Late Nights at the Homestead

We get the kids to bed, then call our neighbour and friend up the road. He arrives 10 minutes later on his bike, ukelele strapped to his back, trumpet case in hand.

A set list is scribbled out with a bit of a plan of how it's all gonna go down.

We try out harmonies, throw in some ukelele here,

some foot taps there.

We communicate through eye contact, raised eyebrows, humorous asides, and much laughter and high fiving when we find just the right harmony or get through a whole song without messing up.

I've taken on the roles of egg-shaker, as well as singer, guitarist, and reluctant mandolin player.

I'm sharing music after 20 years of being a solo act, right here in my own kitchen.

I'm loving every minute of it.

If you happen to be in the Eganville area this coming weekend, we'll be performing at the Bonnechere Museum on Saturday, August 6, from 11:00 am till noon. Spread the word!

GratiTuesday: Busy

When I started GratiTuesday, it was to create an opportunity for stream-of-consciousness gratitude in the midst of my busy life. I don't always take pictures of what is on my list, because it usually just flows out as I write it. Gratitude isn't something we should PLAN, but something we should just naturally feel in the presence of the many blessings in our lives.

Here's my list, in no particular order...

.: my parents' generosity in helping us purchase a second vehicle (thus saving my sanity), and in the gift of tickets to see the Lion King at the National Arts Centre. It was unforgettable, for my kids and for me, and something I would never have been able to afford.

.: the gift of music, especially since it's something I can share with my husband, with so much joy. We had our first performance together in a long while, at the Bonnechere Caves, sharing the stage with many other local talents. Later, we recorded a video INSIDE the Caves! Amazing! Visiting with friends I haven't seen in ages, listening to the water going over the Fourth Chute of the river, and seeing the almost-full moon rise conspired to create an unforgettable evening.

.: getting together with a dear friend, whose children love my children. One older, reading child plus four smaller, book-loving children equals a beautiful storytime!

.: creating my first "stock"...piles of hats, felt crowns, knitted snails, and small cotton dolls to sell at a arts/crafts show this coming weekend.

.: having captured this moment: my mother fitting Violet for a handmade dress. I can remember standing on a chair in this same kitchen, my mother expertly holding pins in her mouth as she created a hem. The added beauty of this dress is that the darker fabric is from a dress my mother made for ME when I was in Grade Two. She'll be selling dresses like these at the craft show mentioned above!

.: the joy of a really great, can't-put-it-down read: "One Day" by David Nicholls.

.: always, always, the first sip of coffee in the morning

.: Brad Pitt as Tristan in "Legends of the Fall" which I watched last night AGAIN!

.: the cool nights that follow a wicked thunderstorm

.: bellydancing outside at a local farmers' market, settling back into my body, loving the breeze swirling my skirt and the warmth of the grass beneath my feet

.: looking at my husband in the early morning as he sleeps, marvelling that he looks EXACTLY as he did 10 years ago when we met: hands crossed across his chest, so peaceful, and so beautiful.

.: as always: Jude's freckles, Violet's cartoon-character voice, and Margot's fingers holding a paintbrush.

What I'm getting around to saying is that gratitude is not some polished stone that should be taken out and admired once a week. It's something I want to feel sifting into my soul throughout the week, at random moments, especially when I'm worrying about money, or the mess of my house, or how I can get everything done "on time". Because really: there is abundant EVERYTHING in my life right now.

Grab that button and link back to me: what are YOU grateful for this week?

Emergency...Kind Of.

When you live out in the country and have three small kids, you worry about things. In the winter, I worry about fire. When I was pregnant with Margot, I used to lie awake making escape plans...Violet, who was one at the time, would be strapped onto my back. Jude, age three, would hang onto my neck. I'd shimmy down sheets tied together. Forget the fact that I was 8 months pregnant at the time. In my imagination, I gained superhuman upper body strength, and catlike agility.

When my husband is away for a night or two, I make sure all the windows are locked, double check the doors, and often dial my neighbour's number, then hit "end", just so I can hit "redial" if there's an emergency.

