Basil is doing well indoors

First I enjoyed my sewing success in finishing my quilt. Now, I'm reveling in my indoor gardening skills. If I start to claim to be Suzy Homemaker, just pay no attention.

Granted, it is only mid-December and there is plenty of winter left to go, but for now, I am thrilled that the sweet basil and cinnamon basil plants I brought in from outside, are alive and well. I've been pinching a little here and there. I use it in cooking, but the real thrill for me is having the scent of basil on my fingers. I love the smell. I like to pet the cats after I've touched the plants. I'm not so sure if they like to smell like basil, but I certainly find it rather pleasant.

For a long time--possibly related to motherhood through one of those uterine connections--I thought my green thumb had died. I used to have such beautiful house plants. At some point however, it seemed that everything I touched withered and died.

I have never had luck wintering basil. I got into the habit of simply replacing plants every spring. Perhaps things are turning around for me. I am hopeful.

I have had some other minor successes on the back porch as well. Like the Wandering Jew plant that is barely visible in the first picture. That was a huge pot with long trails of leaves. When I got ready to bring it indoors a couple months ago, I was planning to give it a good trim. When I inspected it, I learned that the best leaves were the ones hanging from nearly dead stems. When I trimmed it there was little left. I took all of the healthy parts and stuck them into water. In just a few days, they were rooted. I planted them back into the same pot.

A glass full of plants is usually an open invitation for Ryan, the eldest of our four cats. Like her sisters, she just loves to hang out with my plants. Ryan is unique though, in that she loves water too. When I water the plants she sticks her nose right there for every plant. She just loves water so much that the bathroom sink is her favorite place to hang out. See likes to drink from the faucet and when the sink is dry, she likes to writhe around in it waiting to be petted. We call that 'sink cuddles.'

I also have a couple of African Violets that are still alive. I've always had problems growing African Violets, always marveling at my mother's collection of them. I've always been stumped as to why I always killed them.

These two, plants I bought this summer at an estate sale, are not just alive, but are still blooming and looking good. I should say they are both blooming but only one of them looks good. My horticultural genius again, Ryan along with her sisters have had their way with one of them. It actually looks like a violet tree. Most of the lower leaves are gone revealing a leafless stalk with purple flowers on top. I'm not sure how to fix that problem yet.

Then there is the Christmas cactus--another plant I picked up at a yard sale. It is dutifully budded and awaiting Christmas Day so it can open. I wonder how it knows.

My plants fill a table on my back porch. They are hanging in the windows and some are on side tables. I just love being in that room. It is sunny and pleasant. Every now one of the kitties will walk past and I will get a whiff of sweet basil. Winter in Arkansas can be a very pleasant time.

Attempting to learn machine-quilting

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I am attempting to teach myself to machine quilt. I remember the first time I saw stippling used on a quilt. It was at a quilt show in Peotone, Illinois, where I first got bitten by the quilting bug. This small project, hanging in the First Presbyterian Church there, was a quilted scene--a wall hanging. I was really impressed by the look of it. I had never seen anything like it, but then I was experiencing quilts for the very first time.

Since then, I have seen some of the amazing work done on long arm quilting machines, something I know I will never be able to afford myself. There is nothing more exciting than a beautiful pieced quilt that is expertly quilted. Wow!

I had never really entertained the idea of machine quilting. Truthfully, I was just glad I could master the art of quiltmaking. I love hand-quilting and want to continue to perfect my skills. There are so many different steps to making a quilt. Each one contributes to the overall project, which makes all of the steps important. One failure in design, color, cutting, piecing, sewing, and finally quilting, and an entire project can suffer. When all those things work together, the result is astonishing.

I've always felt that for some reason, machine-quilting seemed like 'cheating.' I do prefer the feel of a hand-quilted project. But, I am dismayed by the time it takes, not to mention the wear and tear on my hands. Four years for one quilt is just too long, though. The other day, I figured, what the heck. I may be a senior citizen, but I like instant gratification too.

