Armchair travel

My 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Mink, is to blame, or to be credited, for many things that would develop in my life past age 8. It was in her class that I wrote some of my most creative writing about the state of Rhode Island (which led to an uncommon knowledge of Roger Williams and Cliff Walk), painted some beautiful watercolor sunsets (complete with a wolf silhouette in the foreground), and developed a love for letter writing and postcard collecting. Needless to say, she was one of my favorite teachers and I wanted to be just like her. That was the year I wrote to one of my children's magazines for a penpal and was assigned to correspond with a girl from Indiana, with whom I would exchange letters well into my high school years.
But one of the most tangible things I got from my year in 3rd grade was the start of what would be my own sizable postcard collection.

I was cleaning out some drawers recently and wasn't sure what to do with this shoebox full of my postcards. Some of them were written personally to me. Some of them were given to me by people who knew I collected, with no note or postage. Others were from the times I would periodically raid my parents' or Oma's mail for the colorful cards from their missionary or jet-setting friends, marked with strange stamps and lovely cursive handwriting.

From my father I get my love for sentiment, but from my mother I get my desire to be free of clutter, so with those opposing traits I came up with a compromise for dealing with this collection. These are the reasons a blog comes in handy. I can document this collection before disposing of it or dropping it off to my local postcard peddler.

To begin, a postcard from my brother, Rich, and his wife Sally, written somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, where he notes that it is 9 p.m. Chicago time, but 4 a.m. German time. He also notes that this is NOT the actual plane they are sitting on. Promises to send more postcards when they arrive.

More than anyone else in my family, they fostered my postcard collection. They were probably also the most well traveled. I was 11 years old when Rich wrote this. He was 29. This was undoubtedly a unique way for an eldest child to correspond with his youngest sibling.

This one was from Mrs. Mink herself. She and her husband had an enjoyable weekend in Northern Idaho, which was a place that this southern Idahoan kid viewed as a different state entirely. Little did I know it would take me 15 years before I ever visited Lake Pend Oreille myself.







This postcard, sent from Great Falls, did not really dispel my belief as a 7-year-old that the state of Montana was purely comprised of cowboys and wildlife. I was sure that when my godparents and their daughters (one of whom wrote me this card) moved there that the only means of transportation was on horseback. This only made me think that perhaps mule deer buck were another option. Also not helping: "I saw a moose. I am camping in a camp. Love, Abby."

A note from my sister, who spent a summer here with Campus Crusade. She has heard that Mom and Dad are letting me stay HOME ALONE and has concluded that I must be feeling pretty grown up. She also notes that the beach water is like bath water...warmer and saltier than our pool. I remember when she sent this to me and how much I loved the colors. Purples and pinks with twinkling lights contributed to its high ranking, and it was one of my favorites for years. I don't think I ever noticed until now that it was basically hotels, highways and parking lots. Not much beach.

My dad climbed to the summit of Pike's Peak on October 24, 1992, and had this postcard stamped for me when he got there. "I made it, 4301 m - 14.110 ft." it says.

One of my most prized possessions. An autographed Sesame Street postcard from Bob. Remember him, the piano player/singer/all-around lovable guy? Another gem from my eldest brother, who met him while in New York.

"Hamburg is the Chicago of Germany! Exciting, prosperous," writes my Uncle Art, who was there to make a big speech at a conference.

To this day, this is the image that first comes to mind when someone mentions Kenya. It was sent to my family by a missionary. She'd had an extremely difficult year in Tanzania where she experienced severe health problems, none of which were specifically mentioned. She thus moved to Kenya to live and work in the slums of Nairobi, and her health returned. It would be many years later before I realized that Nairobi was actually a big city with a metropolitan skyline. The curse of postcards, I guess - using a single image to sum up a place gives people serious misconceptions.

"I miss you lots. And we just arrived!" wrote Laura, my best childhood friend. The rest of her message was about her cousins' cats.

That Mrs. Mink. She had no idea.

Many many more of these are posted on my Flickr account, complete with messages as I can decipher them.

The Socialite

Every summer for the last 3, I have been making summer lists. The first time I made one, nothing was accomplished on it because I was bummed out that friends were leaving and everything had a hint of melancholy to it. I called it my "Summer Bummer" list as many items were prefaced with the phrase "one last" or "last ever."

You might say the following summer was the complete opposite as I built the list with someone who was as excited about summer as I was. Also, I think think the pupils in my eyes were heart-shaped. "Summer Bummer" became "Best Summer Ever" - it pretty much was.

