Warming up in the #athinatop by @tessutifabrics with thrifted turquoise linen from @whogivesascrapfoco.
Day 19
She found a parking spot near the outdoor baggage claim behind a giant bronze statue of John Wayne. A massive American flag billowed high in the sky above him. Mom hurried us out of our red Fiat wagon. We were always somehow running late. I slung my oversized beige duffel bag over my shoulder and helped little sister with hers. “Come on girls, or you’ll miss your flight!” We obeyed and shuffled across the sparsely occupied parking lot. It was early afternoon on a Friday in April of 1985. The automatic sliding doors opened and a rush of cold air sucked us into the terminal. The din of voices and people scrambling about on the glistening epoxy floors. Mom was still rushing, at least a few yards in front of us, toward the PSA ticket counter. Sister trailed behind. I looked back urging her to keep up with my hand motioning to “come here.” She struggled under the load of her sack, weighing her right shoulder down like a bag of wet laundry. Mom approached the female ticket agent hastily, resting her petite elbows and forearms on the high counter next to a carton of paper luggage tags. She handed our tickets over to the female agent who didn’t look up from her computer as she started to assist. “I have two girls traveling alone today” she announced. She seemed nervous, sniffling back a runny nose and tears as she pulled out a crumpled Kleenex from her skirt pocket. She spoke with the agent a few moments and took the boarding passes handed to her. As she turned to face sister and I, tears were now visible filling the little crescent wells of her lower eyelids. She blinked gently and a single tear overflowed from each eye, tricking down her soft alabaster cheeks. She held her eyes closed tightly for a long moment, and then squatted down in front of us. Sister and I, shoulder to burdened shoulder, stood at attention. She opened her mouth to speak, then her eyes, taking one of each of our hands firmly.
#scarletkumquat #athinatop #tessutipatterns
#the100dayproject #100daysofwriting
#memade #imakemyownclothes
Day 14
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Paris on a Thursday. I was 12 and on an AFS summer trip with 20 other junior high school students that I didn’t know. I had become friendly with a light-brown, curly haired girl who was much taller than me. I don’t recall her name. Also, with a boy named Shannon. He was a football player, buff and slightly overweight. He always had dried spit at the corners of his mouth, and his breath smelled like the receiver of a public payphone. Old acidy saliva. Our group of American students was touring around visibly in our sneakers and backpacks. After a day or longer at the Louvre and Versailles, we made our way to the Ile de la Cite’ to tour Notre-Dame. Gray ribbons of pigeons circled the spires behind the Western facade, regularly fluttering down beside the tourists to snack on the discarded crumbs and debris around the structure. The cathedral steps were littered with pigeon excrement, cigarette buts and firm, black flat pancakes of old chewing gum. It was anything but holy. I searched the façade for the pigeons boomeranging in and out of their nesting spaces, roosts in the nape of a stone king’s neck, under the wing of a gothic gargoyle, stuffed between balusters of the Virgin’s Balcony. .
There was a boy in our group, a geeky, awkward boy with shaggy, oily brown hair that had formed a loose dreadlock in the back. He wore thick, heavily rimmed glasses that made his eyes look sunken in farther than they were. He had colonies of acne in the creases of his nose and chin. Domed creamy white zits overlying red and inflamed skin. His fingers were long and lanky, and looked as though they’d never seen the sun. They shone a bluish hue that matched the skin of his face. He wore a black T-shirt, long black pants and sneakers. Slightly disheveled in appearance, he was always alone. No one would talk to him. Amongst ourselves, everyone made fun of him. He sat alone on the second to last step of the cathedral stairs in front of the Portal of the Virgin. His bony fingers lined up and propped against his brow creating a small shade under the midday Parisian sun. I watched him closely. He was pathetic. Continues in comments...
Day 13
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I peeked through her bedroom door to make sure she was asleep. The room was dark. Only the glare of the small television illuminated her face smushed against a white down pillow. I studied her for a moment. She always slept with her eyes slightly open, and so it was a skill to perfect, knowing when she was truly asleep. The quiet chatter of the QVC channel host muffled the creaking of the hardwood floor under my weight. I backed away from her door and tip-toed down the hall and out the kitchen door. The motion light flicked on as I ran under it. She never woke up to that. I unlatched the splintering wooden side gate, slipped through the opening and closed it gently behind me with a quiet clink. The night air was damp and cool. The smell of our overgrown ficus trees and gladiolas followed me out into the street. Parked cars and garbage cans shone bright under a yellow glow of the streetlights. The hum of Pacific Coast Highway traffic was behind me. Hills of coyotes, carpets of ice plant and sage brush in front. My arms were bare in a white T-shirt. I had forgotten a sweater.
