Chelsea and John Muir, for the bit of Wednesday wisdom. Please feel free to come up with something good for Thursday as well! Because I can use all the help I can get.</b></div>
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-17649157715247852202012-06-08T16:15:00.001-05:002012-06-08T16:29:53.239-05:00And now, a brief moment in which we brag...and also catch our breath.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Well, <i>I did it. </i></span></b></div>
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<b>And it was just about as much fun as taking a dose of medicine every day -- the kind you have to plug your nose to swallow. </b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Although I would have preferred Ovaltine, </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">unfortunately my doctor prescribed hard work. Ick.</span></b></div>
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<b>But when things are really hard, that's when we can assume they must be good for us, right? And I think it was. <i>(Especially now that it's in the rear-view mirror.)</i></b></div>
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<b style="color: #6fa8dc;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I set out to do a drawing every day </span></b><br />
<b style="color: #6fa8dc;"><span style="font-size: large;">(you can see them all <a href="http://www.smhdraws.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">here</a>) . . .</span></b> <br />
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I thought that surely by the end of the year, I would no longer be terrified of drawing. Because, for one thing, I thought I would get better at it. Not so. I don't really think any progress was made in either of those areas. Still a draw-o-phobe, still drawing-impaired. Hmmmm.<br />
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Where I did make progress is in my inking skills. And I learned a few things about my own ability/inability to draw. For one thing, I can almost always improve a drawing by inking it. Because when I can see where the line shouldn't go (the one I drew 13 times with the pencil that still looks wonky) I can, for some reason, often fix it in one swoop with the pen.<br />
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And I am really just an illustrator of ideas. Observational drawing holds no interest at all for me. I know . . . I should probably be sentenced to an additional year.<br />
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Maira Kalman's job is pretty safe for now. I have learned that my dreams of creating a blog like hers would still involve far too much drawing for me. But self-knowledge is valuable, right? <br />
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Several people have asked me what I'm going to do for my next challenge. Right now I'm pretty busy being glad I don't have to smack my forehead at 10:30 every night and say, "DANG IT. I STILL HAVE TO DO A DRAWING." Soon I'm sure this phase will pass, and I'll be thinking about that question myself. And I'm pretty sure it's going to involve writing. But we'll see.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Mostly, I hope that next time </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">a few of you will come along! </span></b></div>
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<i>I'd love to hear about </i>YOUR 365 Creativity Challenge. Having just successfully completed my second, I'm pretty sold on the value of setting your mind to do something that requires you to flip that switch, if only for a moment every day. Even when it's REALLY, REALLY HARD AND YOU JUST DON'T WANT TO DO IT.<br />
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<i>(...and I don't have to today! Because I'm done! At least for a minute! Yahoo.) </i><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Totally worth it, btw. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><b>In case you're confused about that.</b></span></span></div>
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<b>(<i>Small Works</i> will return next Wednesday, June 13 -- going to take another little jaunt this weekend through Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming and Utah en-route to Phoenix in order to get a vehicle out there. Jealous? <i>Yeah, I know</i>.)</b></div>
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-75281478586625513462012-06-06T18:02:00.000-05:002012-06-06T18:10:56.847-05:00Yup. She's still here.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">It's a big house for just one little person.</span></b></div>
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I didn't think I would be living here alone for very long, but the way things are looking, I may well be lighting my sparklers in Minnesota. I only hope I don't see the kiddies going back to school here too! And let's not even talk about the possibility of raking the same leaves as last year . . .<br />
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<b>In addition to being too big, it's pretty boring here, too.</b></div>
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<b>White bread indeed.</b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><b>Is boredom anything less </b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><b>than the sense of one's faculties slowly dying?</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>-- Arthur Helps</b></span></div>
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My own fault, of course.<br />
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Although being without the freedom to make a mess is a bit of an inhibitor. Yesterday my realtor hosted a broker's open house and the only improvement suggested<i> (by another agent)</i> was that we might<b style="color: #9fc5e8;"> "thin out the hobby room downstairs." </b><br />
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There are so many things I hated about that sentence, it's hard to choose just one.<br />
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<b style="color: #9fc5e8;">HAVE YOU PEOPLE EVER SEEN WHAT MY STUDIO IS SUPPOSED TO LOOK LIKE? ON A GOOD DAY? WHEN I AM ACTUALLY WORKING????!!! </b><br />