Now whenever May rolls around, I start thinking about my list, trying to top the "best-ness" of the prior year. Road trips, day trips, festivals, concerts, seasonal food celebrations, and lake swimming always make their way on there. So does "make a dress."

This year, though, I jumped the gun a little. On May 8, I made my first full dress.

The pattern is called "The Socialite Dress" by Anna Maria Horner. She is a genius. Reading her patterns is like reading regular English. It's like my mom telling me what I need to do and why. Maybe too simplistic for some, but for a beginner like me, it's fantastic.

Another nice thing is that this really was just a simple dress. I literally finished it in the better part of an afternoon. I wear a belt with it for a little extra definition.

I also have huge issues with using the self-timer. Hope you've enjoyed these action shots.

When you feel like felting

Once you've knit and sewn it all together, it's almost the size of a lap blanket. (Where's a quarter for size comparison when you need one?)

Then, you take a trip to the washing machine. When it comes to washing machines, I am 28 years old and still in the dark as to how these things work. I was extra nervous about this particular machine because I'd never felted with a front load washer before. People talk about "spin cycles," but there is nothing on my machine that says it in those terms. It also was not clear how to stop the cycle and open the door at any point. It is crucial that you are fully aware of both of these things before you start, because if you get to the spin cycle and you don't stop it, you will ruin your work. Ugly creases become permanent, totally screwing up your shaping. I studied the front of the machine for about 15 minutes, trying to understand its mysterious system of dials and knobs. After I figured out enough of what I needed to know, I went for it, turning the dial to "hot wash" for the first time in my life.

It seems fitting to mention here that this was a gift to my mom for Mother's Day, because the whole time I watched this thing flop around inside the machine, I think I might have felt the way a mother feels when she lets her child walk to the bus stop alone for the first time. There was comfort in knowing that I could monitor it from a safe distance through the machine door window, but I knew that I just needed to let it do its thing, and it would all be okay.

Here is the slightly shrunken version - no wrinkles, no color bleeds, no weird spots that didn't felt properly. Felting felt like magic. The only thing I don't like about felting is the constant whiffs of wet dog smell that sticks around for the first few days, due to the soggy wool.

Once it dried, I added on these happy circular bamboo handles, kept in place with thicker embroidery thread. It's called an "overnighter" because you probably shouldn't put anything heavier than pyjamas, a toothbrush and a paperback in it. You could also safely and easily fit a towel, sunscreen and a beach read. Whatever suits my mom's fancy.

Revisiting my closet

My bedroom closet is a mausoleum for dead craft projects. Shoebox coffins contain half-knit sweaters, partially-sewn dresses, and dish towels left to rot without their anticipated embroidered embellishment, resting on top of glittery ashes. Crepe paper and floral wire lie suffocated in a Ziploc bag, never to reach their botanical entelechy. Skeins of yarn, once bright and enticing in the warm light of a yarn store, are carefully preserved in plastic tombs, far from the light of day.

I guess the death metaphor is overly dramatic. These things don't die, of course - they are just left waiting for the moment I have time and inspiration to revisit them. But it's still kind of sad.

About a week ago, I finished a bigger craft project that I swore I would keep working on before starting anything new (lest it meet its fate in the Craft Cemetery), so suddenly I was freed up to do something easy and comparatively quick.

So, I returned to those dish towels I mentioned.

This was mostly completed in a couple hours, late on a Tuesday afternoon, around the time the sun hits a nice spot coming through the window.

It must be dish towel season, because for my birthday, my mom sent me a lovely bundle of dish towels that she, my Oma, and even my great-grandmother made years ago. They put mine to shame, but it's clear where I get my love of needle and thread.

Campaigning

Sometimes I'm just clever enough to incorporate "cutting parties" (not that kind) at work.

With a departing president and a senior class that (smartly) decided to raise money for a scholarship in his honor, a new kind of craft was suddenly on the horizon: stickers! These could have been made into fantastic buttons, but these were cheaper and faster to make, and I needed cheap and fast in order to get the seniors to wear them at various events last weekend (at which said president would be present).
Sticker creation is not part of my job description per se, but it is implied when it comes to generating excitement for student giving. I got REALLY excited about this sticker, especially because, being the low-tech employee I am, I had nothing but MS Publisher and Paint - yes, Paint - to create these. Bring it, WordArt! And, once printed, I found this to be a perfect opportunity to purchase a circle cutter.

As you can see, I went with a political campaign look, because there's no easier way to make someone look iconic than to remove his/her neck and/or body to leave a simple floating head, along with some key text above and below.

See the inspiration?