June 21st, 2007 at 00:00 am » Comments (0)

One of the most commonly asked questions for any one who does hand work, is WHY you do that. The next time someone asks me WHY I donate to military support groups,

I will be pointing them to the bittersweet, but beautiful tribute created by Lizzie Palmer.

I don’t know who 15 year old Lizzie Palmer is, but I want to meet her. Heck I want to start a college fund for her,

Note, if you are even the tiniest bit emotional about those who serve, I suggest you grab a box of tissues first.

Wheat

May 13th, 2007 at 00:01 am » Comments (0)

It’s Mother’s Day - I’ll be fixing all her favorite things for mine

But there are always other women who influence our lives, so I thought I tell you about one who just might be responsible for my addiction to string

Crochet is probably the very first fiber art I learned as a child. With two working parents it was a wonderful gift from a neighbor that “got me started” So here is a thank you to the late Shirley Eustis for talking the time to share a craft she loved with the little girl next door. I think she enjoyed teaching me, since she had only boys and in the early 50’s fiber art was not done often by boys.

But what really got me “hooked” on yarn like string, was the generosities of a “Real” yarn shop owner:
Mrs Goldman

This time last year I had the great pleasure to speak with that then about to retire owners of Goldman’s Yarn. They were retiring after SEVENTY YEARS “in the business” These shop owners NEVER made that child feel that her choices in techniques were inferior. Mrs Goldman also never made me feel bad when I chose “practical” yarns. What she did was to instill in me a respect for the craft and a belief that I should always use the best materials I could afford and do the work to the
highest standard I was capable of.

She knew, that in order to spend time (cause the Lord knows I did not have very much money) in her store I was giving up another special treat. Twice a month, if there was a show we could agree on, my brother and I were allowed to take the bus to the theater and see a movie - about a block from her store.

My brothers ‘covered’ for me. They went to the movies after escorting me to the store, and came back for me after the show. We never lied, but eventaully we did get “caught”. Once we could sit down again, and after my Dad visited the shop, I had permission to continue.

Mrs Goldman took the time on more than one occasion to show me more advanced stitches, the basics of Knitting, how to read BOTH Knit & Crochet symbol based patterns -

If you are finding my reference charts useful, you can thank Mrs G - she also was quite the beliver in swatching

Mrs G is the person most responsible for my determination to be an excellent craftsman in whatever needlearts I choose to pursue - she made it important to know the tools and techniques - to practice them until I got it right -without making it a chore - She taught the joy of accomplishment.

Did I mention my love of Needlepoint started in Goldman’s? (I still have that piece, a bargello done in shades of blues - I remember she was not completely happy with me substituting something for white but she could see it was what I want.

I could recite a long list of small kindnesses this lady and her staff provided but you get the idea - like helping me find the exact yarn in the sale bin - looking back I even wonder if it really belonged there or was just another example of how a wonderful lady made me her customer for life or at least a hefty portion of the life of her business. I don’t think I have ever purchased a Needlepoint Canvas from anyone else

After 9/11 everyone talked about how they did not know there were nice and caring New Yorkers. But for those of us who lived there, we know that Real NEW YORK Attitude can be found every day in the Millions like Mrs G.

Somehow TNNA will be the poorer without a chance to greet this wonderful couple.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the women who influence our lives

Wheat

December 20th, 2006 at 10:40 am » Comments (0)

Today, in Quilt Art, the always inspiring Karey Breshenhan began another of her wonderful ideas about something to do for our military - more of that another day.

In response, Tomme Fent shared a poem she had received.

After a bit of research, I located the poem and a tiny bit about the author in Ziplo’s pages
For a less graphically intense “read” you can try the Black Five blog

A Soldier’s Christmas

The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
my daughter beside me, angelic in rest.

Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree, I believe,
completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.

My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
secure and surrounded by love,
I would sleep in perfect contentment,
or so it would seem.

So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.
The sound wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t too near,
but I opened my eye when it tickled my ear.

Perhaps just a cough, I didn’t quite know,
then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.
My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
and I crept to the door just to see who was near.

Standing out in the cold, and the dark of the night,
a lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.
A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.

Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.
“What are you doing?” I asked without fear,
“come in this moment, it’s freezing out here!

Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
you should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!”

For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts,
to the window that danced with a warm fire’s light ,
then he sighed and he said “Its really all right,
I’m out here by choice. I’m here every night”

“Its my duty to stand at the front of the line,
that separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I’m proud to stand here like my fathers before me.

My Gramps died at ‘Pearl on a day in December,”
then he sighed, “that’s a Christmas ‘Gram always remembers.”

My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ‘Nam,
and now it is my turn and so, here I am.

I’ve not seen my own son in more than a while,
but my wife sends me pictures, he’s sure got her smile.
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
the red white and blue…. an American flag.

“I can live through the cold and the being alone,
away from my family, my house and my home.
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.

I can carry the weight of killing another,
or lay down my life with my sisters and brothers,
who stand at the front against any and all,
to insure for all time that this flag will not fall.”

“So go back inside,” he said, “harbor no fright,
your family is waiting and I’ll be all right.”
“But isn’t there something I can do,
at the least, “Give you money,”
I asked, “or prepare you a feast?

It seems all too little for all that you’ve done,
for being away from your wife and your son.”
Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
“just tell us you love us, and never forget,
to fight for our rights back at home while we’re gone.
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.

For when we come home, either standing or dead,
to know you remember we fought and we bled,
is payment enough, and with that we will trust.
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us

Written by
Michael Parks
copyright © 2000

Michael wrote: was thinking about our servicemen overseas this Holiday Season and wrote the following in hope of bringing a small bit of Christmas cheer to active
duty and veterans alike … just a humble thanks and “God Bless.”

Flame of Life

December 14th, 2006 at 19:37 pm » Comments (0)

Every year this circulates, an internet search will bring up many ways it might have begun, but it does not really matter - because from the beginning, there have always been heros who could not be with their loved one at some holiday season.

Musical commentary at the end

Hold Them all In Your Heart

Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,

In a one bedroom house made of plaster & stone.

I had come down the chimney with presents to give

And to see just who in this home did live.

I looked all about a strange sight I did see,

No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.

No stocking by the fire, just boots filled with sand,

On the wall hung pictures of far distant lands.



With medals and badges, awards of all kind

A sober thought came through my mind.

For this house was different, so dark and dreary,

I knew I had found the home of a soldier, once I could see clearly.

I heard stories about them, I had to see more

So I walked down the hall and pushed open the door.

And there he lay sleeping silent alone,

Curled up on the floor in his one bedroom home.



His face so gentle, his room in such disorder,

Not how I pictured a United States soldier.

Was this the hero of whom I’d just read?

Curled up in his poncho, a floor for his bed?

His head was clean shaven, his weathered face tan,

I soon understood this was more than a man.

For I realized the families that I saw that night

Owed their lives to these men who were willing to fight.



Soon ‘round the world, the children would play,

And grownups would celebrate on a bright Christmas day.

They all enjoyed freedom each month of the year,

Because of soldiers like this one lying here.

I couldn’t help wonder how many lay alone

On a cold Christmas Eve in a land far from home.

Just the very thought brought a tear to my eye,

I dropped to my knees and started to cry.

The soldier awakened and I heard a rough voice,

“Santa don’t cry, this life is my choice;

I fight for freedom, I don’t ask for more,

my life is my God, my country, my Corps.”

With that he rolled over and drifted off into sleep,

I couldn’t control it, I continued to weep.

I watched him for hours, so silent and still,

I noticed he shivered from the cold night’s chill.



So I took off my jacket, the one made of red,

And I covered this Soldier from his toes to his head.

And I put on his T-shirt of gray and black,

With an eagle and an Army patch embroidered on back.

And although it barely fit me, I began to swell with pride,

And for a shining moment, I was United States Army deep inside.

I didn’t want to leave him on that cold dark night,

This guardian of honor so willing to fight.



Then the soldier rolled over, whispered with a voice so clean and pure,

“Carry on Santa, it’s Christmas Day, all is secure.”

One look at my watch, and I knew he was right,

Merry Christmas my friend, and to all a good night!

Be sure to let me know what you think..