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To cope, today I had lunch with my copy of <i>American Craft Magazine</i>, just to reassure myself that someone, somewhere was doing something worthwhile. And I found a quote I loved from a 93 year old enamel artist. She said this:<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><b>With a limited time to live, </b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><b>there's a decision to make every day -- </b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><b>what to spend it on, what to create.</b></i></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>-- June Schwarcz</b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b style="color: #9fc5e8;">Aha! </b></i></span>The trick is to not wait until one is 93 to come to that important realization! After all, we all have a limited time to live. EVEN WHEN IT SEEMS WE MIGHT BE HERE IN THIS HOUSE FOREVER....but I digress.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">So here's a word of advice from </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">everyone's good friend, Shel Silverstein . . . </span></b></div>
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<b>PUT SOMETHING IN</b></div>
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<b>Draw a crazy picture,</b></div>
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<b>Write a nutty poem,</b></div>
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<b>Sing a mumble-gumble song,</b></div>
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<b>Whistle through your comb.</b></div>
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<b>Do a loony-goony dance</b></div>
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<b>'Cross the kitchen floor,</b></div>
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<b>Put something silly in the world</b></div>
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<b>That ain't been there before.</b></div>
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Thanks, Uncle Shel! And I'm going to try to save my ebbing faculties by doing just that...if I can think of something I can do without messing up my desk. Maybe that dancing in the kitchen thing......?<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Happy what's-left-of-Wednesday!</span></b></div>
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-57167587016867715372012-06-04T20:10:00.001-05:002012-06-04T21:53:42.423-05:00A tale of two.......birdies.<br />
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<b style="color: #6fa8dc;"><span style="font-size: large;">I've been spending some time on airplanes lately,</span></b><br />
and therefore flying through my summer reading list at an alarming rate. This past weekend I read a book I've been wanting to read for several months, by one of my all-time favorite authors, Anne Lamott.<br />
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There's something about Anne's brand of spirituality that hits the mark for me. She feels familiar. She thinks my thoughts and commits them to paper so I can read them, nod my head and say, "that's it!" And feel a little less wacky, or out-in-left-field, or like a crazy person.<br />
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This book was no exception. If it's your first foray into Anne's world, it isn't where I would start, but for someone who has already found herself at home among her words, it's a wonderful new room through which to wander.<br />
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One little aside in the book addressed a question I have wondered myself about Anne's work (and my own): <i style="color: #9fc5e8;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></i><br />
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<i style="color: #9fc5e8;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">What is it about me and birds? </span></b></i><br />
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She said she often gets asked this question by interviewers, and the thing I liked most about her reply was that I didn't feel like she really had a perfectly pat answer (me too). She said this:<br />
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<b><i>"There are birds throughout every book I've written. My father was an avid bird-watcher. He did not believe in God or read the Bible, but he believed in birds and read all of Audubon. I grew up believing that birds were of supreme value and beauty. That if you studied and observed them, you could learn a great deal about life.</i></b></div>
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<b><i>I said in another book that if birdsong were the only proof of a bigger, invisible reality, that would be enough for me.</i></b></div>
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<b><i>What's so great about birds, besides their beauty, is that they are very different from us - we are so earthbound and they are so free -- and yet so similar, especially to our children in their vulnerability. The small ones you might crush, and the big ones soar like little gods, pelicans skimming the surf, eagles and hawks as high in the sky as stars. Big ones might peck your eyes out or dive-bomb you. They're such alien creatures, so pretty, yet they spring from dinosaurs. And you can never look a bird in the eyes -- their eyes are on either side of their heads, and they are so quizzical. They have to be -- they are prey, and yet so hungry, like teenagers; like us."</i></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Yeah. What <i>she</i> said. </b></span></div>
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<b style="color: #6fa8dc;"><span style="font-size: large;">What it is about me and birds today specifically, is this: </span></b><br />
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When I returned from my trip last week, it was immediately apparent that a bird had been busy building a nest on the ledge outside my dining room window -- dangerously low to the ground, but perfectly shaded by a curtain of ivy. It was almost as if she put herself under glass specifically for my observation and appreciation.<br />
