Consider your muchness

muchness - noun : the quality or state of being great in quantity, extent or degree.

These past few weeks, I have felt a slow slipping away of my muchness.  I blame it on the ever-popular scapegoat, PMS, the cold, dreary "Spring" that we've had so far, the monotony of my daily farm chores and the ferocious case of stomach flu that recently took out the whole family.  But whatever the reason, there seems to be a slow leak.  Life is losing its luster.

So what do you do when you know your muchness is fading?  You don't feel like yourself, and you're stuck in that proverbial rut that all too often takes longer to climb out of that it did to fall into?  I stopped to consider a few of the beautiful woman that I know who've not lost their muchness.  They seem to have it in abundance, for all different reasons, and it's taking them in all different directions.

God Made a Farmer

How badly do we miss Paul Harvey? 

And how proud are all the homesteads across the country this morning?

God Bless the Farmers.

This is why I craft

Samantha and I have been friends since third grade.  We grew up on the same country road and took turns biking back and forth to each others' houses.  We played Barbies and My Little Ponies together.  We rode the bus together.  Our parents drove us into town to go Trick or Treating and to the local skate barn.  In high school we knew all the words to The Rocky Horror Picture Show and employed ample use of the pause button while watching Cry Baby.  We screamed from the front row when Steve Vai walked on stage and learned that there is a limit to how much cinnamon Aftershock a body can handle.

And as you might expect, we went our separate ways after high school.  Off to different colleges, different states, different paths through Life.  Me:  marriage, house, sheep, kids, chickens, sewing, laundry, baking, pigs, cows and more sheep.  Samantha:  Wyoming, masters, California, doctorate, Pennsylvania, post-doc, Alabama, professorship and then off to almost every continent across the globe.  Clearly one could make a case for Nature vs. Nurture here.  Our similar childhoods are far eclipsed by our distinctly divergent adult lives.  I'm as domestic and settled down as you can get;  Samantha is sampling everything Life has to offer.

And we're still best friends.

So this Christmas I drafted up some unique designs and stitched a collection of souvenir dish towels.  While Samantha doesn't think to stock her kitchen with aprons and hot pads and such, her bookshelf display of Egyptian artifacts is another story.  So I make sure that she's equipped with appropriate kitchen linens.  Each towel is a look back at where she has been.

One of her earliest trips was to Egypt.  This is truly her passion; archeology, rocks and weird ancient practices is where Sam thrills.  If I'm remembering the story correctly, a local man offered Sam's dad three camels for her.  Or was it fourteen?  Also, this Eye of Rah is Sam's first tattoo. First of nine?  For being such best friends, you'd think I could get my numbers straight.

Being that her field of expertise is seismology, Sam has traveled to Antarctica a total of three times for research at McMurdo Station.  Let me tell you, she sure looks fetching in those Stay Puft Marshmellow Man red parkas.  And being a native Wisconsin girl, the frigid temps didn't phase her.  Sometime you should ask her about that cute seal they saw sunbathing on the ice. 

Easter Island was not a research trip, but rather a pleasure stop.  She made the jump over from Chile.  Again, it was the call of the ancient culture that lured her in. She can tell you all about the type of rock that those moai are made from, where it was quarried and why they were erected in the first place.  What a geek.

Oslo, Norway, was the location of the International Polar Year 2013 Science Conference.  The conference was kicked off by the Crown Prince of Norway.  Apparently those polar geologists know how to throw a party!  Anyways, as with most work trips, there's usually time for some site seeing.  The Edvard Munch Museum was a favorite stop for her.  As was Denmark (it was just next door, so why not). 

Again, I think Peru was strictly a pleasure vacation because she was *tired* of having to travel for work-related things.  Aside from the usual tour of cathedrals, catacombs and Incan pyramids, Sam sampled cuy.  That would be guinea pig for us Westerners.  Warning: google search this only if your children are out of the room. 

And this is why I love handmade crafts.  Never in a store would I be able to find iron-on transfers so perfectly matched to the intended recipient.  The towels are not fancy or pretentious.  Just sturdy cotton with simple Aunt Martha-esque embroideries.  But they speak to the extraordinary adventures of an amazing person.  Sam is one of the most good-hearted people I know. And I suspect that wherever Life takes us, we'll still be friends for the next fifty years. 