I'm not actually a paranoid person, generally. There's something about living way out of town, though, combined with exhaustion, that does things to my mind.

Last night, for some reason, my neighbour's number just didn't seem like enough. So I thought I'd dial 911, then hit "end". Because dialling "redial" is SO much quicker than dialing 911.

Did you know that 911 connects automatically, even if you hit "end"? I didn't.

Almost immediately, I got a call from OPP dispatch. They were going to send a car out, in spite of my assurances that all was well (aside from the fact that my husband left his three children in the care of a slightly delusional woman who calls herself "mom").

While this may seem like overkill, I find it reassuring that the police check in, even if the caller has confirmed that the call was accidental. Imagine a woman in a situation of domestic abuse, being threatened by her partner to tell the dispatcher that everything was fine.

Within 30 minutes, a cruiser pulled into our laneway (it was now about 11:30 at night). The floodlight scanned the farm (I'm sure the neighbours were wondering if I was being busted for late-night crafting), and the officer approached the house cautiously.

I came out on the porch in my shawl, and introduced myself. The officer is also a mother, and sympathised with the fact that I'm on my own with three kids for a few days. She took a look around the house, reassured me that yes, 911 does work, (and quickly, even if you don't speed dial it!), and told me she was nearby if I did really need her during the night.

I almost called at 5:30 a.m. when Jude woke up with a nosebleed.

And again at 6:15 a.m when my kids woke up for the day.

It may be time to store a baseball bat under my bed, to give me peace of mind when I'm here alone at night. If that doesn't suffice, I know that the OPP will be here if I ever need them.

Library Day!

I may have mentioned that I have the best job in the world. I am a kindergarten teacher. I get to spend my days at work surrounded by children ages 4 to 6, with gaps in their teeth, crooked pigtails, freckles and scrapes, and lots of stories about things unconnected to the topic of discussion. We sing and count, say sorry and pray, grow things and play in water and sand. We build and figure stuff out. I use a pink pen to draw smiley faces on their work, and sit in a tiny chair to listen to them read.

I feel very blessed to call my classroom my "workplace".

Because my job is part time, it means I'm home with my kids on Tuesdays and Thursdays, doing the other best job in the world: being a mother. Tuesday in our house is Library Day. We scrounge around the shelves and under the couch to find the books we borrowed last week, rewind the videotapes that need to be returned, and drive into town to the Bonnechere Union Public Library.

Our village is on the small size; the population sign reads 1300. So, a visitor to Eganville might be surprised at the beauty of our little library. Everything one sees says, "Welcome!", from the warm red walls to the cozy chairs pulled up to the gas fireplace.

Paintings and sculptures by local artist Andy Adach (who can often be found sketching in one of these chairs) adorn the walls and corners.

I treasure our visits to the library, where gathering information, cuddling into beanbag chairs for a story, and trying a new computer game add variety and colour to my children's lives.

The littlest readers are always welcome, even if they read a book like this: "Ho ho ho, Cwismas, The End!" Perhaps they're welcome BECAUSE they read like this! The library staff know our names, and we know theirs.

In addition to learning resources, our library offers a Knit Night, support for homeschooling families, readings by local authors, a film club, and book clubs for teens and mothers/daughters, coffee houses featuring local musicians, and more.

In addition to teaching kindergarten, the best job in the world is mothering. What makes it even better are the days when I say, "Let's get ready to go to the library!", and my words are met with a resounding,
"Yaaaaay!" from my kids.

If you're a visitor to the Eganville area and your kids need a break from driving, stop by the local library, and tell them I sent you!  If it's a Tuesday, you just might see us there.

Share the love...tell me about your local library! How can you support this essential community service...volunteering? Donating books, CDs, or movies? Teaching a class or sharing a skill?