Now that I have dabbled at machine quilting, I am pretty intrigued by it. This is a good challenge and there is nothing I like more.

The hardest part was getting my sewing machine to cooperate. I spent almost the entire afternoon yesterday playing with tensions and different colored threads. Several more hours were spent trying to figure out how to 'stitch in the ditch' in a straight line. I can see where machine quilting for straight line work could speed up projects substantially. My recent log cabin quilt was all straight line work. I can see where a combination of machine and hand-quilting might be beneficial.

One of the things I love about quilting is the precision. Today's tools allow for good cutting and good quart-inch seams. There is nothing better than good sharp points all in the right places and corners that match precisely.

So far I'm not all that impressed with my machine work. It seems really cumbersome and odd to manipulate the fabric that way. I can see though how practice might help greatly. I do, however, enjoy the speed at which a project could be completed. There is nothing like a completed quilt. And, of course I love a good challenge.

When I was little, one of my favorite toys was the Spirograph. I used to doodle with it for hours, creating the most intricate and beautiful designs. I would make a simple design and then add designs to it in  increments. What resulted was a beautiful, intricate motif. A long arm quilting machine reminds me of that toy. I would love to make stitches like those designs. To me, those would be the ultimate quilts. Perhaps I will win the lottery one day. If I do, I'm going right to West Plains, MO to the Gammill sewing center store.

My quilt is finally done!

Mission accomplished! I finally finished the quilt I started more than four years ago. Pink is my favorite color and log cabin is my favorite block. It is just so traditional. 

When I began this project, I had lots of fabric strips cut out, sorted by size and color and placed into a huge basket. I had some squares completed. But that was before our cat had her kittens. The babies were so much more fun than sewing, so my basket of fabric strips just sat. 

When the girls (four of them) finally got old enough that I could resume my project, I found that they had spent some time sitting in the basket containing all my previously cut fabric strips. Before I could re-organize them, they had to be de-haired. It took even more time before I even wanted to take on that task. The funny thing about making a quilt is that there are so many steps. I never knew that de-hairing the fabric was one of them, but in a multi-cat household, I suppose that is to be expected.

One day, about a year ago, I decided to finally tackle the project. I've been at it ever since. By the way, that is Ryan, who has been my constant helper.

The other day it was raining. I was finally almost finished. I sat in the sunroom, quilt on my lap, and set out to complete the border, the final step before trimming and binding. I felt a little sad when the hand-quilting was done. There is nothing more relaxing than hand-quilting. The border is simple, but I like how it turned out with butterflies and leaves. 

 Yesterday, I set aside the entire day to finishing. In the picture at right, Ryan and Kasey were helping me pin the binding. 

It is finally finished. I've made a half a dozen or more quilts. I'm anxious to start on the next one. Perhaps it won't take four years this time.

I join the people in the City of Chicago who mourn the loss of Maggie Daley. The former first lady died yesterday. Her family was with her. It was after all, Thanksgiving Day.

Though I no longer claim Chicago as my home, the city of my birth will always have a special place in my heart as it is where some my most deeply-rooted influences began.

I never had the pleasure of meeting Maggie Daley, but much of what was known about her indicated that she was a good, loving woman who cared deeply about her family and others. Her charity work is well documented. Her influence on her husband, Rich Daley, who I have had the pleasure to meet, was evident. I'm sure he would admit he was a better man because he loved her.

Rich Daley has had his critics; it went with the territory. I was not one of them. People either hated him or loved him. I was among the latter group. I found him to be genuine, honest, emotional, and driven by that which inspired him.

I met him during the early 1990's, when he and I were on the same side of the fight against a Peotone Airport. I was always impressed by him, his simple understanding of complex issues, the power he wielded only when absolutely necessary, his intellect, and his cunning. Rich Daley was a leader, not just locally, but nationally as well. When he spoke, people listened.

As has been said so many times in recent hours, Maggie Daley was the woman behind the man with an influence that is obvious in every part of the city the two of them reigned for so many years.

My heart goes out to Rich Daley and his entire family. I can only imagine the loss they must feel.

I will always remember!

