Life is an adventure and sometimes the adventure is figuring out who you are and why you have learned so many odd skills years before. I think it is time to share my adventures in stories my imagination has been aching to create.
Like fleas on a dog...
When things got heated in Europe and the Middle East over borders and such, everyone speculated about world war 3. It never happened though. When the pandemic of 2020 came and killed thousands, people thought this might be the thing that kills us all off, especially with variant after variant popping up. We got through it. But all the while things were at work. Natural disasters, fires, earth quakes, people blamed it on global warming. There were a few science fiction writers who saw it coming but didn’t actually think it was true. Fantasy they said, not actual truth. The Earth is trying to renew herself, some said. Well, the truth is she was trying to in a way. You see, it turns out we are the flea on her back and she is so frustrated with the havoc we have caused she is trying to shake us off, anyway she can. Fires and volcanos like fever fighting an infection. Earthquakes and magnetic polar shifts caused by Earth trying to shake us, scratch us off like a dog rolling and scratching to remove the cause of an awful itch. Viruses released like flea powder to kill us off. What’s next, a flea dip? Or, dare I ask, is there something worse?
As the carriage bumped along and began to slow for turns, Elise reached up and wrapped her knuckles hard on the ceiling yelling, “We can’t slow down. Please, keep going as fast as you can.” She did her best to brace for the bumps, as they picked up speed again. “I will not be forced to marry anyone.” She thought to herself.
Elsie loved summer the most. Not just because it was warm and she could spend all day in her garden but because it was when her garden would bloom into so many vibrant colours and types of dahlias. Her dahlias won prizes every year at the town fair and people would slow down as they drove passed her place just to gaze at the beautiful garden that wrapped around the front and down one side of her little house. In the back was a small barn like structure her husband had used as a work shop. Some of his woodworking tools were still there waiting for someone to come and put them to use. The last thing he had made for Elsie was a silly duck with wings that turned in the wind. She would put it up each spring when she was planting her tubers, to keep the birds from getting into them. It’s bright yellow seemed to give the birds enough warning that they did not bother the plants much. The yellow duck was a good companion to the yellow marigolds Elsie would plant all around the edge of her garden to keep the pests and slugs out. She prided herself on using natural, chemical free ways of protecting her garden and it paid off. She won prizes at the fair that helped her with a little income and she sold bouquets of her flowers from a road side stand. Each morning she would cut fresh flowers and fill the little buckets with water and bouquets. Setting out the little buckets and locked coin box securely attached to the stand for each day was what kept her going. She was able to make enough income each year to somehow get by.
Kelly loved her little neighbourhood with its little rows of houses that dated back to about 1930 or so. Most of the houses were run down and showing their age, but it was working people who didn’t have the funds to renovate, or seniors, like the lady who lived across from Kelly. Mrs. Weston had lived in that house since she had first gotten married. She and her husband had bought it with their savings and wedding gifts from both their families. Mr. Weston had passed some 15 years ago, before Kelly had ever moved there. Kelly made the time for having tea with Mrs. Weston whenever she could. She loved hearing about the stories of the people who had been neighbours through the years and what had changed. Mrs. Weston always brought out her fancy tea set and made cookies. Kelly felt like she was important to Mrs. Weston and truthfully she was. Mrs. Weston didn’t get many visitors and her son was divorced with a son of his own. They lived 3 towns over, so they didn’t visit often. Kelly knew Mrs. Weston was expecting them to visit soon as she had baked extra cookies and there had been a maid service over and grocery delivery had been a bigger order this week. Plus Mrs. Weston had mentioned they might come for her birthday a while back. Kelly was glad as it had been a while.
I was once a tall useful bustle of life. I was home to 3 families of mice, 4 cats, a dog, a whole herd of black angus cows and I kept the hay and feed for the winter each year. I miss those days when things would start stirring inside with the creep of the sun’s rays coming over the hill. The man from the house would open my door and whistle for the dog. The cats would wander in and out as the dog helped the man with the cows. Fresh hay on my floor after it had been swept was the best feeling each day.
A hearts journey
Looking out over the land in front of her, Katrine could picture her father’s wagon coming down the path pulling his wagon. The wheels squeaking from the weight of his load. It had been four years now since he brought his last load home. She missed him. He must have gotten killed by man or beast, or perhaps he tired of the family and moved on. She had seen it happen to another family and tried to push the thought from her head. He had always been happy, She thought, he had been more than content when he was home. Her mother always smiled the brightest when he was home. She had not smiled in a long time. It was her turn to walk the path and bring home things of value to her family. Katrine climbed down from the edge of the wall her father had built around their home. She gathered her carry all with supplies. Food and water was essential for her survival so she carried it close to her body. Even with it wrapped up, creatures could smell it and follow her. She would have to be alert and careful the whole trip. She had done it once with her father and then a few times with her brother. Ando had married last month so he now had his own family to forage for. That left Katrine to fend for her and her mother.
The love of silk
As I take hold of my scissors and make that first snip in the measured, scoured silk, I am shaking in anticipation. I pull the silk apart in a straight tear from the first cut and hear that musical rip. Almost like the silk is singing for joy, knowing it soon will have dye to quench it’s thirst. I place each edge of the silk along the wooden frame and attach the stretch claws into the silk, allowing the elastic to pull it tight. With each claw from one side of the frame to the other, I weave back and forth until all sides of the frame are tight with the silk. The silk shimmers as it is held tight waiting for the first drop of resist and then I begin. Line by line I draw out my pattern, and as the resist sinks into the silk it dries as a solid barrier to hold in the dye. I wait in anticipation for the resist to dry, all the while mixing my dye colours near. Making the silk quiver with envy and want. Then the moment has come, I hold my brush over the silk and let it touch the silk ever so gently. The dye races along each thread and tries to reach beyond the resist lines with no success. It flows along the edge of the resist hoping to continue but it is cut short by the defined resist pattern. Each drop of dye held in its confined place is left to dry. Then as I bring yet another brush over it the two colours mix and create another. The silk is happy to be so wet and alive. I will let it dry and then steam it over hot water to set the dye in. A simple washing by hand will remove the resist and leave crisp white lines because the dye has been set and the silk cannot move it. I will add quilt batting and fabric and sew some quilt stitches along those crisp white lines. To create depth and define that which the silk helped to design. There is a canvas waiting to be covered and put on display. A silk that is coloured, quilted and stretched over the canvas beneath will be proudly watching people pass and say it is wonderful thing. The silk is complete and though it doesn’t know the picture it holds, the audience sees it and marvels at such a blend of colour and design.
My world is, well boring. I don’t know how else to describe it. Nothing happens here. It’s not like the old earth. My Dad would tell my brother and I stories of old earth. How it was so worn out and depleted of anything useful, that they had to start salvaging space junk just to build the ships to get us to this world. Stories of war and how there was always someone trying to control everyone. He told us of stories people made up, of aliens from other worlds coming to save the world. It never happened, but people wanted it so bad.