Seeds, Serendipity, and Spring Cleaning

Today we're preparing the house for Spring. No, we're not putting out pretty nests and coloured eggs (yet)! The basement has held a winter's worth of wood, and the bits of bark and kindling must be swept up before the inevitable Spring inundation. I'm exaggerating...it's more of a trickle, but enough that we have to use a sump pump to keep the freezer, furnace, washer and dryer well out of the water's reach. The cobwebs also need clearing, the shelves some organising, and the little corners of scariness tidying.

The basement is one of those unpleasant places to clean, especially if you live in an old farmhouse. The floors are rough, the walls are damp; constant vigilance is required to prevent mildew, mold, and mushrooms (I'm not joking). I've read that if the house were a person, the basement would represent our subconsious mind. No wonder they're so often damp, dark, and creepy! Ha! I'm looking forward to creating order in this neglected space. I visit it often each day, to fill the furnace with wood and the washer with laundry. I'm picturing a cold storage room full of bins of potatoes, carrots, squash, garlic, beets, and so on, and tidy shelves of jewel-coloured jars of preserves and sauces. I'm also hopefully planning to try fermenting with the help of a new friend...more on that later.

We're also getting ready to start our seeds. In years past, a dear friend and gardening mentor started all our seeds and shared the gardening work. Since we've moved here, we've had a spring baby that required medical attention, and a garden started from greenhouse (purchased) seedlings. This year I'm starting my own! We've moved a shelf into our kitchen where the south facing windows are, and are taking a look at what we hope will be a cold-storage room in the basement.

The webcam works in a pinch!

If you happen to be in the Ottawa Valley this weekend, please consider stopping by Fellowes High School in Pembroke where the annual Seedy Sunday event will take place from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. Vendors, guest speakers, live music, fresh local food, and a kid zone all conspire to entice winter-weary souls into thinking: Spring! I'll be volunteering at the door, performing some music, and selling a few hand-painted cards at a friend's table.

Hooray for the webcam!

And now for the serendipity, that quirky little force that brings good things into your life just when you need them (and least expect them). Some of you are aware that I've had some camera issues lately. I had resigned myself to reducing my normal amount of blogposts, using my mom's camera, and slowly saving up for one for myself, without any expectation of when I might be able to afford one.

Then I got a message on Facebook from a university friend who now lives in Australia. We haven't seen each other in 15 years or so. We've been in touch sporadically. She told me in her message that she is one of those silent followers of my blog, and loves the glimpse it gives her of a life so different from hers. I had no idea she read my posts, and was touched by her words.

Imagine my delight and gratitude when she told me she had a camera to send me! Turns out her dad loves to buy new technology, and sends her his castoffs. She didn't like the idea of me not being able to take pictures of those little daily moments (like yesterday's mental photo of Violet in a too-big, saggy-bum bathing suit and a Santa hat), so is generously offering me one of her dad's cameras!

To say I am touched and overwhelmed by the way life provides is an understatement. So, a shout out to Nikki, away on the other side of the globe, and to everyone who has offered suggestions and encouragement.

The Beating of Our Hearts

A circle is formed by the women who until now have been chatting in excited little packs, anticipating the challenges they will face in the next two and a half hours. A lovely young dark-eyed woman, curvy with pregnancy, sits on one side of me; on the other, a blonde with a German accent and high cheekbones rests her strong, dye-stained hands on her drum. Two French-Canadian women converse quietly along one side. A woman in her 60s brushes her bobbed hair back off her cheek. A woman with naturally curly hair, a tie-dyed shirt, and beautifully-sewn moccasins sits across from me. There are others in this circle as well.

Our leader, our teacher, settles into place behind a large djembe, showing us how to align the trail of the goat’s spine that bisects the skin so that our hands hit on either side of it. This symmetry pleases me.

Jean has the sparkling eyes and easy carriage of a woman who has chosen her own paths and followed her own passions, a woman who has settled comfortably into life’s joys and woes with grace and humour and optimism. Her long silver hair floats softly around her face, crowned with a black beret that sits high on the lovely curve of her forehead. Her earrings don’t match: in one ear a moon, in the other, an exotic coin of some sort. This asymmetry pleases me. A trace of unrest shimmers just below the surface, but is harder to see when she begins to drum.

