In my mind, I'm five years old having a high old time wandering and wondering. In reality, I'm now in my late 60s, wowza! I tell you a lot of creativity is still to be found in this old young self. In you, too, whatever your age. Welcome to my barefoot world!
As the Husband and I were starting to unwind into our evening relax mode, I thought about the grumpy ladies guarding the fair's quilt and sewing division's submissions when I went to pick up my entries an hour or so earlier. "Oh no!" Down thumped my feet from the hassock. "I forgot my elephant!" Off the Husband and I scampered back into must-get-things-done mode. The fairgrounds is only seven miles away so it was not a big deal to go back, especially since the first time out I caught a ride with a friend who was also fetching her entries. Back at the fairgrounds, I wondered if the grumpy ladies wouldn't give me my elephant because I didn't have my claim check. All six or seven women, middle-aged and older, sitting in chairs and around a table, looked at me. All long-time sewers and quilters, no doubt. Gulp. "I'm picking up my textile," I said, knowing right away that's the wrong term. Amateur, I am. "A wall hangi
"Talky. talky. talky. talky. talk. . ." That's the first line to "Happy Talk" from South Pacific . So the Husband and I thought. This afternoon we learned the first line goes like this: "Happy talk, keep talking happy talk. . ." Yup. We have sung "Taw-kee, taw-kee, taw-kee talky talk" for over 50 years individually, and 24 together. Not to say we listened to the song yesterday. Twice. The Husband says he's shattered that the lyrics aren't "talky, talk." Go ahead: giggle, snort, snicker, chuckle, belly laugh. We have. "Talky, talky . . ." REDWOODS, WATERFALLS, and HISTORIC KILNS One of our day trips during the Husband's birthday week in June was an adventure with good friends Missus and Mister H to Limekiln State Park in Big Sur, along the California coast, about 50 or so miles south of Carmel. (Pshew, that was a long sentence.) The park was a first visit for us all. We picnicked and hiked
Hi'ya, dear friends! Big hugs to all. I thought I'd be back sooner on the blog, but you know how it goes with summer distractions. I'll write about more of them mañana. One distraction has been a local photography exhibition. A week or so before our party (the day after the Solstice), I got an email saying my three submissions were accepted and I would need to deliver them matted, framed, and ready to hang on what turned out to be the day after our party. All good, because that distracted me from getting too anxious about prepping for the party (including cleaning house and yard), as well as the party stuff sidetracked me from becoming nervous about preparing the photos for display. The photo above of an apple blossom is one that's on display in the exhibit. I took the picture in the backyard on a late Spring afternoon, then played around with Photoshop filters to get the final effect. Getting the photos ready for display took a village. A local business servic
I've been barefooting in crazy fun, hence the absence this time. :-) The Husband is continually rediscovering delights with his new lenses. For instance, whenever he comes back from throwing the garbage, he gleefully reports that he can see so many stars, bright ones, too. Wait until he sees the night sky in the Sierras. Oh my! I got brave and made an appointment with the ophthalmologist to get the process going for cataract surgery for me. I want to see a lot of stars. Molly the Cat seems to like the new changes we've been making both indoors and outside. Look at her sitting on the throne, a makeshift bench in the backyard. She claimed that this evening. In May we decided to throw a party as a means to get us off our lazy derrieres. So, the past two weeks we've been cleaning, clearing boxes from rooms, moving things around, and putting up stuff on the walls. We had a wonderful superfun party last Saturday. And, now we have a clean house. As for me, I'
Tried and True? Or, an experiment? That's what I asked the Husband, who took himself out of the science fiction story he was reading for the nearly-one-too-many time, within probably 15 minutes. I am a fortunate woman because the Husband didn't ignore me, nor grunted, then ignored me or snarlingly said, "What." The Husband, instead, looked up from his book and asked, "I don't know what you're talking about. What are you referring to?" ("Now" is what I added in my head.) "What do you think?" I asked. "Should I make the olive cheese balls the usual way or try something different?" He pondered and considered (I love that) before having a level-headed discussion with a whirly-minded woman as myself. We agreed the only constant (kinda) was the cheesy-buttery dough because the types of olives and cheese rarely were the same combination as the first time I made the recipe. I could refer to the recipe, but I do
