Pink, lilac, sky blue, sunny yellow & minty green... Yes...Spring is almost here!
Eggs are everyday reminders of new life. Little Baby Chicks Even our gardens are showing new signs of life... Sunny yellow daffodils Purple Crocus Golden Forsythia
The sweet little girl is my husband's Mother, Anne . The photo was taken in the 1930s. She is such a loving and wonderful Mother-in-love. My bedroom is a peaceful respite decorated in powder blue, soft pink and buttery yellow.
I love sewing. One of my favorite things to make are Heirloom baby garments. I, especially, love Christening Gowns. Soft white batiste, dainty pin tucks and embroidery. What treasured keepsakes they make.
"Desert Rose" from my sweet Gramma. I have many fond memories of family gathered around Gramma and Grampa's table on Easter Sunday. She always served us on her beautiful Franciscan Ware.
A pretty little Rose teacup and saucer from my Mother.
Vintage touches... Lace that my Gramma crocheted Vintage plates from my thrifting adventures.
This pretty little cream and sugar are thrifted. I love the feminine touch they give my cottage shelf.
A tiny little tea cup Yes...Anotherthrifted treasure!
And now for a SNEAK PEEK!
I've been having fun working on something special for the Easter Swap. Can you guess what I'm making?
There's no doubt that our culture is a consumer culture. With the wide variety of goods available, and greater amount of money to spend at leisure and on non-necessities, young singles like me with greater stretch in their spending power particularly tend to drop a lot of cash.
It surprises me how often my, and our, activities revolve around purchasing. Get bored: spend an hour or so at the mall, and end up buying some item of clothing you neither need nor really want. Go out with friends: drinks or a meal plus tip and you've just spent times what you would if you made it at home. A movie will cost you 6 bucks minimum, and that latte you crave, more than four dollars for twenty minutes' caffeinated pleasure. See an ad, and you're subtly but powerfully convinced, especially as you think about it, that you have a new "need" you never realized before.
Marketing, and our culture, focuses on creating a want and then compelling you to spend your money to satisfy that want. Whether it's a specified product or just a general attempt to fill some psychological need with the latest techy toy or newest shoes, we always seem to feel we need more.
Of course, I would say it's more than simply cultural: it's a product of human nature. "The lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life", as an older translation of the Bible puts it, is still alive.
I've been thinking about this a lot lately, as a spending freeze forced on me by current joblessness and the expenses of Christmas has kept me from spending anything but the bare minimum. It's made me realize how much I carelessly drop a few dollars here, several dollars there: and how many of my daily activities revolve around money. I tend to spend as much as I have. That is to say, if I have money in the bank I don't see any problem with a mocha latte, or a gratuitous trip to Goodwill to find some funky vintage clothing; but the truth is that I have no savings account and many of my purchases are impulsive, ill-thought-out, and completely unecessary.
Much of the time I feel vaguely guilty when I spend, but can often rationally justify it. It wasn't really that much, I do deserve a few pleasures, I'm generous to others, and so on. But in reality, when the rubber meets the road and I'm jobless and penniless, were any of those purchases greater value than a fuller bank account now would be? Did they demonstrate foresight, or simply living for the moment?
I don't have any real answer; I'm rambling, simply because it's a problem I'm facing and I'm not sure of the answer. It can't be simply an ascetic avoidance of all purchases and a fanatical counting of every penny; but at the same time, I recognize a need for more discipline and restraint than I've hitherto exercised. What the answer will be, I'm not sure. I'm as much in need of grace with this as with anything.
"For unto us a child is born, for unto us a Son is given. And the government will be upon His shoulder. And His name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, Almighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace." Isaiah 9:6-7Heart felt wishes to all my blogging friends and family! Please take a moment to enjoy this Ode To Joy!
"Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee" God of Glory, Lord of love; Hearts unfold like flow'rs before thee, Op'ning to the sun above. Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; Drive the dark of doubt away; Giver of immortal gladness, Fill us with the light of day!
All Thy works with joy surround Thee, Earth and heav'n reflect Thy rays, Stars and angels sing around Thee, Center of unbroken praise. Field and forest, vale and mountain. Flow'ry meadow, flashing sea, Singing bird and flowing fountain Call us to rejoice in Thee.
Thou are giving and forgiving, Ever blessing, ever blest, Wellspring of the joy of living, Ocean depth of happy rest! Thou our Father, Christ our Brother, All who live in love are Thine; Teach us how to love each other, Lift us to the joy divine.