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He would meet me at the crest of the hill next to a manhole cover every night. I could see him from a distance approaching. Tall and lean, he wore jeans and a perfectly pressed white T-shirt. A black ballcap bill shadowed his eyes as he walked under the streetlights. His hands were in his pockets, a cigarette glowing from his mouth. His breath and kisses always tasted of Camel Lights and Crown Royal.
#scarletkumquat #the100dayproject #100daysofwriting #write #quilt #improvquilting #improvpiecing #modernquilt
This recent finish is the #ellisdress by @merchantandmills in thrifted lightweight woven yummy from the infamous @whogivesascrapfoco 💛. This dress has some special details that are not evident from the photos. Lovely chest darts and a single loop button closure in the back. The skirt on this is so big, so be prepared for some spring spins! I also shortened it quite a bit.☀️ #scarletkumquat
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Day 12
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Ah the week has gotten away from me. But I'm still writing! OK Natalie! I'm in the cafe with 20 minutes to spare before yoga, alone! I even ordered toast with butter and jam, although I'm not particularly hungry. As you so plainly recommend, I want to establish rapport with the employees so they will welcome back this mama for hours of taking up a table and writing. #writingdownthebones
A father sits at a high-top table in the window facing the street. His shock-topped toddler boy squirms in his arms, eventually wrestling out of them and onto the ground. He ambles off hollering an age-appropriate gibberish to the crowded cafe patrons. His orange puffy down jacket is littered with sweet, sticky smears from a half-eaten pastry. His face is just as messy, his nose crusted with dry mucus, maybe from a cold. The father watches keenly as his toddler circles the cafe tables, inspecting the wood carved chairs, pulling down stray Saturday Coloradoan pages from the community piles and watching them float to the floor. Making his way back to his father, he reaches out to be picked up once more. He sits calmly for about 7 seconds on a stool next to his father, un-crumpling the plastic wrapper of his leftover bear claw. Crumbs and sliced almond bits rain down on the floor. The father gives him a forced smile through his frustration. This father looks tired, worn out, maybe been up much of the night with this kid.
#the100dayproject #100daysofwriting #writersofinstagram #memade #imakemyownclothes #indiepatterns #recycleyourfabric #sewwhatyouhave #sustainablesewing #instasew #secondchancemakes #makersofinstagram
Day 10
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We were in the middle of a beans and corn science experiment on a Wednesday. The wet spring snow was coming down hard and heavy through the bay window where we sat at a large work table. Every now and then a gust of wind whipped up the snow’s downward path and sent it colliding into the glass with a crackle. Our 14 year-old smokey black Pomeranian stared enthusiastically out the sliding glass door nearby. Although nearly blind, his milky marble eyes tracked a pair of rabbits that marathoned across the accumulating breast of snow in the yard. My son was observing the differences in dry pinto beans compared to those soaked in a damp paper towel overnight. His 9 year-old hand held a dry bean delicately, turning it over several times in his palm, fingering the texture and gazing at its isolation. His hands were older than I recall. Subtle, mature anatomical landmarks had become more apparent. Unlike the infant, whose fat-laden epidermis hides most evidence of circulation, the veins on the backs of his hands were more defined, the flow of blue blood visible. The small muscles and tendons of his fingers flexed and extended in a pincer grasp. A callus had developed on his left middle finger from a year of elementary composition. Dry skin collected at his cuticles, and he had recently trimmed all of his nails straight across. These were my first baby’s hands, my toddler’s hands, my boy’s hands. They would soon be a man’s hands. A steady weight came down on my heart and I felt like crying. Immersed in his study I couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t interrupt the zone, the flow, the realm of ignited observation that was so obvious. Instead, as we both continued with the tasks of the day, I looked at his hands once again and said “I love you Son.” His response was common and comfortable. Without looking up he muttered quietly “Me too.”
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#scarletkumquat #the100dayproject #100daysofwriting #writersofinstagram #write #improvquilting #improvpiecing #logcabinquilt
Today couldn’t be farther from the blue skies and billowing clouds of this image. Blizzard in the forecast!
