Frisky Trees

A few years ago, when I first started spending a fair amount of time in North Carolina, a friend told me about some flowering trees, which she called by a naughty name. The name wasn’t, “frisky,” but I hesitate to put her exact word onto a public blog. The trees bloom in mid-spring, she said, and while they are quite beautiful, their odor is their distinctive characteristic.

She wasn’t kidding, and the frisky trees are in full blossom this week. Technically, they are Pyrus Calleryana Chanticleer, otherwise known as Ornamental Bradford Pear. Why anyone would plant an ornamental fruit tree in the first place is a concept beyond my understanding, and why they would plant trees with such a scent boggles the mind.

How do I describe it without giving offense? A group of us had a fun time in New Zealand recently, providing definitions to slang there that proper ladies would never speak aloud. So maybe I have some practice. Let’s just say that, well, married women would be familiar with the scent. Maybe some (ok, a lot of) unmarried women, too. It comes from men who are very happy. Very very happy.

This morning I did about 100 miles on Miss Elphaba, the R1200R I ride down here in the south. And the frisky trees are in full blossom. The strength of the scent nearly sent me to the ICU!

Just another joke from the south to mess with us Yankees I guess. Given a choice, I’ll keep my Maineiac mud flats thank you very much. At least the clams that grow in their odiferous acres are edible.

It's Not a Competition

Or at least I wish it were not.

The Quilts to Christchurch project is going amazingly, phenomenally, humblingly well. Quilters from across the State of Maine have given more than 200 quilts, from doll-sized to queen, each hand made and beautiful. That’s the good news.

The bad, and I mean really bad news is the earthquake, tsunami and nuclear fallout in Japan. This disaster of galactic proportions has pushed Christchurch and her stoic citizens to the back burner, all but disappearing them from the public’s notice. While I understand the way the news cycle works, and that human existence is a struggle for resources, I come unglued when someone, upon hearing about Quilts to Christchurch, asks me what I am doing about Japan!

Not being a total idiot, I try to patiently explain that Japan’s disaster does not make life in Christchurch magically wonderful again, and that my commitment to helping the New Zealanders in whatever small way I can remains strong.

The whole discussion brings to the front of my mind an issue I’ve struggled with for years: feelings are not a competition any more than the aftermath of earthquakes should be.

Have you ever been in a conversation with someone who, no matter what you say, can best you? If you’ve had a hard day, hers was worse. If you had a great ride, his was better. If you have a close friend whom you cherish, her friend is closer, her mother meaner, his youth wilder, their schedule busier, her adolescence more angst-ridden for heaven’s sake. Doesn’t that drive you nuts?

Organized sports are even worse. Someone who works and works at improving a physical skill is still held up against others practicing that same skill, instead of being celebrated for his own achievements. A breeder produces a stunning specimen of his dog’s type and conformation, but that is not verified by an independent examiner looking at the dog and breed standard, only by competing in shows against other dogs. Maybe they were all great in the ring that day!

When did we relinquish the right to simply own and express the way we feel about our own lives, without having to justify or compete with someone else? And why can't we allow others to own theirs? When someone says, “I am so frustrated,” why can’t we reply simply, “I see that you are,” instead of listing our own annoyance? When someone comes in and says, “I ran a whole five miles today,” can we please refrain from encouraging her to enter a race???

A while ago, a man I knew and cared deeply about died. Visiting his widow several years later (and not for the first time since his death, by the way), I remarked in conversation that I missed him. “How do you think I feel?” she said, with a sharp edge of anger. Her words cut deeply and painfully. Of course I deeply regretted her pain, understood that I would never comprehend it, and immediately tried to comfort her.  But did her loss mean no one else had suffered?

By contrast, another close friend of mine died in a horrible accident a few months ago. All of us who loved her, including her husband and children, have been deeply caring of each other, without any kind of competition for who hurts the most. Frankly, that title gets passed around a lot, and no one seems to bother about it, only about each other.