Cover of John F. Kennedy

I remember the day!

Lined up for a spelling bee in Ms. Salemi's sixth grade class at Riley Elementary School in Northlake, Illinois, I will never forget. Word came over the intercom that President John F. Kennedy had been killed by an assassin's bullet.

Moments before, the room was filled with gregarious pre-teens. But upon hearing that tragic news, we watched our teacher--a young, pretty, single woman who had been our inspiration, our mentor--as she begin to weep. She tried to hide her emotion from her students, but it was as if she was personally touched by this tragedy. It was like she had heard of the death of her best friend. Try as she might, she couldn't hide such raw emotion--no one could. Many of us cried with her.

Though the full gravity of the events of that afternoon were unknown to us at the time, we were mature enough to know that something horrible had occurred. We knew that this day would be one we would always remember.

I'm not sure whether it was the assassination of a popular U.S. President or the emotional display of our teacher, but we were keenly aware that something bigger than us was very different, very wrong. We had no way of knowing how different. No one did.

Living through the rest of that day was like being in a fog. There was no relief. When we returned home from school, it continued. Our television sets were taken over by news of the assassination, and then days of mourning and the funeral. I watched every day of the coverage. Even today, if there is a major news event, I watch as events unfold, following to their conclusion.

We felt the uneasiness in the pit of our stomachs that afternoon, perhaps for the first time. Like a tiny microcosm we experienced the same horror, dread, and tragedy felt by the entire country and the world the day the President of the United States was assassinated.

I believe that day really did change us--as individuals, as well as a country. We were shaken by this event, to our very core. We lost our innocence that day.

I was young--I admit that I knew little about the world around me. But for me, I think this event lit a tiny spark of curiosity, a yearning to learn about what lies beyond the walls of the small bungalow my family called home. I learned to question, even the obvious. It wasn't until years later that those embers began to light.

The fire continues to burn.

Image via Wikipedia

I will never forget the image of Jackie Kennedy, her blood-stained pink suit, the blank look on her sad face as Lyndon Johnson was sworn in to succeed her husband as President of the United States. She had lived the life of a princess but suddenly was faced with unimaginable horror. I felt such empathy for her that I wanted to burst.


But even with years of healing, the scars remain. I do not for one moment believe that Kennedy was killed by Lee Harvey Oswald, a lone-shooter from high above that Dallas street. I no longer trust all that I hear or read. I believe truth means different things to different people. I abhor violence. Deranged people should not have access to weapons. Evil people do exist.

I don't think I am very different from my classmates lined up on opposite sides of the room for that spelling bee forty-eight years ago. One thing is certain; we will always be a generation that remembers the day Kennedy was killed. It will forever be a sad reminder of how good things rarely last.

I'm so hooked on "Heartland"

Image by davipt via FlickrI almost feel as if I’ve struck gold struck gold.

My newly found discovery does not take on a monetary form, but rather a more important kind—one               related to my psychological well being.

I’ve been watching movies on Netflix, when not too long ago, I came across what I thought was a movie. All I knew about it was that it had to do with horses. I have discovered that little is more relaxing to me than watching one of those sappy horse movies, where the horse is the star and the hero. It usually contains human heroes too and almost always has a side plot that is just as sappy. It almost always has a happy ending. These kinds of movies are so wholesome, usually make me cry, and nearly always make feel good when it is over. They remind me of some of the television shows I watched as a child—Flicka and Fury—come to mind. It was way back before too much sex and violence took over the big screen and commercials invaded television. Ah, the good ole days!

I have always been enamored with horses, though have not had much experience with them. I have ridden only a couple of times in my life, and not for many years. I just have always had such a fondness for horses. There is nothing more beautiful to me than one or more horses grazing in a field, their long manes and tail swaying in the breeze. I love to watch them run. Their movement is so fluid.

I especially love their faces. Their eyes are so big and expressive; their nuzzles are so soft. Just everything about them is beautiful. I used to draw them when I was little. I always preferred horses in my coloring books, in puzzles, and paint-by-number pictures.