Day 9
I used to think I took a very safe career path. A career that no one could take away from me. Something immune to the tides of economic suffering and the sexy (or not so sexy) business world. I was somehow scared underneath it all, that someone, somehow would take control of my skill and give it to someone else to use. That I was essentially disposable. So I chose
medicine as the path where so much of one’s success lies inside the heart and mind. It has little to do with business acumen or being gifted. It certainly has proven little do with grades or where one goes to medical school or how much money one makes in the profession. And it certainly isn’t safe. It certainly isn’t secure. It certainly isn’t immune to feeling the pain and suffering of humanity and what we experience while living. There is no safe career destination or path to the easy life. In fact safety may be the last quality I deem valuable any longer. Safety is in the here and now as we speak. As we hike and pick wildflowers; while we swim in the oceans. While we gather for dinner and talk with our mouths full and sit in each other’s laps. As we cry, laugh, fume with anger, become slaves to love. It’s all here. .
#scarletkumquat #the100dayproject #100daysofwriting #writersofinstagram #write #memade #memadeeveryday #pleatedsummerdress #inthefoldspleatedsummerdress #peppermintpleatedsummerdress #inthefoldspatterns #coloradoskies #noco #foco
Day 4
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I studied her from the far end of the warm carpeted hall. The house was pitch black, except for her little pink gooseneck IKEA lamp spotlighting the benign girls’ tale she read voraciously without urging. Every minute or so the soft crinkle of a turning page forced my eyes open again. She read voluntarily, into the late night hours when I’d finally retire from sewing or making love to my husband. She’d still be up, drinking in the benign plots of an elementary novel, the equivalent of Dear Abby in Highlights Magazine or Madeline in Paris for the 137th time. I took care not to disturb her ritual, because in those late night moments alone in her bed she was quiet, content, in need of no one, not even me. Here her mind wandered and wondered, close enough to my room to run for cover from a nightmare, but far enough to stand her ground. She was becoming herself. .
#scarletkumquat #the100dayproject #100daysofwriting #write #writersofinstagram #memade #memadeeveryday #geraniumdress by @madebyrae
Day 3 .
I could smell her freshly-lit joint from the cracked bedroom door. Vivaldi’s Spring danced on the cassette player. It was midday, but the creeping English ivy engulfed every window of the room keeping it dark and damp. A few aggressive vines had crept through the windowsills, their meaty green leaves perky against the white walls. The cool hardwood floor creaked under my steps; sand and dust and cat hair stuck relentlessly to the bottoms of my bare feet. I was always cleaning. Sweeping that damn hardwood floor, washing a sink full of day-old dishes as the flies hovered heavily over caked oatmeal, congealed egg yolks and soggy Grape Nuts. Scrubbing and bleaching the butcher block countertop thick with crusted wet cat food. Because that’s where the cats ate, on our kitchen counter where we prepared our own meals.
Mom’s #memade apron. #hinterlanddress #the100dayproject #100daysofwriting #write #writersofinstagram #scarletkumquat
I heard corduroy is making a comeback. A hand-me-down blazer from my husband’s uncle who bought and had it tailored in Paris decades ago. It’s destined for my son who’s too young yet. So I’ll try it out for awhile. 💛
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Day 2
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Grandma, how the kids would love you. They would beg you to scratch their backs with your long, natural nails. Not too hard, not too soft. Just in the right spots. They would cozy up to your bosom reeking of Estée Lauder. Your calm voice and even temper. Your cheap, beige leather purse of many sections, separated by zippers and magnetic buttons. A place for your keys, another for newspaper clippings you found relevant. Another for your wallet. The deepest pocket was well-stocked with Price Club packs of mints and chewing gum, littered with Wrigley’s Big Red metallic wrappers. The whole purse an effluvium of that perfume. Your hair was never a big deal. White and wavy and always on the shorter side. You never wore any jewelry, except for a small modest gold cross that would periodically disappear in the deep papery wrinkles and fat of your fragrant neck. Light bright pink Clinique lipstick was your staple. It would always leave a ringed waxy imprint of your lips on the cup. You still had all your teeth. Must have been all the toothpicks after lunch. Although I never recall you drinking any water, only coffee with cream. Do you remember the time we were at Furs Cafeteria and the coffee lady circled around the dining hall with her cart? “Coffee? Coffee? Coffee or tea?” she would chant round and round that room. We laughed so hard at her mantra. And you let her fill your cup with every loop back to our table, just to have another giggle. We laughed for years about that day. No one understood why.
#the100dayproject #100daysofwriting #write #writersofinstagram #hinterlanddress #corduroyjacket
#memade #imakemyownclothes #memadeeveryday