She talks of grandmothers, of the eggs we carry being passed down from our mothers, and their mothers’ mothers. My eyes spill water I didn’t know was there. She talks of how we already know how to drum, because we spent nine months listening to the drumbeat of our mothers’ hearts. I resist the urge to place my hand on the pregnant woman’s belly. I think about my mother and grandmothers, and of the many women that trace a line back from me to the beginning of humanity. I think of African women beating the dusty earth with their feet, and Celtic women leaping to the low tattoo of the bodhran. I see Anishnabe women shawl dancing and Arabic women belly dancing and Hawaiian women hula dancing; I see hips shaking, bodies undulating and shimmying, and feel the irresistible pull of the drum in all cultures.

After a short while, I stop thinking and my hands are drumming, vibrating with the impact, thrilling to the ancient sounds they are drawing from the drum. It is a concert; we are a community, we are playing a game of hide and seek, give and take, whisper and listen…I hear crickets and frogs, grass rustling, hoof beats on soil, claws on bark, wind chimes and wind. I hear the breaths and sighs and moans of the women present, and of those not present.

At first I am self-consciously aware only of the sounds from my drum; then they are blissfully lost, happy and mingling with the many other beats that spread out and fill this room. Each woman that wanders into the room for water or a snack can’t help herself; she bounces and thrusts and raises her arms in praise.

My eyes are closed, my mouth and heart open in a smile, and my hands?

My hands are drumming.

Something Magical

One of the truly magical experiences of the holidays is singing in chorus with other people. Tonight I had the great pleasure of attending a reflective evening of music in a 150-year-old church in Brudenell. The church was candlelit, with Christmas trees on the altar. The pews were full of our community members; all had gathered to listen collectively to a choral presentation. We were asked not to clap between numbers in order to perpetuate the sense of quiet reflection that was the goal of the evening.

Have you ever noticed that when you eat guacamole, it is a whole experience? The individual ingredients fuse together seamlessly, so that you can hardly distinguish lemon from avocado from garlic from cilantro from salt. A blended choir is like this: the soprano, alto, tenor, and bass meld together into pure sound, and it is hard to focus on a single note sung by any one part; it is the perfect whole that you are perceive.

As I listened, I glanced around at the many familiar faces around me: my Grade 8 Home Economics teacher, one of my dad's teaching colleagues, my midwife, a former dramatic director; I noted body language, who sat close to whom, the spaces surrounding us, and between us, separating and also connecting us to one another in community.

As beautiful as the evening's music was, the highlight came at the end when the congregation was invited to join in singing classics such as "What Child is This?", "Silent Night", and "Joy to the World". The beauty of live music is in its fleetingness. It cannot be captured. Each note must be sung, enjoyed, then forgotten as all voices move to the next. Spontaneous harmonies emerge; the surprise of hearing sonorous, rich sound emerging from the chest of the person closest to you; the shyness of people who don't normally sing but feel safe in a choral situation; the closed eyes and rapturous expressions of people who may not consider themselves Christians, but still feel the resonance of these old songs.

Singing together in community is a pure and simple pleasure; there is something primal about it that conjures images of bonfires, stone circles, player pianos, parlours, churches and congregations. Seek out opportunities to sing in community, and teach your children songs so that they, too, can sing in communion with others. It doesn't matter if your voice is reedy, or the notes off-key. Take a deep breath!

...and if you want to sing out, sing out, and if you want to be free? Be free! ~Cat Stevens

Acts of Kindness

A version of this post originally appeared as a note on Facebook; I've edited slightly for this space.

When Margot was scheduled to have her surgery, I wanted her to have some special little thing for her night in the ICU; I wasn't allowed to spend the night. I still try to avoid thinking about it. For the first 3 and a half months of her life, she'd slept beside me in my bed, and spent her days in a Maya wrap (the only place that brought her comfort before her surgery). It felt so counterintuitive to leave her there, tubes sprouting from every part of her body; it's only now that I can fully appreciate the tremendous faith and trust it took for me to leave her in the care of strangers. So, before we headed to the hospital, I started my search for some token that I could leave with her to let her know that I hadn't abandoned her.