The earthquake in Japan, Hurricane Katrina, the earthquake in Haiti, the tsunami in Indonesia, fires in California…all these disasters bring with them suffering and death and untold pain. Numbers of victims in one place don’t ease the pain of any survivor in an area with a lower death count.

Like I said before, I’m not a total idiot. I know that competition is the way of the world. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. 

So please don’t bring up Japan in a conversation about Christchurch, ok?

Quilts to Christchurch

This morning I got up at 4:00 a.m. and drove 120 miles to Portland to meet someone I had found online.

Me: “I’m 5’5” with long red hair and a black and green purse with lots of studs in it.” Other: “I’m 5’8” with short white hair and a purple coat.” My contact pulled up beside me in the parking lot, we tagged each other as the designated agents, and made the drop. Two stuffed kitchen trash bags were transferred from a Toyota into a VW.

So began the official start of Operation Quilts to Christchurch. The bags, of course, contained handmade quilts, three from agent Maxine and one from Jill. I’ll pick up a whopping 100 child-size “blankies” next week in Bangor. Eight bed quilts will come from Augusta, another four from Orono. 

Four will leave my Stockton Springs sewing room, hopefully in the next ten days, with another big one two weeks after that from Greensboro. And who knows how many the local guild chapter in Belfast will supply?

I’ll send them to people in Christchurch for as long as I can gather them.

As you have read earlier in this blog, the last day of our New Zealand trip found us in Christchurch, the same jewel of a city that had so captivated my grandparents many years ago. Days later, however, that lovely town was destroyed in a massive earthquake that has killed 161 people at this writing (victims are still being found) and reduced the central business district and many outlying residential areas to a mass of crushed rubble and mud.

In the aftermath of the quake, I have found myself haunting the New Zealand news website, www.stuff.co.nz, on a daily basis. The stories of compassion and heroism from Christchurch humble me, and tears are a daily occurrence.

Of course my first desire after the quake was to get myself back down there to work, but someone dear to me gently helped me understand that such tasks are better left to those trained to do them, without having amateurs in the way.

Still… who among us can witness pain and loss and not ache to ease the suffering?

As I watch news of campers and modular homes being brought to the area to house the thousands of displaced residents, I have realized that something I can do is send quilts. Christchurch is heading into its winter season. And while winter there is nothing like winter in Maine, it is still cold, and gas and electricity for heating is a challenge with a totally disrupted infrastructure.

So while the people of Christchurch work at rebuilding their city and their lives, with lost homes, lost jobs, and lost loved ones creating huge holes in their lives, we have the opportunity to help by sending quilts to keep them warm, and perhaps to warm their hearts with the compassion that Maine quilters possess in such abundance.

Yes, relief agencies provide piles and piles of plastic-wrapped blankets. But to someone who has lost literally everything, who is moving in to a stark, cold, small housing unit with little more than the clothes they’ve been able to find since the quake, a homemade quilt, a thing of beauty made for them by someone half a world away who really cares…

My deepest hope is that the warmth of the quilter’s heart will warm the heart of the home that receives her gift.

For more information, please post a message to me at moxielady@me.com.

Let’s warm some hearts!

Changing Direction

This week I officially resigned from two volunteer positions that have taken up a lot of time and emotional energy. They were connected with two activities in my life, ballooning and my dog, that have made up a significant portion of my focus. And they might not be the last to go!

But it was time, and as I’ve always had a busy and crowded calendar. I’ve also added a short-term commitment to take their place, at least for the next couple months.

While many people make New Years resolutions centered around losing weight, giving up an undesirable habit or learning a new skill, my one resolution (and it started sometime around November) has been to reevaluate my time. Where am I spending it? What value to me or the world has that produced? What is most important to me? Where can I make the greatest contribution?