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She was not very appreciative of my coming home, however, nor of my constant vacuuming. She was gone the next morning, and did not come back all day. I feared I had driven her away. Then magically, the next day an egg appeared in the nest. Although still no bird. It was quite cold, and I thought surely she had given up or been a victim of foul play.<br />
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And then the next day, there she was -- sitting as if she'd been there all along and staring me down with one eye every time I went past the window. And then there were two....no, three....no, make that FOUR perfectly lovely blue eggs in the nest with her.<br />
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All I can do is sigh. And apologize for the noisy vacuum. And be glad Cooper is on an extended vacation, because that windowsill is his favorite chin-prop for watching the world go by. And hope she has followed her motherly instincts to a good place, and is going to have a little success to show for her ever vigilant eye, her patient sitting, her perfect nest-building.<br />
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All that gathering, and arranging, and rearranging, and fluffing until it was just right...made me tired to watch. And felt a little familiar.<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><b>Bird tale number two, however, </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><b>had not such a happy ending . . . </b></span><br />
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While bird number one was busy creating a little bit of heaven outside my dining room, bird number two was becoming a victim of FOWL PLAY outside my kitchen window. I found her lying dead on the deck, in a pool of feathers and blood, and all I can imagine is that my window got in the way of her communion with the glorious morning and she went down hard. Broke her neck and her beak, and who knows what else. I actually shed a little tear -- partly because I'm kind of mentally unbalanced right now, but also because I've been so positively rapt in my enjoyment of momma bird. It seemed like a terrible and tragic waste on a sunny morning in early June.<br />
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And I DID NOT WANT TO BE THE ONE TO HAVE TO PROVIDE A BURIAL. I'm a little squeamish about dead things. My realtor actually offered to come do it for me, which made me realize how completely ridiculous that would be, and instead I took a deep breath and did it myself. There's still a small dark spot on the deck, however, and until a good rainstorm comes to take it, I'm going to see it and remember. And all I can do is sigh.<br />
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<b>So I guess that's all I would add to Anne's words about what it is with her and birds. That for some reason, birds make me want to sigh. And smile. And sometimes shed a tear. And listen. And watch. And always,<i> always</i> wonder. </b></div>
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-59500128454277465622012-05-30T19:23:00.000-05:002012-05-30T19:40:07.127-05:0050-ish.<br />
<b style="color: #ea9999;"><span style="font-size: large;">No, I'm not 50 yet,</span></b><br />
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<b>although after the birthday I celebrated while on my trip last week,</b></div>
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<b>I can certainly see 50 clearly from here.</b></div>
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<b>In fact, one (used to be?) friend has pointed out to me several times that I am <i>in my 50th year. </i>Thank you. You know who you are.</b></div>
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<b>But every birthday surely -- and increasingly! -- beats the alternative, so I will continue to welcome them with cake and fanfare.</b></div>
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<b style="color: #ea9999;"><span style="font-size: large;">No, the 50 to which I'm referring is <i>my current lifestyle.</i></span></b><br />
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<b>You see, no one managed to sell my house while I was gone, which leaves me right back where I was way back when I was still 48.</b></div>
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<b>I know, I promised to stop talking about all-things-house, but --</b></div>
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<b>In a <i>Twilight Zone</i> type turn of events, it occurs to me that I have somehow become trapped in the pages of one of my magazines from the 1950's. I don't have anything else to talk about, because it's pretty much all I do. I feel that someone should have warned me that if I spent enough time hanging around those women, they might begin to rub off on me....</b></div>
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<b>Now that the other half of the team has moved on to sunnier climes, I've no choice but to spend my days in an endless cycle of dusting and vacuuming, punctuated with occasional bouts of weeding. Someone's got to do it. And it's enough to make a woman crazy.</b></div>
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<b>Somehow I'm not finding it as easy as the 1950's women did to get excited about it all. (Which makes me wonder whether they were actually excited about any of it either, but that's another post.)</b></div>
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<b>Instead I just spend my time wondering how long it will last and plotting my escape.</b></div>
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<b style="color: #ea9999;"><span style="font-size: large;">I suppose I could have you all over </span></b><br />
<b style="color: #ea9999;"><span style="font-size: large;">for a lovely summer luncheon . . . </span></b><br />