I had shopped at Natural Pod, a business in BC that sells lovely natural toys and products for children. There I found a sweet little dolly called "Baby Belle", just a simple scrap of soft terry cloth, with a neutral face and a long gnomish hood. She is stuffed with natural sheep's wool, which absorbs the scents of people, home, and all things familiar. I ordered one in navy blue because it was the colour of Margot's eyes, intending to tuck it into bed with me until that night when she'd sleep without me; the plan was that she might be comforted, even subconsciously, by my scent.

As fate and the quirks of Canada Post would have it, it didn't arrive on time. But we did get it before we left CHEO (a few days post-op). We named her Peppa, and Margot was totally enraptured by that tiny, simple little doll. She lay on her side in her hospital crib, just gazing and cooing at this little dolly. She's a perfect little doll for babies because she's tiny and lightweight, great for chewing on, and easy to tuck in your pocket or diaper bag.

Months after our hospital experience, I got an email from Natural Pod reminding me that I hadn't paid for Peppa! In the distraction of that time in my life, I returned home and forgot to send payment. This email was a gentle reminder, and also a check to make sure I'd actually received my order.
I quickly replied, explaining the basics of the tale I just told you above, assuring them that I would send payment immediately. I also referred to a photo I took of Margot gazing at Peppa in her crib, and of how much we loved the little doll.

I got a reply from a Natural Pod staffer, begging me to accept Peppa as a gift, thanking me for sharing our story, and telling me that they were all in tears after hearing our tale. They also asked that, in lieu of payment, I send them a photo of Margot with Peppa.

Please consider this story when you are doing your Christmas shopping this year. Toys R Us has everything your child might want. But would they have let me off the hook for an unpaid bill? I doubt it.

There are many little family-owned businesses that are living by their values, trying to provide us with lovely, handmade, soulful items for our children and our loved ones. They actually DO care about the stories their customers share, and that makes me loyal to them. I didn't share my story with them in hopes that they'd feel sorry for me or give me a freebie, but more as an apology for my distraction, because I know they're a small business and can't really afford to give stuff away.

Visit the good people at Natural Pod, or Twig and Toadstool, or Nova Natural Toys and see if you can't find something unique, beautiful, and timeless for the little ones in your life. Resist the compulsion to spend your money on plastic toys just because your kids saw them on TV. You, as a consumer, have the power to create change just with the choices you make. Where you choose to spend your money sends a powerful message to the world of big business.
 

Margot, with Peppa, at her 3-months post-op checkup.

Tutorial: Clothing Swap!

Every once in awhile, when our closets seem too full and we're bored with what's in them, we (our circle of women) organise a Clothing Swap. It often corresponds with someone's birthday or another occasion. It happens at night, with wine and appetizers, or in the afternoon, with tea and cookies. We mostly bring women's clothes, but sometimes include children's and men's clothes. We bring shoes, scarves, gold shorts, orange pants, feathery shirts...anything goes!

Shanti explains the "rules" to new swappers.

Here's how it works: we all gather, visit, nibble, then the magical moment arrives when someone says, "Swap time!" We all grab our bags/baskets/boxes of clothes, and DUMP them in the middle of a large space. Then the free-for-all begins. Sometimes there's good-natured screaming and scrambling. Sometimes there's a wear-off, if one item is desired by two (where both parties model it and we kindly decide who wears it best). Often there's a kindly, "Oh, this looks like it would fit you!" Don't take the time to try everything on at first; just stash it behind you. When the frenzy has died down, try everything on, and put back anything that doesn't fit/look right.

Loot bags for women!

The mountain of wardrobe riches...

Score!

Picking through the treasures.

Once the clothes have been thoroughly picked through (and stirred and picked through again), we often have a fashion show, showing off our best score of the night! The clothes that are left behind (and there are usually lots) are bagged and donated, and everyone goes home with a few "new" (free!) articles to add to their wardrobe.