Engine Specs and Emotional Strings Included

Because my husband, Hank, is too modest to toot his own horn, I shall toot it for him.  Or rather...I will toss aside the cheap, little, tooty horn that says, "Hey, look what I can do," and grab my 1937 sax which in my mind embodies the sultry, sexy years of smoky, nightclub, jazz band playing that regrettably eluded my youth and honk out some ear-splitting, God-awful noises like you've never heard before.  It's been many years since I've played, but I'll embarrass myself in front of the world just because it needs to be done.  I love my husband.  I love his car.  And here's her story.

Chapter One:

Original 216 Straight Six with 3-Speed Transmission on the Column

Hank bought the 1950 Chevy in our second year of dating during college.  It was the classic story of Boy seeing Car lost among the hedgerows of the farmer's field.  By combining his tax return that year with a little savings from his Ramen and hotdog grocery budget, Hank was able to save up the $500.  The farmer towed the car out of the mire.  Hank put on *new* tires, freed up the brakes, and we drove it 100 miles across the state, literally.  It made the trip without incident.

Chapter Two:

305 V8 Small Block Chevy with Turbo 350 Automatic Transmission

In those first few months of ownership, Hank yanked the engine and upgraded to a small block Chevy.  Because of this habit of his, I automatically assume most Greasemonkeys replace the original engines of their hot rods as a matter of course, but I've learned over the years that this is not necessarily the case.  Nevertheless, Hank and I were happy to tool around our college campus in the Chevy, mostly still stock except for the engine. At times this was the only car that Hank had running, driving it well into December one year until funds were available to patch together his '86 Blazer.  But we were proud to use the Chevy when we married just after graduation.

Chapter Three:

350 V8 Small Block Chevy with Turbo 350 Automatic Transmission

During those early years of marriage, we lived in an apartment near my parents' home.  Hank stored the Chevy in my dad's barn and there swapped in yet another engine.  This time a slightly larger small block.  It was also in that 100 year old dairy barn which had been converted into a auto garage that Hank finally turned his attention to the rest of the car, most notably the exterior.  Or rather I should say it was outside of that barn where the exterior saw its first paint job.  Dad didn't want paint on his new concrete floor so Hank stripped the chrome, masked and papered and learned to use a spray gun outside, picking a day when the breeze was at its lightest and the bugs at their least energetic.  At last the Chevy was sloughing off those years of cornfield dirt and really feeling like a kid again.

Chapter Four:

350 V8 Small Block Chevy with Turbo 350 Automatic Transmission

and Twin Turbochargers

Twin turbochargers?  I understand very little of this new upgrade, but know only than it had never been done before in Pasturelands.   It was a brilliant manipulation of pvc and shoehorning; a sheer wonderment to anyone who dared opened the hood out of disbelief.  The Chevy was stretching her legs, breathing fire through those turbos, and she was much faster.

Chapter Five:

350 V8 Small Block Chevy with Twin Turbochargers

 and 700R4 Overdrive Transmission
with Multi-point Fuel Injection

In amongst those years we spent becoming adults, finding real jobs and carving out our roles in society, Hank continued to upgrade, to tweak, to dare.  I think the official reason for the overdrive trans was to improve the fuel economy.  But more likely someone told Hank he couldn't do it.  With that upgrade, the Chevy was now even faster, and we could admit with a smile that our unassuming, Grandpa car was a 'sleeper.'

Chapter Six:

Gen III 5.3 liter Chevy with Twin Turbochargers

 and 700R4 Overdrive Transmission
 with Multi-point Fuel Injection

And this next progression is evidence that when a young couple does not have children, money flows into all sorts of ridiculous avenues.  What are we up to here?  The fourth engine and the sixth configuration?  The Chevy was scarey fast now, and Hank spent a lot of time in the garage tuning it all in.  But as for me, I was disillusioned with my 9-to-5 and decided that it was time to (A) buy a house and (B) start a family. 

Chapter Seven:

350 Small Block Chevy with 5 speed Manual Transmission

 At last the Chevy settled down out of its own riotous youth and became the car that our children have lovingly referred to these past years as "the Big Red Car."  Today, with her small block and 5-speed, she's finally come into her own and embodies that quiet confidence that only comes after years of self-exploration.  But do not make the mistake of thinking that she allows those barn cats to walk over her hood from lack of pride.  It is now, more than ever, that she has secured her place in the garage.  

 

 After years of concentrating on only the mechanics of the Chevy, it was finally time to spruce up the exterior again.  So this time, in his own barn, spraying paint on his own floor, Hank masked and papered and laid out black scallops across the front clip, on the rear fenders and roof line.