The first resignation was from my position as editor of Rastro’s breed club newsletter. Every quarter, I spend 40-60 hours or more gathering material, assembling it into the best package I can create with my 30 years of publication experience, and mailing it to about 150 club members. They seem to appreciate it, but as with any breed club, this one teems with political maneuverings and internal squabbles. More disturbing than that, however, has been the growing realization that nearly all of the 40-60 hours have found me grumbling, resentful of being dragged away from the bike or the studio or the road, and angry. So it’s time to stop.

The second exit was from the post of balloonmeister at the festival in Vermont. This year will be my 25^th in that job. During the years I was actively flying, and serving as editor of Ballooning magazine, the job was a natural fit. Even after I grounded myself, that week in July has continued to be a joy. The people I work with at the resort couldn’t be more fun and supportive. And the pilots, while sometimes challenging, have become family.

But as the organization time in the months before the festival gears up again, and as I sadly declined a great ride in Norway scheduled for that same week in July, I realize it’s time to move on. Like the decision to stop flying, this one feels right. When I told the organizers yesterday, I didn’t feel sad, just relieved and at peace.

So, my personality having not changed from its energetic enthusiastic self, what will I do with all this time? Quilting, traveling, riding. Dozens of quilts are screaming to come out of my fingers, and time in the studio liberating them feels to me like fine wine feels to many other people I know. The world is full of places I want to see, preferably from the seat of a motorcycle. At the opposite end of the spectrum from the instinctive understanding and ease I felt in the air, the bike is a challenge for me, and that challenge in itself feeds my need to learn and grow.

The commitment I have added is gathering up quilts to send to Christchurch for people who have been displaced by the dreadful earthquake of February 22. I loved New Zealand. I’ve felt drawn there for years, even before our trip. This project can give concrete help to people who need it, through an activity that is part of my soul.

I am 54 years old as I write this. I am fit, healthy, and financially secure. But face it – I am in the last half of my life. So continuing to invest my finite resource of time in activities that really don’t matter anymore makes no sense. 

Someday is right now. Woo Hoo!

Come Spring

We had three prime reasons to buy a second home in North Carolina: to be able to ride motorcycles through the winter, to be closer to Randy’s Quilt Shop, the amazing mecca of master quilters where I took monthly master classes and found artistic inspiration, and to be near Victory Junction.

Randy closed the shop last summer, and we aren’t involved with Victory Junction any more, but the riding still rocks. And with the riding comes the new, bonus reason to stay here – we get to have two springs!

After going back to blustery, blizzardy Maine from magical, tropical New Zealand, I couldn’t handle the harsh winter for more than a few days before fleeing south. As in past years, I was surprised and delighted by what I found.

The third week in February, when snow banks in Maine climb a dozen feet into the air and bare ground is a distant memory, it’s already spring in Carolina! Early pansies and snowdrops are blooming, tulips, daffodils and hyacinths are poking buds out of sturdy tall leaf clusters. The air feels like a warm caress.

Out on the bike today, I was assaulted with scents: overpowering fried food fumes as I snaked through town, then mud at the edge of the reservoir in Summerfield, eau de skunk, fertilizer, flat fauna and an indefinable fragrance of new growth everywhere.

It felt like I was slowing way down to take it in, but when I looked, I found I was doing 70 mph! No wonder no one was behind me! Grammie might just get a speeding ticket yet, despite all predictions to the contrary.

The absolute, miraculous, unbelievable gift is that I have TWO springs! This month, March and April, as I return to ride and walk and sew, I’ll soak up the southern warmth with unending gratitude. Then, later in April, through May and into June, I get to do it all over again in Maine. Some of the smells will be different there – clam flats, crashing surf, lilacs, apple blossoms and pine forests, but the joy of new beginning will be the same, even if I have already reveled in it here.

There’s something very right about a life that has five months of spring time.

The Hardest Thing About Quilting

I guess if I've been quilting for 30 years or more, I must still enjoy it. And with all that time, the techniques should be deeply embedded in my fingers. Having started with traditional blocks and methods, I've progressed through several phases, stretching and exploring both design ideas and construction tools.