The other day, friends (whom I've known since elementary school) and I were kidding about not knowing what we want to be when we grow up. Then I realized that I did know and that I was doing it: Playing at being an artist. And, not just with words. Whooo-hooo! A couple weeks ago I finished my first painting. It's on the concrete step outside the patio window. Some of you may remember the bottles I painted earlier this month. I let a few of them dry on that concrete step, which left paint stains. I decided that painting over the stains was the best way to get rid of them. And, so I did. BOOK PLANTER I made one! It was easy-peasy. If you want to give it a try, do a search for "book planter" in your browser. One of these days, I'll share my method once I've got it down. I have another book ready to be planted and four more prepped to carve. My first book planter became a housewarming gift. The yellow glassy thing (in the middle photo above) i
The Husband and I held a joint discussion (1) over the stool that was painted today: What's the best way to detach the cracked masterpiece of a seat? The painting of the stool, though, was not a joint effort (2); however, the Husband and I are joint authors (3) of four titles about various careers. Did my voice sound disjointed (4) in the previous paragraphs? Didactic, possibly also pedantic? That how I sounded when I wrote educational materials once-upon-a-time, except I wrote concepts in simple sentences, straightforward without any editorial commentary or unneeded adjectives, at a third grade reading level. I have digressed. Hope that astray didn't get anyone's toes out of joint (5). Jeeez, Jeeves, this joint (6) is jumping! Fats Waller had me dancing. My knee joints (7) are fine, as long as I don't do something silly like the splits or the Charleston. Until two years, when I consulted a joint specialist (8) I had no idea my legs are jointed
Once upon a time there were people who collected other people's trash and resold the items. Some of these early recycling entrepreneurs were said to go down the street calling out something like "I'm here for any rags, bottles, and bones." Rags, bottles, and bones. For me, it would be books rather than bones. But, I'm not looking to purchase any rags, bottles, or books. Not at all. I mention the phrase because the past week, I've been repurposing fabric scraps, wine bottles, and old books. RAGS The elephant scene (above) is my first try at fabric art. I machine stitched everything but the the red flowery thing, which is the top of a tree, onto a purple napkin. The zipper is the second, if not the first, one I've ever sewn. I have several more purple napkins and a whole bunch of scraps so I might experiment with more fabric art. We shall see. BOTTLES Last year I decided to make a garden border with wine bottles that I collected mostly from our
I hadn't planned on coming back to the blog today, but now that I've changed my header with my new title, I believe it behooves me to write a few words. Or more. Before I ramble further, Midget the Turtle Elephant wishes me to write that she says, "Hugs, Everyone!" I've thought about renaming my blog for quite a while. Lazily thinking, I was. Then Sports-Editor Dude Friend, sporting a broken foot, tapped his cane as he declared (not in these exact words, but close enough), "No more ladder climbing, Susie. We're too old now. No more." Dear Dude broke his foot when he fell off a ladder while trying to get into his house. That was several months ago; he is walking fine, the last I saw. Have I forsaken ladders? Shrug. I am the Mama's daughter after all. So, what do you think of my new blog title: Barefoot Susie ? I also considered Young Old Fart and Deadheading Daisies. FYI: I may be making more changes to the blog over the coming days.
The fog rushed back in after the sun said good morning. It was strange to watch it fill in the sky rather than fade westerly. Thick, too. So pea-soupy thick, the birds flew low overhead. If I hadn't seen them I would've thought they were bats by the sound they made. Plap, plap, plap. The other day I mentioned that I was painting a rice dispenser, which can hold about 25 to 30 pounds of rice, maybe a bit more. A couple years ago I tried selling it at a garage sale. No takers. Earlier this week I decided it can sit in the garden rather than the garage. The Mama stopped using it a few years after the Husband and I moved in with her. She switched over to storing rice in big tins that once held her favorite crackers. I think she simply liked the idea of keeping rice in happy looking canisters rather than a dull plastic looking thing. The rice dispenser is no longer dull, and it no longer stores rice. Now, its job is to hold potting soil. Ha! Here's what the other