Swaps allow for creative expression and wild ensembles.

And of course, someone always brings (or models!) funny lingerie...

If you're feeling bored with your wardrobe, or overwhelmed with the mountain in your closet, now is the time to organise a clothing swap...just make sure you don't leave with more than you brought!

Remembering

When I'm asked where I learned to sing, I reflect on my childhood. My parents were both very involved in community volunteering. Mom usually had us kids in tow, so we all started singing in the church choir at an early age. Gathering to sing for the residents of our local nursing home was part of the expectation of being a choir member, and I knew lots of old songs by the time I was 10.

We recently gathered once again at the newly-built retirement home where my Grandma is a resident, to join in the monthly singalong.

The kids think that the retirement home is "GG's House"...they love it, and all her "roommates"! 

They are always delighted to see "GG's pets": two lovebirds, and some goldfish!

This lady taught kindergarten to all three of my siblings. She still thinks Kindergarten is the best place to be, although she's retired. Now she shares her musical gifts with the elderly residents of this retirement home, playing good old-fashioned tunes like "Our Golden Wedding Day", and "Pack Up Your Troubles". She inspires me with her energy and joie de vivre; I hope teaching Kindergarten for the next 25 years does as much for my spirit as it seems to have done for hers!

Familiar hands play familiar tunes.

Margot wanders this place, giving random hugs and letting the residents touch her blanket.

One of my favourites; I swear these are the same songsheets we used to use when I was a kid.

This handsome gentleman spent 5 years overseas in World War II. He captured the room with his rendition of "Let Me Call You Sweetheart".

We talked about the war, and I thought about the many memories contained in the hearts of the residents here, most of whom lived through the Second World War. I thought of what it must have been like to say goodbye to my spouse, to wait months for a letter, to wonder whether my letters were reaching him. I thought of the babies that were born, and grew without meeting their fathers. I thought of the men who came home and had to somehow re-integrate into a family of strangers. I wonder about all the stories we don't hear.

Remember the fallen ones, and remember the ones who lived. If your grandparents are no longer living, contact your local nursing/retirement home and find out how you can contribute to making the lives of the residents brighter. Share a craft, a song, a dance. Sit and listen to a story. The elderly are a gift, tucked away in homes and just waiting for someone to visit. Many eyes watched with envy as we ushered Grandma out the door to come up to the house for lunch, and I would have taken them all out for lunch if I could have.

Remember them.

Don't Let Those Sunday Afternoons Get Away

If you're reading this and you're Canadian, and especially if you're from a small town, I may not have to explain much.

I'm not sure when my dad started playing hockey, but I imagine it was sometime around 1950. He tells us he used to stuff catalogues into his pants as leg protection. One photo we love shows this gorgeous, fit young man grinning cockily, completely oblivious to his missing front teeth (there might actually be a bit of pride there). He was always good: tough and fast. But he wasn't a goon. My dad took training to be a coach, and is well-respected in hockey circles for his skill and knowledge.

Throughout our childhoods, dad coached teams, instructed other coaches, evaluated exams, and ran hockey schools in Canada, the US, and Scotland. Walking into our local arena is like strolling into my childhood: the smell of rubber mats, French fries, and that instant hot-chocolate triggers so many memories. I hear the echoes of the cheers we used to shout for dad's team (Get back! Get back! Get back into the woods! 'Cause you haven't! You haven't! You haven't got the goods!) I would never have been described as a puck bunny; being the coach's daughter gave me special status. Needless to say, I never dated a hockey player. I sometimes wonder if dad didn't warn them all away. I heard a rumour once that he'd announced to his players, "If I ever hear any of you talking about my daughters the way you talk about ________, you're off the team". The warning was well-heeded.

