that in spite of the powers that be in Ohio trying to keep people from voting, votes were cast, and the expected outcome did not occur.
Those determined people who stood in lines for hours, made their state and this country a better place.
Every vote does count.
In President Obama’s reelection speech he stated, “I want to thank every American who participated in this election … whether you voted for the very first time or waited in line for a very long time. By the way, we have to fix that.”
Today my husband and I walked to our voting precinct, received ballots, voted, and were out the door in 5 minutes.
That is 5 minutes, not 5 hours, or 6 hours, or 8 hours that the people in Ohio had to endure to cast their vote.
I am originally from Ohio. I used to say that you can’t take the Ohio out of the girl. No more. I am embarrassed to be from that state.
I find it shameful that the United States is attempting to convert other countries to democracy, yet in our country there are factions restricting and limiting our rights.
Thank you Ohio voters for not being deterred.
I was in rural Maryland during Sandy.
The power went off on Monday at 12:41 pm and wasn’t restored until yesterday evening, that would be Wednesday. Not that many hours really, but it was my longest experience living without running water, heat, electricity, and of course the internet. The week prior I was often wearing shorts; during the power outage I was wearing nearly everything that I packed.
I lived briefly without power while in Ohio during storms, tornadoes, and blizzards. When I was living in the California Bay Area we lost power during my first experience with earthquakes, the Loma Prieta in 1989. What I remember the most about the earthquake was the noise. Actually the noise brought back memories of tornadoes in Ohio. Nature can be powerful and destructive.
At the time I was completing my undergrad degree and working for a group of orthopedic surgeons. I realized how fragile the human body can be when dealing with the forces of nature. In nature there is no right or wrong, no evil. It does not discriminate.
When I was going to grad school in Washington it seemed the power would go off willy nilly, so I started carrying a small flashlight at all times.
I still carry my emergency flashlight. After reading a story about folks stranded in the dark on the subway, I gave flashlights to everyone in my family.
My little flashlight helped me make my way through the dark of the house and it gave me light for reading.
The book I am reading may not have been the best choice–The Night Eternal, the third book in the series by Guillermo Del Toro and Chuck Hogan.
This was a great sight to see! So many possibilities–a cup of cocoa, a bowl of ramen, a hot shower.
Been busy making apps, so little studio time in the past couple of weeks. Finally some studio time this weekend.
When you are not able to have consistent studio time, sometimes going back to a project means reacquainting yourself with it.
Decided to add wrapped rope to emphasize the grid, to cover the edges of the blocks, and to give more of a quilt-like feel.
I have found that often cotton rope has a synthetic core. I didn’t know however, that cotton Venetian Blind cord is made with a synthetic core as well. And that synthetic isn’t listed on the label. The fellow working in the store said that if it wasn’t on the label it wasn’t in the rope or cord.
I purchased two types, the Venetian Blind cord for the grid and the thicker clothesline rope for the border.
I cut lengths of sash cord to use for the verticals, then removed the core.
The main reason that I do not want a synthetic core is because I am planning to use a hot process on the piece. Nylon melts. The removed nylon can be cut up and used in other processes.
I wrapped the lengths of sash cord by first inserting one end of the cotton twine through the sash cord.
Wrapping was done by simply rotating the Venetian Blind cord. When nearly wrapped, I cut the cotton cord, slipped on a needle, and inserted the tail up through and out.
Before and After Wrapping
I have a couple of verticals to finish before starting the horizontals, and then adding a border. The wrapped cord needs to be added to the left of the penny blocks.
When I was a girl we had grape salad on special Sundays. The salad consisted of head lettuce (that would be iceberg), chopped apples and grapes, topped with a mayo sweet and sour dressing.
Tonight I modified a Poppyseed Salad Recipe and realized it is very much like the special salad of my childhood. The salad has lettuce, quartered black grapes, chopped apples, sliced almonds, topped with a poppyseed dressing.
Why was the grape salad a special salad? Grapes were not commonly found throughout the year in an Ohio village during the 1960s.
Living on the California Central Coast produce is abundant at the Farmers’ Markets and even in the grocery stores. Actually, when I have visited Ohio in the past few years I was pleasantly surprised to find produce looking quite nice. Well, except for the neighborhood market near the village where I spent the first 20 years of my life.
For folks with house bunny companions–it is a good idea to cut grapes into pieces when offering them to your bunnies, and watching the bunnies eat them before leaving the room.
I had a bunny, Baby Cornell who very nearly swallowed a whole grape. Yep, that is very nearly. The grape became lodged in his throat and it wasn’t an experience that I care to repeat. He also had a problem with celery. So, now I always chop celery for my current bunnies. It could have been that Baby Cornell was simply eating too fast, but he changed how I have fed all of the bunnies since.
Yes, I named my bunny Cornell after Joseph Cornell, one of my favorite artists.
Baby Cornell Foraging In Our New Jersey Garden In Progress
Baby Cornell Hanging Out On The Sofa In Washington
He was such a beautiful boy and a delight to live with.