Mortals, join the happy chorus, Which the morning stars began; Father love is reigning o'er us, Brother love binds man to man. Ever singing, march we onward, victors in the midst of strife, Joyful music leads us Sunward In the triumph song of life. Henry J. Van Dyke 1907
Have a wonderful Christmas celebration! Blessings, Carolynn xoxo
In the coming week I will be linking with several of my favorite blogs. Many of them host weekly parties. I'd love for you to stop by my sidebar to linkup with them and say hi!
Welcome to my Cottage Guest Room... Last April I posted just a few photos of this room. I have added several more. My April 24, 2012 has been my "most viewed" post with 2385 views.
There's nothing like a good nights sleep. My desire is for my guests to sleep well and wake up refreshed.
I love all things vintage! I found this old chair in an antique store in Lebanon, Tennessee. It's the perfect place to squirrel away with a good blog.
To protect the little woven husk stool that belonged to my husband's grandparents I slipcovered it in a minty green toile. The images are from my favorite nursery rhyme... "Hey Diddle Diddle...The Cat and the Fiddle".
"Precious Moments" Each one has been a thoughtful gift from my family and friends.
"Star light, Star bright, First star I see tonight. I wish I may I wish I might To have this wish I wish tonight."
"Sweet Dreams"
"Chloe's Quilt" My sweet kitty, Chloe was only with me five years. She suffered kidney failure. I made this small quilt for her. She loved to curl up and nap on it. I miss her!
Collecting and displaying vintage children's clothing is something I love to do.
"For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, That whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life" John 3:16
I love soft, cuddly chenille. That's the reason why I named my blog "Chenille Cottage".
I made this Teddy Bear with my favorite 1930 Aunt Grace's reproduction fabrics.
Lilac Lace curtains A Lavender and white quilt Rose colored lighting
I found this sweet doll cradle several years ago. It needed a little TLC. It soon became the perfect place for a few of my favorite things. A chenille pillow Quilted teddy bear Several small quilted pillows and my 1950 baby picture.
"Birdhouses" This miniature quilt is something I made several years ago. I enjoy displaying it in the Spring.
Something soft for your toesies!
"Corner Cubby" Each item on all the shelves was thrifted. One of my favorite things to do is to spend time hunting for treasures in my local thrift shops.
The beautiful hobnail bedspreads were thrifted. I paid $8 for each one.
I love kitties!
Sittin pretty!
My gentle little grey tabby cat, Schlomo.
"May Day Basket" May your day be filled with joy!
Thank you for popping in and visiting, my dear family and friends.
It's slightly gutsy to open a restaurant on a semi-abandoned block in downtown Regina that has seen its share of restaurants come and go over the years.
But entrepreneur Astrid Baecker did exactly that two years ago when renovations at 1822 Broad Street got underway. After sitting empty for a few years, the building was looking in pretty rough shape when things got started. Within a few months Baecker and her team added plenty of shine.
What's now known as Bitten used to be home to Gingerz. Before that it was a satellite location of India House for a matter of months. And wayyy before that it was New Orleans. And that's all the history I know of the place.
The room itself, long and narrow with a balcony looking over the main floor, is an awkward shape for a restaurant. That being said, Bitten has made things work by modernizing the colour scheme and placing high-top tables with bar stools on the main floor that can be easily moved around to accommodate groups of all sizes.
The second floor balcony is cozy and closer to the bar. If drinking is your main reason for visiting Bitten, sit upstairs.
The menu has grown over the last two years. It's now several pages long and covers a surprisingly wide range of cuisines. If you want Asian, Bitten does that. If you want Italian, Bitten does that. If you want Cajun, they do that too. While the variety is nice, the menu lacks focus overall. Some of the appetizers, like the stuffed mushroom caps, seem like a throwback to the '80s.
On the other hand, appetizers come in very generous portions. Some might even find them large enough to be a meal. They definitely make for good sharing in a group.
As for the rest of the food, it's generally good. Some entrees, like a Surf and Turf I had around Valentine's Day in 2009, lacked flavour. However, the pizzas and salads are filling, tasty, and priced just right.
I've been to Bitten five or six times in the last two years and the service has always been good, no matter the server. Service isn't always lighting fast, but it's attentive. And Bitten isn't really the type of place you go for a speedy meal.