When I was 4, my brother was born. When he was 5, my dad got him all outfitted for hockey. It was clear after one ice session that...well, let's just say, hockey wasn't in my brother's blood. He wanted to lie on the ice and roll the puck around like a wheel. His feet hurt and it was too loud and cold out there. I giggle about it now. Dad never pressured my brother the way a lot of parents seem to. When my brother got older and showed an interest in basketball, dad took him to see the Chicago Bulls play, and fostered this interest instead. When he became interested in music, dad got him a guitar.

Well, the next generation has arrived.

A few weeks ago, Dad took Jude into "town" and got him all geared up for hockey. While I don't hold many fantasies about spending my weekends in hockey arenas, Jude is just so darn cute in hockey equipment. That little jock strap! Oh my goodness.

7:00 a.m. Saturday mornings sees Daddy and Papa getting Jude ready to go.

My dad's familiar hands assisting with socks.

Young Warrior in training. I can't believe that's my skinny boy in there.

Up before the sun to play this national sport.

This picture makes me happy in so many unspeakable ways.

While I don't love the increasing competitiveness and body contact in children's hockey, or how it's becoming exclusive because of the expense, there is so much I love about this sport. Every time I hear Jane Siberry's "Hockey", I think of my dad and all those pure memories of hockey at its simplest:

Winter time and the frozen river, Sunday afternoon

They're playing hockey on the river
Rosy...

He'll have that scar on his chin forever; someday his girlfriend will say hey where...
And he might look out the window...or not
You skate as fast as you can 'til you hit the snowbank (that's how you stop)
and you get your sweater from the catalogue
You use your rubber boots for goal posts, ah...walkin' home


Don't let those Sunday afternoons
get away get away get away get away
breakaway breakaway breakaway breakaway.


This stick was signed by Jean Belliveau so don't f**king tell me where
to f**king go...
On sunday afternoon


Someone's dog just took the puck-he buried it it's in the snowbank...your turn

They rioted in the streets of Montreal when they benched Rocket Richard
It's true...


Don't let those Sunday afternoons
Get away get away get away get away
breakaway breakaway breakaway breakaway


The sun is fading on the frozen river, the wind is dying down
Someone else just got called for dinner

Rosy
Hmm...Sunday afternoon

Felt+Friends=Handmade Fun!

The fruits of my labour (ahem), plus a wee knitted pear I made last week.

My dear friend Maureen and I launched our first series of craft classes yesterday at our local art gallery! A group of 9 wonderful women gathered to learn to make fabulous felt fruits and vegetables. The group represented a wide range of sewing abilities, but all went home with a start to their own collection of felt food. The excitement and pride everyone felt at creating handmade gifts for their children was palpable, and Maureen and I are very much looking forward to our next three sessions: felt crowns and barrettes, tree blocks, and a gnome/nativity set. Space is limited; for full details, more photos and links, or to sign up for future classes, visit Maureen at Twig and Toadstool!

We needle-felted green roving to fill this pod with peas!

I'm rather fond of this pear creation.

Can you spot the handmades? They're hard to distinguish from fresh!

Now is the time to start thinking about handmade gifts for Christmas. Some gifts we're planning to create here at the Homestead include this treehouse for Violet, and this marvellous set of Star Wars figures for Jude.We'll also be buying some handmades from other craftspeople, but I've declared this a no-Walmart-craptastic-present Christmas! Our kids are still at an age where just waking up to find a full stocking is enough to send them into near-paroxysms of delight, so we know whatever we pull off either with our own hands, or by supporting someone else's will thrill them.

We're not too strict with our families when it comes to the gifts they buy for our kids, but we do love when people ask us what they would like! Additions to our wooden train set, new books, costumes, art supplies, and outdoor activity-type gifts are always high on the list! Get creative when shopping for the little ones in your life this Christmas; don't resign yourself to buying cheap, easily-broken-and-hard-on-the-earth gifts just because you're not crafty. One of our favourite places to shop for beautiful gifts that will last a lifetime and beyond is Natural Pod, located in British Columbia. We also love the handmade wooden toys at The Wood Garden, located in Southern Ontario. As we work our way towards Christmas, I'll continue to post links to my favourite places!

Tell me, do you have any plans for handmade Christmas gifts this year?