Today while I was working on a database I listened to one of the University of Minnesota Bookstore Author Events. It was a talk and reading by Abigail Thomas. The reading was from A Three Dog Life.
The book recounts Abigail’s experience as the spouse of an individual who sustained a traumatic brain injury. It is written with such honesty and humor, I felt like I was sitting with a friend having a discussion over coffee. Or in my case a cup of chocolate.
After listening to Abigail, I ordered a copy for my Mom. The last few years of my Dad’s life were a challenge for her. He had several surgeries, some dementia, and spent his last months in an extended care facility. It occurred to me that Abigail’s journey and words might be of some help to Mom during her grieving process.
This is a photo of my copy of A Three Dog Life. Can you tell how much I loved the book?
Some of the pages are folded at top and bottom, and on both sides. And there are underlined passages as well.
The past gets swallowed up in the extraordinary circumstances of now. p16
Rich spoke in mysteries. It was as if he were now connected to some vast reservoir of wisdom, available only to those whose brains have been altered, a reservoir unencumbered by personality, quirks, history, habits… p17
I can’t find the place that matches my memory. p27
Dogs are never in a bad mood over something you said at breakfast. Dogs never sniff at the husks of old conversations… p75
I kept forgetting the fact that I actually couldn’t take care of him. My terror obscured the truth: no single person, no two people could have taken care of a man in Rich’s condition. Why then did I feel so ashamed? What standard do we women hold ourselves to? After all these years I can finally say the words I want to live my life without feeling unnatural, selfish, cowardly. p115
I’m employed by a software company that produces projects for “language, learning, and speech,” which includes projects for TBI. My interest in brain injury began when my nephew suffered an injury when he was 18 months old. I had seriously considered a career in art therapy, but after researching it three times during various stages of my life I realized it wasn’t a good fit for me. Art should be used for expression not as a diagnostic tool.
I enjoy interesting art on coins, stamps, vegetable stickers…
Today I ran across this coin amongst my stuff, but have no recollection where it came from.
I found this coin when I was in grad school.
I like that the guy is a metal worker of sorts, but safety should require protective gear.
Very cool that it was minted in 1956.
Also minted in 1956.
How cool would it be if one of the members of the NY School used this quarter to pay for coffee?
There are a variety of eagles on coins. This one seems about to take flight.
I received the dollar during a purchase in Marion, Ohio. The idea is to post it on the website and then send it back out into the world. I liked the little bunny and have kept it in my wallet for several years.
I bound a penny and fired it to 1250ºF thinking that it was copper. I was hoping for a bit of slumping. When I researched the composition of pennies I found that they are primarily zinc. So, not surprising that the coin melted at a lower temperature.
From the United States Mint site–
The alloy remained 95 percent copper and 5 percent zinc until 1982, when the composition was changed to 97.5 percent zinc and 2.5 percent copper (copper-plated zinc).
When I packed for my trip home to attend my Dad’s funeral I included Joe Coomer’s book, Beachcombing for a Shipwrecked God. I read the book several years back and liked it quite a lot. Coomer writes women who seem familiar, interesting, and some are even artists. It is a pleasure to read descriptions of artists whose creativity isn’t a form of mental illness.
While I was home, I helped pack up my Mom to move her to another state. Going through my parents’ things was an odd experience. I am too sentimental at times, attaching meaning to objects. This passage from Beachcombing rang true for me.
I’d walked into the hospital with dirty hands and knees, holding what I thought was a box of love and memory and hope, and walked out with the same box, a loose collection of yard-sale merchandise.
My Mom left her home of 62 years with four boxes and a few bags of clothes. I have been attempting to lessen my possession responsibility, but again being a mixed media artist it is difficult to give away potential art materials.
My favorite Joe Coomer books–
Beachcombing for a Shipwrecked God
The Loop has finally become a film, A Bird of the Air. I can’t wait to see it.
An interview with Coomer can be read here.
My Dad died.
It wasn’t unexpected, yet you never know how you will feel until something is reality.
The night before I flew home for his graveside service I made a memorial bracelet.
I cut a small piece of bamboo, drilled holes in it with my Dad’s old Black and Decker drill, then made some knots.
The pattern of knots on one side represents his date of birth, the other side the date of his death. Years back I read that bamboo has a cultural myth–mourning the death of a father.
Seemed appropriate, understated, personal.
The morning of his service I took cuttings from his garden to make a spray for his coffin.
At the service I didn’t feel as much of a loss as I did when I spent time in his shop knowing he would never be back.
When I went through his file cabinet I found the English-French Dictionary he used when he was stationed in France during the Korean War. A newspaper clipping was tucked inside. I believe that my need to keep mementos just might have came from my Dad.
I also found letters I had written to him. He even kept the packet of photos describing an investment casting.
Dad wasn’t one to say how much he cared, his actions showed it.
This was a baby rattle used in my husband’s family.
Choking hazard?