maryland sheep & wool

I have just about recovered enough to write about the experience, which can be summed up in one word:

WET.

(How wet was it? It was so wet that my 13 yo teenager forgot about the cool factor and wore a neon-yellow, too-small plastic poncho in a vain attempt to keep part of his body dry. In fact, he even thanked me for bringing it along for him to wear. My head nearly exploded from the astronomical unlikelihood of these two events, but, luckily, was contained by the hood of my own neon-yellow, too-small plastic poncho.)


Some other words that come to mind: MUD. And RAIN. And even CHILLED TO THE BONE. If you were there, especially on Sunday, you know whereof I speak. Here is an illustrative photo, in case words aren't painting a clear enough picture for you:




That's Terzo under a poncho that was a wee bit big on him. He looked like a little blue gnome walking around, but at least he was mostly dry.

When it wasn't raining, the weekend also included lots of fire, much to my boys' delight. (They were particularly enamored of the power of fire starter fluid, which brought Olivia's recent post to mind.) They spent lots of time supervising and poking the logs with sticks and throwing in napkins and cardboard.

With fire, comes S'Mores:

And More S'Mores:

And Some More S'Mores:

When I managed to tear them away from the campground, I had little time or dry enough socks to browse all the fibery goodness at the festival. That's OK, I tend to be like a deer caught in headlights at these events. My brain goes on sensory overload and mimics Homer Simpson with drool coming out of the side of his mouth. ("Yarn and fiber..." *insert Homer's drooling noise here*) Instead of loading up on more stash booty, much to my LSH's relief, I worked the ACR booth, wasted what little money I made in the booth on limeades, kettle corn and lamburgers, and was recognized for being the blog stalker that I am (keep paging down her entry, I am there in all my star-struck glory!)

My LSPs (Long Suffering Parents) were forced to cook on a campfire, take boys on uncharted wilderness trails, sleep in a cabin with rock-hard beds, and rescue the ACR booth with a well-placed tarp on Sunday. Unfortunately the rain had waterlogged my brain by this point. I completely forgot that I had a camera to document our attempts to throw a rope over the tent so we could situate the much-needed tarp over the top. We nearly wet our pants laughing but no one would have realized -- we were already soaked. To illustrate, see Terzo's pants, in spite of the poncho:

Tomorrow: I'll reveal what followed me home. Hint: Her name is Abigail. And no, Mrs. C., it is not a sheep.

* I tried to figure out how to spell that noise, but couldn't come up with anything and realized I had never seen it in print. I googled it for a quick and easy answer. Turns out, it has been the source of much debate and many suggestions, which is pretty amazing all by itself.

crafty vs creative

I have been thinking about the difference between being crafty and being creative for the past few days. I think they are two very separate concepts.

Being crafty relates to enjoying what your hands can create. The description in Proverbs 31:13 perfectly defines a crafty person: "She looks for wool and flax, and works with her hands in delight." (No disrespect meant to crafters who choose other mediums; the basic idea is the same whether you are looking for paper or fabric or cakemix.) I will freely admit that I am crafty. Very crafty. Good at doing crafts.

But creative, not so much.* Being creative, the art of coming up with something completely new and different out of the nether regions of your brain, involves things like original thought and innovation. Breanna stopped by the office yesterday; her artwork is the output of a truly creative mind.

I am more of a follower of patterns and directions, and this is where I think the line in the sand is drawn. If you are the kind of person who says things like "well, I didn't like how the neckline looked on that sweater so I changed it and added a hood and a zipper up the front" then you are creative, never mind that you started out with someone else's pattern. If you are the kind of person -- and I am firmly in this camp -- that says "wait a minute, this doesn't quite look right, I need to go on ravelry and find out how someone else has solved this problem" then you are crafty. It's not a bad thing to be, and you still can manage to turn out a lot of amazing handiwork, but it sometimes has its limitations.

Lately, though, I have left my crafty comfort zone and wandered into creative territory. An idea bubbled up from the nether regions of my brain about a year ago. I have carried around a little notebook with me since then as I worked out the details. My goal was to have the product in the ACR booth at Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival this weekend, as I had purchased a share of the space. With my feet to the proverbial fire this week, I finally huffed and puffed and pushed and groaned and complained and gave birth to**... Card'n' Wool*** greeting cards.