I can't finish this review without talking about dessert. Bitten's motto, after all, is "Life is Short... Have Dessert First."
The menu features a whole page of desserts to choose from, all of them made in-house. Bitten does a good job of classics like the Creme Brulee and Creme Caramel. The Mascarpone Toffee Parcels were delish when I tried them a few months back. I haven't had Bitten's version of Sticky Toffee Pudding just yet, but that's next on my list.
My advice: check Bitten out if you haven't been, or if it's been awhile. It's worth supporting a local eatery that's breathing life into our downtown core.
I have a habit of storing plastic bags, and, when I go to the supermarket to do my shopping, taking them along with me. This is to prevent myself receiving fifty gazillion more each and every time I shop which will carry my groceries for perhaps ten minutes between the store and my house and then go into a landfill somewhere to do their bit to clog up the biosphere for ten million years (do plastic bags ever break down?). This way, the idea goes, I will be doing my bit to save the environment and put a tiny finger in the very leaky dam that stands in the way of the flood of thousands and millions and trillions of plastic bags leaving supermarkets every day. Every day. Think of it. Think of how many they give you, then multiply that by how many people shop at your supermarket, and contemplate the staggering amount of plastic bag wastage that goes on at one supermarket alone. Then multiply that by all the stores in the world and, well—it's frightening.
I severely miss the supermarket I shopped at in Toronto, which charged you 5 cents per plastic bag. The bags were capacious and sturdy and if you had forgotten to bring some of your own, it was worthwhile buying a few because they could be stored up at home for the next trip or used as dandy garbage bags. Failing that, there was a helpful stash of empty cardboard boxes that produce and the like came in to be had for the taking, if you were driving or had the African habit of carrying things on your head. This served very nicely to keep to an absolute minimum the number of plastic bags leaving the store, and to encourage everyone to bring their own and to stuff them as fully as possible. It was a brilliant system. And since most of the people who shopped there were recent immigrants from India, Africa, the Middle East, China and the Caribbean, who knew about economy and whose cash flow was generally not overwhelming, people followed it scrupulously.
But, sadly, there is no supermarket like it, that I know of, in this area.
And so, at the checkout registers of the supermarkets, plastic bags flow as freely as water. Buying a pack of gum? Put it in a plastic bag. Bread? Has to go by itself in another plastic bag. Cans? Three of 'em will be put into a double-bagger. By the time it's over, fifty dollars' worth of groceries has procured you fifty bags to boot.
Most people are quite happy with this system. They stroll with their trollies stuffed full of bags to the car and take them home where presumably they keep some of them for cat litter and garbage bags and, I don't know, throw out the rest? I can't imagine one household creating a demand for that many plastic bags in one week, ever.
Cashiers and bag boys like giving you plastic bags. It is what they are used to. Your purchases can be swiftly and easily deposited into bags using the neat little hanging system they have by their counter and hoisted into your trolley for takeaway. They know by heart what things should go into what bags and how many things to put in each bag and what to double-bag and what needs to go by itself. They like their little system. It is safe, predictable, easy, quick, and they can do it without thinking. I don't blame them. It's their job.
And then along come I to put a monkey wrench into the works.
Because I politely request that they use the plastic bags that I've brought. Or if it's just one or two items I just say, "I don't need a bag, thanks." Most of the time they are in the midst of swift and automatic movement to deposit my purchases into a bag. And they have to stop, and re-calculate. And look at me as if either I've grown three heads and announced that I'll be commuting home in my spaceship, or as if they've had to take their brains out of park to deal with me and they are not very happy with the disruption to their routine.
Most of the time, they will politely comply. However, this is with varying degrees of success. Often, the bag boys don't realize that the giant canvas bag I carry my bags in is actually a BAG, and thus capable of stowing groceries in. So once I had a kind but befuddled bag boy give me new plastic bags in lieu of using the canvas one, which he folded neatly and returned to me. Once I told a cashier I didn't need the bag she'd put my purchase in, only for her to turn around and throw it out (I suppose it was unusable after holding a fleece jacket for all of three seconds).
Last time I went shopping, the cashier, who hadn't heard my request, swiftly stuffed the few remaining items the bag boy hadn't yet gotten to into three new plastic bags. Then, the bag boy, now having two of my original bags left over, kindly put them into ANOTHER plastic bag for me to take home! I was staggered. I don't know what kept me from saying anything because it lurched forward out of my protesting brain and then somehow got stopped at my tongue. I suppose it's fear of making a public scene, or being perceived as peculiar and idiosyncratic, or of annoying someone who is doing you a service by requesting them to do it in the manner you actually desire. Whatever it was, I didn't say anything, but I carefully and vengefully left those three or four extra bags in the trolley when I returned it. I don't know what happened to them. Probably they just got thrown out. But at least it wasn't me who did it.
