Tuesday, December 3, 2019

I've been looking for my mojo ....

I had lost my quilting mojo .... Along with my blogging mojo! I just could not get into the mood. In other words, I was in a funk. There had been so many changes in my life; I was overwhelmed with it all.

Oh, don't get me wrong .... they were all necessary changes, but as you all know, just because it is a wanted change it does not always make it easier to deal with the new. Thankfully, I have some wonderful supportive friends. 

Penelope had been sitting in a box for the past seven (7) months .... un-assembled. As a matter of fact, her room had become one big dumping station. 

It was my friend Nancy who said "We need to put Penelope up." 

You see, given that everything in my life is pretty much "up in the air" for now, I didn't feel it was practical to assemble my longarm, only to dismantle it a bit later. What if I move again? Let's face it, I've moved twice already in the space of six (6) months.

But Nancy insisted, "Even if Penelope is up just for a month, she still needs to be set up. You need to have a playdate with her" ... and she was right.

So, I got busy cleaning out/organizing the dumping room.

Once done, Nancy and her DH came over to help me assemble Penelope. She was up in no time.

Although I had nothing to machine quilt, somehow my mojo was awaken and my creative juices started to flow. I had the desire to work on some quilting UFO.

Thank you Nancy ... you are right ... with Penelope up, it makes all the difference.

Stay tune as I channel my new found mojo!

Catch you all later! 

Sunday, December 1, 2019

I Believe ....!

I love the month of December .... I love Christmas .... I love Santa! I'm one of his biggest fan.

In honour of Santa, I'm reposting a blog post from a few years ago. It's such a great story ... reminding us of the importance of compassion and kindness.

The story was published in The Country Register, Nov.-Dec., 2005 issue (page 27). I do not know the author. It is a story that no matter how often I re-read it, it always warms my heart.

I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: “There is no Santa Claus,” she jeered. “Even dummies know that!”

My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her “world-famous” cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. “No Santa Claus?” she snorted. “Ridiculous! Don’t believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad. Now, put on your coat, and let’s go.”

Off we went to Kerby’s General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days.

“Take this money,” she said, “and buy something for someone who needs it. I’ll wait for you in the car.” Then she turned and walked out of Kerby’s.

I was only eight years old. I’d often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping.

For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for. I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me and Mrs. Pollock’s grade-two class.

Bobby Decker didn’t have a coat I knew that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobby Decker didn’t have a cough; he had no coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat! I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.

“Is this a Christmas present for someone?” the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down. “Yes, ma’am,” I replied shyly. “It’s for Bobby.”

The nice lady smiled at me. I didn’t get any change, but she put the coat in a bag and wished me Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons. A little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible. She helped me write “To Bobby From Santa Claus” on a tag.

Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me to Bobby Decker’s house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa’s helpers.

Grandma parked down the street from Bobby’s house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk.

Than Grandma gave me a nudge. “All right, Santa Claus,” she whispered, “get going.”

I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma.

Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby. Fifty years haven’t dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker’s bushes.

That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team.

I still have Grandma’s Bible, with the coat’s tag tucked inside: $19.95.
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