("happy birthday to ewe")

("sorry to hear you're under the wether")

There are quite a few different ones and I keep coming up with more ideas while I work. For now, however, I am working like crazy trying to get the last few ready for sale. I am almost nauseous with nerves and I think I am having palpitations. I usually don't put myself out there like this, and maybe all this stress is the downside to this creative gig.

I can't imagine how nervous I am going to be this weekend when the cards are finally on display for everyone to see. Come visit me in the ACR booth, if you are in the neighborhood. I'll be there both mornings, and I promise not to puke all over your shoes.

* Certain readers (*cough* my mom *cough*) may argue that I am, in fact, creative, but she's my mom and her judgment has its blind spots where one's own offspring are concerned.

** Many, many thanks are due to the Occasional Domestic and Livestock Overseer's sister, who loaned me a graphic tablet, showed me the rudiments of Adobe Photoshop Elements, and kept insisting that it would be better to make a template. She was right. Many, many thanks are also due to my BFF who somehow always gets stuck helping me in the clutch.

*** My LSH came up with the name in about three seconds flat. I hemmed and hawed for three days and didn't come up with anything nearly as creative or clever.

state of chaos

Everyone, please update your address books. It appears that we have moved here permanently.

It seems that getting our entire upstairs painted in one fell swoop was not enough crazy for us. We decided that the 80s-era pink carpeting had to go as well. This decision made perfect sense while we had everything torn up for the painting job. It turns out, however, that you cannot snap your fingers and get carpeting installed the next day, unless you are willing to settle for cardboard. We had to wait just long enough for sanity to be somewhat restored, and then rip it all out again.

Except this time, we decided to take things up a notch. This time, we had to empty every bedroom and the storage closet, all at the same time, plus all the bureau drawers. So let's take a little tour of our house, aka the asylum.

The family room and front hall:



The living room and dining room:



The boys' bathroom and our tub:



(To answer the inevitable question: there is no hardwood flooring under the carpet. The house was built in the 80s. There is just plywood, although we were pleasantly surprised to find out that the builder (who was also the original owner) had installed a noise barrier under the carpet. Given the bone-rattling noise my boys can generate up there, I can only imagine how much worse it would be without the soundproofing.)

My LSH was musing about the cost of getting fairies to come in and sprinkle fairy dust and magically get it all back together again. For my part, I have spent the past two days ranting and raving about how much junk we have (I may have even used the word "crap" once or twice) and threatening that only 50% will be allowed back in the rooms. This has caused widespread wailing and gnashing of teeth from my boys who, of course, don't play with 90% of it anyway.

And did I mention that I am taking the boys camping this weekend for Maryland Sheep & Wool Festival? Not quite sure how I'm going to pull that off. I need some of those magic fairies myself.

photoshoppin'

Darn you, Pioneer Woman.

Darn you, Country Doctor's Wife.

Thanks to your blogs, I have learned never to be satisifed with my crummy pictures. No matter how poorly composed, no matter how badly lit, no matter how out of focus, you have taught me that through the magic of Photoshop, I should be able to fix them no matter what. (Plus I have also learned that I will never be as clever and witty as you, never never, but that is a little self-pitying blog entry for a different day.)

Before, I was just resigned to my photographic fate. Now, despite fiddling with backlight and frontlight and fill light and flashlight and stoplight and penlight, I am filled with the disquieting sense that I could be doing much so better, if only I knew how.

Never mind that I am still starting with the same crummy photos. I am convinced that has absolutely nothing to do with it.

Here's this morning's effort: a close-up of the ties on an antique umbrella swift we bought in Vermont this past summer. I love the way that the ties are all different; that's what made me fall in love with this swift. This was clearly a well-used tool, repaired with whatever was at hand as time went on.

Here is the original shot:

And here is my photoshopped version:

Yeah, I don't see much difference, either. But I'll probably continue to flail vainly away at my photographic efforts regardless, on the futile quest to transform them into something different altogether. Not unlike this blog, come to think of it.

free at last

It's officially over. Done. Finis.