I have never really had much occasion to get to know any horses personally. I was born in the city and grew up in the suburbs. A few years ago as a reporter, I covered a few horse shows, but that is about the extent of my experience with these beautiful animals.

Heartland is set at the base of the Rocky Mountains in Alberta, Canada. The scenery is beautiful. The characters are perfectly cast. It is about a young woman, Amy, who inherited her mother's sensitivity for horses. She is called a horse whisperer, though Amy dismisses the term, simply claiming to understand her equine friends. The story line revolves around Amy and her family, including her boyfriend Ty, who started out as a misguided ranch hand.

After I watched Heartland, a closer inspection on Netflix revealed that Heartland was actually a television series; it was a product of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. There were 22 episodes. I wanted more, so I was elated.

I watched a couple shows at a time. Then when I got to the final episode, I was all ready to enjoy a wrap-up of the entire season. Instead I was shocked when one of the prominent characters was shot by cattle rustlers as he tried to protect his herd. It ended abruptly, leaving me completely unsatisfied. I was not happy with the “Who shot J.R.” moment. Assuming there had to be more, I scoured Netflix, but I couldn’t find additional episodes. I was devastated, but motivated.

A little Internet sleuthing revealed that my instincts were correct. I learned that what I had seen were all of the first and a portion of the second seasons.

In Canada, the fifth season is now airing. I learned that Heartland is now being shown in the U.S. with the premier episode last September.

More information is available on the following website about show times in various markets and information about the cast, etc. There are even a couple of clips which are probably enough to get anyone hooked. http://www.theheartlandranch.com/category/watch-heartland

Most of the shows are available on YouTube, although they are not easy to find. Be warned that some of them are even in French, which for me was a little unnerving.

If anyone wants to watch this series on their computer, it is possible, to find all of them. One hint, search Google videos. Some of the episodes are recorded on You Tube in five parts. I haven’t found that to be a problem. But then, I’m addicted to this show. I love the characters, cast, and stories which incidentally originated in a series of books (25) by Lauren Brooks, starting in 2001. That will be a project for another day.

I’m currently enjoying my fourth season. I just love this show, so I thought I would share.

I certainly don’t get Bieber fever

Image via WikipediaWhat do so many people see in Justin Bieber?

Now I admit that in my day I swooned over the likes of Paul McCartney, John Lennon, and even Andy Williams. I loved music by Michel Legrand, Henry Mancini, and Johnny Mercer. I love music. And I wonder what ever happened to it.

Sorry, but I just can’t put Justin Bieber into the same category as these greats whose music will live on timelessly. People are still enjoying John Lennon’s “Imagine.” Three generations have known The Beatles’ classics. And Elvis—everybody on the planet knows Elvis’ music.

Will Justin Bieber’s music stand the test of time? I don’t think so. At least not from what I heard last night when he performed on Dancing with the stars. He performed a number with Boyz II Men. Those guys have talent. They so outshined Bieber that I was almost embarrassed for him.

I admit this was really my first exposure to Bieber, so I hope I’m not characterizing him unfairly. I have heard his song “Baby” and except for it being a catchy tune, I doubt it will ever be a classic. In fact, it is now a little annoying.
Now this is not to say that Justin Bieber isn’t a stand-up guy. I also watched the clip of Ellen where he donated $100,000 and a free performance to poor students at a school in Las Vegas. That was very charitable of him. Put into perspective though, what is $100,000 to someone whose net worth is nearing $100 million?

Bieber started out as a cute kid who could sing, but he seems to be so strongly influenced by black performers that he emulates them. He’s no Usher, John Legend, Seal, or Michael Jackson, artists with their own particular style and sound.

I’m sorry, there is just something wrong about a baby-faced white kid, his pants slung far below his waist, as he tries to saunter on stage singing as if he is black. He isn’t. If he can sing, I didn’t notice. I’ve heard American Idol contestants that sounded better.

In my opinion, if Justin Bieber has a future in the music business, he should develop his own style and his own brand and stop trying to be a wannabe.