But one thing doesn't get any easier. If anything, it just gets harder.

Time

Even the little guy above, which measures only three feet by two feet hanging on the wall, took over a week to finish. The larger one below, that I'm working on for my friend, Kaye, started out last May, and it will be at least this May before the final stitch goes into the binding. Yes, other projects come and go, and I might be working on more than one quilt at once, but still, finished is finished.

What's hard is all the quilts flying around in my head and my heart!

Since New Zealand, I've been thinking about a quilt centered around that paradisical place. Early Thursday morning, the design popped into my head. I need to work out the details, but know for the most part how it will look.

But the execution will take months, if not another year. WAH! Yes, I love the process, but I want them done now, I want to see them all, wrap up in them all, give them all away.

So many quilts, so little time.

Life in the Rastro Lane

Stumbling through the door in the middle of the night after two weeks away, I was joyfully assaulted by 98 pounds of red fur, chuffing and woofing and rooing and wagging from head to toe, bashing his head and slapping his great long tongue against any body part he could reach, reassured at last that HIS HUMAN had not, indeed abandoned him to the distant pet sitter for ever and dark eternity. 

No matter how tired, how stressed, how whatever I may be, Rastro's enthusiasm and unfailing love make me laugh. He absolutely hates it when I leave home, and I rarely go anywhere without him. Indeed, while I would have preferred to remain in New Zealand an extra day (ok, week) or two, our yearly trek to Chinook Winter Carnival mandated an early return. After 32 hours on Kelley Drive, it was time to go again.

So reeling with exhaustion and jetlag, horrified by the cold and snow and ice and the destruction of the barn, barely ambulatory from lack of sleep, I packed up the car and the dog and aimed west to New Hampshire for Chinook Winter Carnival.

We have done this trip since the big dog was a squirming puppy, and he loves the chance to visit with his Chinook pals (and girlfriends, truth be told). Earlier years saw us sledding with the children. Later events, as he has graduated to elder statesman status, have found us in the museum for at least part of the day, greeting visitors.

As he grows older, and we grow closer year by year, Rastro keeps teaching me what is important in life. It's about love, and forgiveness, and gentleness, and, yes, unfailing enthusiasm. 

Tamworth was very cold this year, with heaps of snow. The Chinook owner who had for years directed the events from the Remick Farm Museum was gone, and the new people faced many organizational challenges. The Tamworth Inn, Chinook headquarters from the beginning, was shuttered and plowed in, so we were in a different hostel down the road. Tired as I was, with lots of demands on the calendar for the coming week, I found myself rattled at times, working hard at not showing it.

Unfazed, Rastro rolled with each new thing, content to have dozens of children crawling all over him, pulling his tail and ears, "patting" him with a little more energy than he would prefer, asking him to sit and lie down over and over, feeding him treats and wrapping their little arms around his big warm ruff. 

For the last four years, an elderly woman with dementia has accompanied her daughter to the event, and Rastro has taken special care of this precious soul, gently keeping people from crowding her, alerting us when she needed help, offering a warm head on a cold lap. This year, Edith seemed distressed at the changes, and Rastro was especially patient with and solicitous of her. Finally, as her knarled hand stroked his soft ears, we watched her relax.

Over the course of the weekend, we visited with several of his puppies and grand-puppies, and it warmed my heart to see how his generous and joyful personality has passed on to them all, and how happy they have made their people.

What a gift this big red dog has been. Tomorrow he and I head back south to Carolina. Rastro will love the chance to spend time alone with mom, go for long walks on bare roads every day, and hog three-quarters of the king-sized bed. I'm happy to oblige him.

Love at first sight, the day I met Hickory Hill Rastro. 

He crawled up onto my lap and would not be put down. 

The smell of his fur is still my favorite scent on earth.