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<b>but I am afraid if I did I might be tempted to go full-on 50's and make something really....umm...reminiscent of the nightmare in which I am trapped.</b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>I thought tomato soup jello was the bottom of the 1950's food barrel. Now I find a recipe in which they actually added ham before putting it all in the blender....<i>mmmm mmmm good!</i></b></span></div>
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<b>It could be sort of fun though. We could swap stories about our ironing and freezer-defrosting adventures while sitting around without air conditioning strapped into girdles that make it so hard to breathe that we're not even tempted to over-indulge in Tomato-Ham Buffet Ring.</b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">We could call it a <i>welcome-to-your-50th-year</i> </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">birthday party for <span style="font-size: x-large;">me</span>! </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Or we could do almost ANYTHING else.....</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Ideas? <i>Anyone?</i></span></b></div>
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-67501673288211244682012-05-21T06:45:00.003-05:002012-05-21T06:49:27.963-05:00<div style="color: #6aa84f;">
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<i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Well then.</span></b></i></div>
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<br />
Never have things gotten quite so completely away from me, so I suppose I should just call it what it is and stop pretending -- I have abandoned my blog. But you knew that.<br />
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<b style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-size: large;">But wait!</span></b> I have not abandoned it forever, but rather until I find myself again and begin living something that resembles my normal life. My life at present consists of mopping and vacuuming, dusting and windexing. I occasionally do stealth laundry -- yesterday it wasn't finished quite as soon as I would have liked so I removed it from the dryer, plopped it in a basket and put it in the truck while we went away for the open house. I can't remember the last time I bought groceries, but that's okay because the kitchen is just for show.<br />
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This morning I am leaving to move Hannah out to Utah for her big <b style="color: #9fc5e8;">NEXT STEP</b>. Exciting times! Iowa, Nebraska and Wyoming? Less exciting, but I'll be eager to see where my little birdie flies.<br />
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<b style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-size: large;">But I have plenty I'd love to tell you, <i>Dear Reader!</i> </span></b> For one thing, I've almost finished my drawing challenge...4 drawings to go! I know I stopped posting them awhile ago, but they'll all materialize there eventually. And there was a very big birthday present this weekend! Let's just say the mini-van era has ended at last!<br />
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And of course, I want to hear all about what's been happening with <b style="color: #9fc5e8;">YOU</b>.<br />
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<b style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Someday,</i> we'll talk.....sigh*</span></b><br />
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Right now I have to vacuum my way out the door to the car and drive drive drive.<br />
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<b style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-size: large;">While I'm gone,</span></b><span style="color: #6aa84f;"> </span>if someone would like to buy my house, I'm leaving it in capable hands and my realtor will be more than happy to assist you. If you want a peek at my<i> (finished)</i> big housing project, you can see some of it <b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.obeo.com/725566%20">here</a>.</span></b><br />
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Tell your friends! I'll throw in some free artwork of their choice! And my undying gratitude! And an all-expenses-paid stay in Phoenix next February (provided I ever get there....)<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Small Works</i> will return </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Wednesday, May 30.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></div>
<i><b style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-size: large;">Until then, dear friends...!</span></b></i><br />
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-81704506652957801062012-05-15T17:16:00.002-05:002012-05-15T17:38:39.755-05:00<b style="color: #6fa8dc;"><span style="font-size: large;">So it was the best Mother's Day ever. </span></b> Also the worst. We were working like fiends -- even the fix-it man we hired was pressed into service on Sunday! -- trying to get the house ready to be on the market Monday.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">But . . . </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">the day had some other truly redeeming qualities!</span></b></div>
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Daughters bearing flowers and handmade cards, and dinner at one daughter's house. It's always so reassuring to be in your child's beautiful home being served delicious food that they made themselves. In fact, her applesauce cake was so good, I just about climbed into the pan in an attempt to get as much as I possibly could. <br />
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<i><b>Makes one think perhaps one's motherhood ain't been in vain for nothin'. </b></i></div>
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But I wanted to share with you some paragraphs from a letter Hannah wrote me, not because of anything it says about me, but because of what it says about<i style="color: #9fc5e8;"><b> her</b></i>. <br />
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She actually listened! She actually learned! <i> (It was a simply beautiful letter, and I admit that the handy-man did catch me crying openly as I read it...but since it was Mother's Day, I wasn't too embarrassed.) </i> She said this:<br />