As of tonight, I am no longer tutoring high school kids. I am sure this is especially good news for (1) those of you who have had to listen to me complain about it for the past few years, and (2) those of you who have been nagging me to quit for the past few years. You know who you are.

I will miss the kids -- well, some of them -- but I will not miss the weekend and evening hours. I will not miss working all day in my LSH's office to run out the door to work some more that evening. I will not miss trying to coordinate my schedule with my LSH's to make sure that one of us is available for sports and activity pickups. Most of all, I will not miss missing games and shows and concerts and, most especially, dinner with my family.

I have had to remind myself of this several times this past week, as tying up loose ends has become a bit trying. Is there ever a perfectly smooth and graceful exit out of a job? I guess the nature of leaving itself pretty much precludes everyone you are leaving from being all happy about the situation. If they were happy about the situation, then I guess that would be a pretty bad sign for you.

Long past time for me to start focusing on my contributions to the American Coopworth Registry booth at the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival next weekend, plus the boys' entries into the various competitions. I have four days -- plenty of time, right? Please don't answer that. As usual, I am trying to warp the time/space continuum in my favor. At least I don't have to worry about tutoring as well.

weed killer

As part of a course on pasture management I am currently taking (more about that some other time), we received this book:

After careful perusal, my LSH and I determined that we have significant populations of about 90% of the plants pictured in the book. Our property is a veritable weed haven, with healthy and vigorous populations that would have greatly simplified the job of the book's photographers: they could have come over here and knocked out the photos in a few short hours. My LSH proposed that the course managers pay us a small fee to have the attendees troop around and see the book's samples live and up close.

Our weed population has met its match, however. My LSH received a large and mysterious box via UPS on Wednesday. I am not sure how he restrained himself, but he managed to hold off on assembling it until last night.

The days of the weeds are officially numbered.

And the boys are suitably impressed -- just look at those faces and eyes, equipment like this is what kicks testosterone into high gear -- though they do keep a respectful distance.

They are also being kept busy maintaining the bucket and hose brigade, because my LSH is employing a take-no-prisoners approach.

Maybe "scorched earth" would be a even more fitting description of his method.

But he should be consulting the book a bit more often; those green shoots were not a weed! Not a weed!

I don't think the following was a weed, but to tell the truth, I can't tell at this point.

The best part, in my opinion, is the instruction manual. After cautioning the operator to always keep a fire extinguisher handy, it ends a long litany of various behaviors to be avoided by stating "If in doubt, don't do it."

Wise advice indeed. As a matter of fact, I have decided that this will be my mantra of advice for the boys' teenage years, as it is applicable to almost any situation a teenage boy might find himself in. I had my first opportunity to trot it out today when discussing some less-than-ideal behavior with Primo. Of course, the flaw is that the advice presumes that there will be doubt to begin with, but a mother has to have some sort of faith that her nagging and badgering all these years has made a dent in those egos. Let's hope it gets them through. I am starting to get a little worried, myself.

murder most foul

I have had this little stuffed red velvet lion, named Herbie, for as long as my memory serves. (All evidence to the contrary, my memory is sometimes longer than two days ago.) As far as Herbie goes, I think I got him as a gift from a little old Italian lady when I was around four years old. He has been accused of being worn out and ordinary and misshapen and even butt ugly, but he stuck with me through childhood moves to several states and another country; to all my college dorm rooms; and into marriage and all our various apartments and houses.

And today, Herbie came to the end of his long life, with his sawdust stuffing brain (that's how old he is! older than laws regulating the stuffing in children's toys!) spread all over my office floor. Don't look at the following photo if you have a weak stomach. It is quite disturbing.

This is the accomplice, who doubtless snuck up onto my chest of drawers, where Herbie lived in a place of honor, and brought him downstairs. From the look on her face, you can tell she is contemplating the fate of her next victim.

And here is the guilty party. Forget the "innocent until proven..." part. I found Herbie clutched in his jaws, as he unsuccessfully tried to hide his act under a cone of plastic.

I strongly suspect Dustry is trying to get back at me for the additional sentence he received today of five more days in the collar. He also peed all over the stairs and foyer floor. Apparently, it's war.