 The Chevy continues to make the rounds to all the Midwest car shows and provides a snazzy backdrop whenever I decide to play the pin-up.  Indeed, the Chevy is recognized more quickly than Hank himself, as happens when you frequent the show circuit.  At these events, drivers remain anonymous while their hot rods are fondly remembered for their sleek lines, sumptuous interiors or, in our case, the fact that many spectators saw this very same Chevy on a grocery run at Piggly Wiggly just last week.

And even with that mild 350 small block, she held her own, pulling a 15.042 second quarter-mile at 92 mph down at Union Grove last summer. You should have seen her driving back home from the track, prouder than all getout. 

In fact she's so secure in herself that she occasionally brings home our new projects.  No rivalry.  No jealousy when our heads are turned by new hot rod prospects.  Here she's towing home our 1930 Model A sedan from Illinois.  And Hank would like me to point out the fact that, yet again, a Chevy is pulling a Ford.  Loyalties run deep around here.

 On other weekends the Chevy's content to pull our '68 Scotty for family camping trips.  We haven't ventured much outside of Wisconsin, but the Grand Canyon is calling. 

In fact we've put car seats in her since the kids were tiny.  They love riding in the back because basically it's like sitting on the couch, and the view out all that expansive glass is much better than in our other cars.  Only on the rare occasion when Hank decides to leave a little rubber on the road, and the cabin fills with smoke to the point that you can't see who's sitting next to you, do the children complain a bit.  But then on the other hand, I've been asked more than once why my car can't go as fast as Dad's.

 Really we treat her like a workhorse on some days, whether it's hauling the canoe to the beach...

 ...hauling the grill to the picnic...

 ...hauling the Christmas tree home...

 ...or hauling nearly 3000 pounds of unprepped, heavy metal in a 1000 pound trailer to the scrapyard.  Only once, in all the sixteen years that we've owned her, has she broken down and had to be towed.  I didn't take a picture that day.  It almost made me cry.  

Our other hot rods have come and gone.  We traded that Model A for my Ford Shoebox, and I have to admit that I'm more attached to the Chevy simply because of the emotional investment over all these years.  Once in a while, Hank reminds me that when the Chevy was pulled from that farmer's field, he wasn't looking for long-term commitment.  The Chevy wasn't his idea of the perfect hot rod; it was just an opportunity.  But even so, we've never considered trading her.  She's stood the test of time; she's become a member of the family.  I told Hank years ago that selling her is simply not an option anymore.  I'd rather park her in the barnyard and let the kids play in her. 

But knowing Hank, as only a lucky few do, the Chevy will be reincarnated, engine after engine, paint job after paint job, new frame, new interior, whatever it takes.  Hank has been the only one to work on her all these years, proudly doing every inch of the mechanics, electrical and bodywork.  Sometimes he was learning as he went, but being the protective parent, he never passed her off to someone else's care.  After all, she has yet to drive Route 66.  She's yet to run at Bonneville.  Yet to put all those pompous limos to shame at our son's prom.  Yet to park outside the church at our daughter's wedding.  So watch for her at the car shows or heading West across the Plains because the Chevy ain't done yet.

Honoring All Who Served

Friday morning I went to my children’s Veterans’ Day Program at school.   The local VFW and assembled veterans were seated at the front of the room while the children sat on the floor facing them.  

The mother in me was moved by all those high-pitched, little voices trying to hit the high notes in the National Anthem.  I’m always surprised how quickly my eyes well up where my children are involved.

The daughter in me teared up as I thought about my father.  At the age of eighteen, he was drafted into the Army and spent two years overseas during the Korean War.  His jacket hangs in my closet; his portrait in my dining room.  He was dashing.  And though he never talked about those two years, he was fiercely proud.  He passed away five years ago.  

The historian in me mourned the inevitable loss of the collective human experience over the last seventy years.  The veterans passed the microphone down the line, stating their names and ranks.   “I fought in the Battle of the Bulge.”  “We bombed Hanoi.”  “I was a radio operator in a B-24.”  “Medic, Vietnam.”  “U.S. Army Infantry, third generation Veteran.”  These men had countless stories of duty and valor, heartache and fear, but we would not hear them.  If they are anything like my father, they don’t talk about it.  They are seen as Grandfathers and kindly old neighbors, the audacity of their youth softened by time.  Their recognition comes but once a year, on Veterans’ Day.  

I left that elementary school gymnasium and headed straight for the library.  I checked out Tom Brokaw's book, The Greatest Generation.  I'm on page 114 tonight, and I may just pass up the new episode of Upstairs, Downstairs to continue reading.  As Brokaw states, these were ordinary men and women who were asked to do extraordinary things.  

