Archive for the ‘home’ Category

Freaky Squirrel Jihad

Sunday afternoon. Minding my own business in my second story workroom with a sewing project and reruns of Top Chef on the teevee (is it me? or does anyone else think this show is starting to suck . . . ) when BLAM-O! Squirrel terrorist attacks window, repeatedly flinging itself against glass.


But, things quieted down and, after a couple of hours with no repeat attack, I ventured outdoors to finish some seasonal decorating. And there – right on the windowsill was blood, fresh-looking and all frozen against the snow.    BLOOD!

Freaky, in a cool kinda way.


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Dear Snow


To GH, before my eyes were open.

Did it snow last night?

hmmmm . . . that’s good.

Transitions are hard.  Ask President-elect Obama.  Here at ThreadingWater HQ, there are several transitions in the works:  seasonal, political, artistic and Thanksgiving, worthy of its own category.

Blogging Lite will continue as my time in the kitchen stretches far beyond normal boundaries.  By the time we pack the car Wednesday, there will be seven pies, 25 lbs. of twice-baked potatoes, a complete post-Thanksgiving meal for fifteen people, assorted side dishes, breakfast fixings and a heaping of anticipation for five whole days of extravagant time with loved ones, replete with in-depth analysis of all things political.  (We can’t help it.  Religion and politics MUST be discussed at our table.)

Oh, and some knitting.

sleep now, all you pollens and molds.

sleep now, all you pollens and molds.

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Feeling Fear-y Eyed

With the glow of last week’s election results still coloring my cheeks, I thought it would be safe to venture into social interaction territory this past weekend.  And, yes, most everyone I ran into was bubbling over with good cheer and relief and general happy-rappiness.

Still, there was one theme repeated by progressive friends with conservative family members and friends that struck me as amusing.  It was the fear meme.

Well-to-do Republicans so utterly aghast at Tuesday’s election results that they had been rendered nearly mute.  Bone chilling, down-to-the-toes shaking fear of what a reign of terror an Obama administration was about to dump on them.  “You can see it in their eyes,” one friend reported, “They are absolutely terrified that their taxes are going to go up.  That they might have to change their children’s college plans.  Even sell one of their houses.”


Now, I don’t mean to be completely unsympathetic.  Concern?  Sure.  Moderately alarmed?  Well, ok, I get it.  But, see-it-in-their-eyes fear?  Really??

Guess they weren’t so concerned about threats to our Constitution during the past eight years.  Domestic spying obviously didn’t make them blink an eye.  I figure these same people didn’t have to ship a son or daughter off to Iraq to fight a trumped-up, phony war and maybe come home in a box or end up missing a limb or three.  Nor have they lost sleep at night wondering how they’re going to pay for food, or a doctor visit, or the heating bill.

Nope.  No cause for fear at all, until it’s their own fat pocketbook that maybe takes a ding.

In the spirit of reaching across aisles and healing our national divide, I suggest that anyone who knows someone in this state of debilitating fear take a moment to give them some heartfelt, comforting milk and cookies advice – even throw in a hug – and remind them to take a deep, cleansing breath and stop thinking about themselves for five whole minutes.

“Yes, you can!”

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January 20, 1977.  I’m a brand new mother, sitting on the living room floor of our lower flat on Milwaukee’s southside, playing with the baby and watching a grainy black and white television screen.  Jimmy Carter, along with Rosalyn and Amy, are walking their way to the White House down Pennsylvania Avenue from the Capitol swearing-in ceremony.


No president had ever done anything like that before.

Say what you will about the Carter presidency and all its disappointments, but give him credit for that simple, “I am everyman” gesture with which he began his tenure as the 39th President of the United States.

I may have been a bit hormonal ( OK, a LOT) but that wasn’t the only reason I was crying.  I remember thinking and feeling as I watched the events of that 1977 Inaugural that the grade school history page that declared “anyone can grow up to be President of the United States,” wasn’t trite at all.  I wondered who’s baby, in which city or town, on a mother’s lap or a father’s shoulders, might someday take the same oath, on the same Capitol steps and make that same journey down Pennsylvania Avenue.

Since then, of course, we’ve learned that the “anyone” of the promise can in fact be a person with little regard for the U.S. Constitution or its people, and that gestures – small or large – are often empty political ploys.  It’s so easy to be cynical.

Too easy.

Which is why I secretly booked a D.C. hotel the morning after Obama’s acceptance speech at the Democratic convention in Denver, and didn’t tell GH until Tuesday night.

Come January 20, 2009, we’ll be watching the Inaugural in living color.

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The Party, In Photos

Wish I could have captured the moment in that room when the election was called.  I jumped up on a chair and started shooting, but I was crying so hard that all the pictures are a total blur.

two guys who worked really hard on the campaign

two guys who worked really hard on the campaign

no caption needed

no caption needed


my favorite field coordinator

my favorite field coordinator




listening to Obama's speech

listening to Obama


And, of course, this morning’s victory ceremony a little closer to home:

off with the "no-W"

off with the no-W sticker

on with the new

on with the new

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This is what the end of summer looks like.

Our first freeze is about to land on us – hard.  The kitchen herb garden has been tucked-in and, with any luck, we’ll still be harvesting fresh thyme, rosemary, sage and parsely on mild winter days when the snow cover isn’t too heavy.  All of the roses and lavender have been picked.  The front porch is filled with firewood instead of our summer breakfast table.

Change is in the air, and in the light.  Eight more days.

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Time Out

I don’t know about you, but I needed a few days to shake myself free of the Sarah Palin performance Thursday night, and there’s no better place than Siever’s Fiber Arts School on Washington Island.

Every two years they throw a reunion party weekend for teachers and students and the island locals.  There was a student art show (I came home with a “Viewer’s Choice” award for my work on The Mother’s Day Project) – and a style show at which I had the chance to prance around all fancy-like in a couple of my clothing designs.  Tons of fun.

Plus, I found a new lodging establishment with rooms that overlook Rock Island.  I lounged around each morning with my coffee and watched the sun rise over the boathouse.  Sweet.

My 5 mph weekend is over.  No more breaks until after election day.

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