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<b>"Thank you for teaching me about beauty: about how to find it, recognize it, and appreciate it, but most of all how to create it. When I tell people how magical it was growing up on the floor of your studio, watching your hands weave from disparate nothings pieces of art, I am not exaggerating. You create magic, and always have. Thank you for teaching me how to see things not only for what they are, but for the potential they have to become a part of something new and interesting. My ability to see past current conditions and to de-contextualize is all thanks to the imagination you trained me so well to possess and prize. As a child, I knew that my mother's hands were different, and more important than most other mothers. You keep your hands unadorned and useful. They are your tool, and have helped teach me how to see and judge the world. I learned from your hands to value the abilities, passions, strengths, doings, and disciplines of others.</b></div>
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<b>"Grandpa may joke about the confusion of growing up in a house where Santa Claus may be a woman, but I am grateful every day for your didactic womanhood. You are 'phenomenally phenomenal'. I am happy and thankful often that I grew up in an environment where it never occurred to me that I couldn't be and do exactly what I wanted. There is comfort in the individuality you fostered and I am grateful to have been raised in the understanding that women are strong, important, resourceful, and gentle, and that I should be proud of this inheritance. You may have spent many of your adult years at home raising us (thank you again), but your existence has not been small. The saddest thing to me is a woman who lives a small life, and I thank you for teaching me the tragedy of women who make themselves small."</b></div>
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I guess maybe I should stop questioning my career<i> (or lack of)</i> choices.<br />
It seems I did perhaps accomplish something after all.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Thanks, girls. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>YOU</i> truly are </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">phenomenal women.</span></b></div>
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4459395058311330990.post-78344363726172326812012-05-08T10:54:00.002-05:002012-05-08T11:01:15.013-05:00Hello!<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">I sat down to sew a button </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">on a shirt for Russ the other day --</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Note: It was neither a pink button nor a pink shirt...but I came across this dandy little bit of found-wonderfulness while FINALLY cutting apart a bag of old wool clothes that I've been tripping over for about 15 years. Moving makes you do things you might otherwise never do.)</span></b></div>
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<b>and realized I have not picked up a needle since the middle of February. THE MIDDLE OF FEBRUARY!</b></div>
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There's something very wrong with that.<br />
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I believe there was an audible sigh as I made the first pass through the cloth...I miss sewing. But then, I have missed a lot of things.<br />
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<b style="color: #6fa8dc;"><span style="font-size: large;">On the other hand . . .</span></b> I missed a lot of things while I was busy sewing whimsical wool pictures for 9 years too -- that's been MORE than evident in the past few months as I've been taking my well-earned <i style="color: #9fc5e8;"><b>*gulp*</b></i> medicine working on this house.<br />
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<b style="color: #6fa8dc;"><span style="font-size: large;">And the end is in sight!</span></b><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"> </span> The sign will appear on the lawn later this week, the listing should go live on Monday. Ready or not! (And we're not. But I've never missed a show yet...)<br />
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So I fear I may continue to neglect you for the rest of the week.<br />
You are not, however, <i>Dear Reader</i>, the only object of my neglect.<br />
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My real-life family and friends? Neglected.<br />
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Personal grooming? Neglected -- on both legs, and all 20 nails.<br />
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Health and fitness? The spare tire tells the story.<br />
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Perry Mason? Sorely neglected. Haven't fallen asleep to one in months. <br />
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<b>NEXT WEEK HOWEVER....</b></div>
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I'll have very little to do but vacuum my just-vacuumed carpet. I won't be able to sit down anywhere in my own house. There will be no using the kitchen, or anything else. If I could figure out how to shower at the convenience store I probably would. Even Cooper is getting the boot for a few weeks so that I can mop every 10 minutes instead of every 5.<br />
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So it will probably just be me on my computer pestering you no end and waiting for the phone to ring.<br />
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<i style="color: #6fa8dc;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>CAN'T WAIT??!! </b></span></i> Me neither.<br />
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<b>(Miss you all dreadfully </b><br />
<b>and hope you're Tuesday-rrific!)</b></div>
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<br />susan m hinckleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10073318305866251569noreply@blogger.com5