They should continue to be honored every day.  

We should never forget.

My father, 1950.

Perspective from Wearing History

This morning I sat down with the intention of typing out a witty post regarding my most recent sewing project and the dangers of using vintage trims.  But as I scrolled down my blogger dashboard, I came across this post from Lauren over at Wearing History.  Now I know many of you are probably already following Lauren's journey through the vintage fashion world, but if you missed her post this week, it's worth a read. 

Her fabulous reproduction pattern line and stunning museum-quality fashions aside, Lauren still has the ability to connect to the home sewer, the struggling crafter, hunched over her sewing machine, ripping the seam... again.  Lauren is genuine and sincere in her comments and commitment to her craft.  If you find yourself doubting your talent or direction in life, find inspiration at Wearing History.

My first package from a reader!

Last week I was so excited to receive a facebook message from Michelle, over at Little Piece of Heaven, telling me that she had found something for me.  This was a first for me!  One of my readers actually remembered my love of vintage sewing even after she had walked away from her computer!  It seems Michelle had had a very prosperous weekend of rummaging and bought two 1940s patterns that she knew I would love.  And she's right!

So in my mailbox today I found two mail order patterns from the collection of a Mrs. Bayard Bright, formerly of San Miguel, California.  Michelle had picked up these two pristine patterns for only a dollar each.  One pattern is postmarked November 28, 1945, and the other is from August 29, 1946. 

And the best part is...this is something I would actually make!  The Marian Martin pattern is a simple shirtwaist but with very nice detailing with the asymmetrical closure and tied waist.

And the Anne Adams pattern is a simple, pull-over, apron-styled dress.  I know that I have some wonderful '40s reproduction fabric in my stash that was just waiting for a pattern like this!

I would like to send out a big Thank You! to Michelle for thinking of me.  It just goes to show me that even on the days when I think my blog posts are drifting away into the Bermuda Triangle of Blah Blah Blah, there is always the chance that at least one person will read them and remember.  I am in the middle of two dressmaking projects at the moment, but these will not be far behind!

Lucky 13

Thirteen years ago today, September 26th, 1998, I married Hank.  

We had dated for four years, having met during freshman orientation at college.  Back then he was full of bravado, having just come off a glittering career on the Track and Field team in high school.  And I was hoping to cast off the German Club, band geek image from my high school days.  Guess he was cocky enough to make the first move, and I was smart enough to know a good thing when I saw it.  We spent all four years of college together and married that following fall.

Walking into church with my dad

Our four years of dating was fun and easy.  No waiting by the phone, wondering if Hank would call, wondering if I should call him.  Did I say the right thing?  What was that supposed to mean?  Did he still like me?  We seemed to know each other from the start, never any awkwardness.

Traditional church wedding

We bought our homestead three years after we were married.  Soon we had chickens and sheep.  Then a daughter, then a son.  More sheep, more chickens, a revolving door of cats and two dogs (three if you count my mother's that comes for extended visits).  And here we find ourselves looking back on thirteen years.

I still feel like the girl in these wedding photos (of course, I still look the same).  :)  In a lot of ways we are the same people that we were then, but we've since grown into ourselves, recognized our strengths and weaknesses, settled into the people we'll be for the next 50 years. 

Leaving church under a storm of bird seed

Hank and I have built a good life together.  We're both the type of people who put down roots, hence the Homestead.  This is it for us.  Our little piece of heaven, surrounded by pastures and filled with domestic bliss, small-town friendliness and back-to-basics living.  But don't imagine that we're squeaking away in our rocking chairs every night after supper.  The To Do list never ends, and it includes things like #16 Publish a novel; and #23 Break land speed record.

Leaving church

One piece of our lives that has been there since the beginning is the 1950 Chevy.  Hank bought it in college, scraping together every penny saved by eating Ramen for months.  It has seen many modifications over the years (a few different engines, EFI, twin turbos).  The kids lovingly refer to it as the "Big Red Car."  Selling this car is a deal breaker.  :)

So here's to the next thirteen years, and then the next, and the next.  Can't wait to celebrate our 50th anniversary!  Must get the Chevy a new paint job for that occasion.  :)  Truly, I am so blessed to have this life, this husband.  So many little moments throughout the day make me stop and consider where I am and where I've been.  I am in awe that it's all come together and continues to do so.  My heart warms with the memories and thrills at the possibilities!