We spent the day amongst the flowers as a group of new friends, talking, laughing and making. We became better acquainted and pledged to do it again. I hope that we do. That evening I went home, felt lucky to have new friends and put Fleetwood Mac on the record player. The perfume of the flowers still fills my home, nearly a week later, making me inhale deeply and smile each time I enter the room. Sunday past, Anna kindly invited us into her home where we sat in (what felt like) the early Spring sunshine and commented on how welcoming her home was; filled with the scent of delicious food cooking in the oven and her son's artwork adorning the walls. Anna is a warm and wonderful soul who I am so glad to have met since leaving London, making this town a little more friendly each day. Meanwhile Charlotte showed us how to work with flowers (in this case all British grown, from The Great British Florist) to produce some always pretty and undeniably feminine flower crowns. Charlotte is a natural teacher, I could listen to her for days while she creates and talks... funny, clever and talented. Michelle dutifully (and without complaint) took all our photos while we tried to pose and seem professional, although it mainly ended in awkward smiles and embarrassed expressions. Ok, that was just me, but still... The photos above of Anna (top right), Charlotte (top left) and myself are all taken by Michelle. I really think she is an incredible photographer. She did not lose her patience once, even when I was clearly unbearable in front of the camera. Michelle is one of those classically beautiful and charming women that I am so happy to call a friend (and she carried off a stack of flower crowns like no other as evidenced in the photo of her above, taken by Anna). (All other photos are mine, taken with my iPhone.) I truly loved meeting everyone else for the first time too. Jo, Natalie, Elena , Hannah & Katie; what a great bunch of ladies to spend a day with!
He's gone. The most beautiful, wonderful, happiest, most loving cat in the whole entire world, is gone.
"No longer with us." That's the phrase Julie, his owner used. She called me at work today to let me know. "I've got some bad news," she said. I immediately stiffened. "Are you ready?" "I don't know," I responded, holding tight to the phone. She went on to tell me anyway in a voice resigned with sorrow. "Mugsy's no longer with us," she said.
I knew when she said it was bad news it had to be one of the cats. Mugsy or Bruno, his brother, but I suspected it would be Bruno. With his more adventurous habits, we had more than once commented that he was in danger of being hit by a car as he crossed the road.
"You're joking," I said. She was not. She proceeded to relate the story. February 11, one day after her birthday, a woman came to the door crying and asking if they owned a gray cat because she had just hit one. It was Mugsy.
Julie said that he had looked perfect, completely unmangled, as if nothing had happened to him. They laid his still-warm body down on a grassy knoll and prayed over him for a long time, but he didn't revive.
Mugsy. "The joy of the farm, the most wonderful cat in the world," Julie called him, and it was true.
She hadn't wanted to tell me on Sunday when she saw me in church (I was in Canada the day that it happened). I had asked after Mugsy and she'd said, "He's fine, as ever," with a nervous laugh. And I'd asked how Bruno was. "With his habit of crossing the road, I keep being afraid I'll hear bad news about him," I remarked. I now wonder how she kept a straight face.
I can hardly believe that he's gone. I can hardly believe that when I go back to the farm (and I am afraid to now), I won't be able to call, "Here, kitty, kitty," and see his smiling gray face bounding toward me as he runs full tilt to throw himself at me, in the rapturous way he had that made you feel like the most special person in the world. I won't feel the gentle pressure of his wet nose and soft cheeks as he "kisses" me cat-style by rubbing his face against mine. I won't feel his sturdy squirming body cuddled in my arms, or hear his thunderous purr, or feel his ever-active claws pricking my skin as he kneads my arm. I won't feel the softness of his long fine gray fur, or watch as he jumps on his brother, tackles him, and bites his neck. I won't be able to see him crazily whirling and jumping after dragonflies or leaves, the former of which he rarely if ever caught. I won't hear his "miaow" from somewhere in the rafters as he wends his way through the tangle of the barn roof, or the scrabbling and thud as he falls off something. I won't hear his frantic and rapid paw-scratching on the glass door as he stretches himself up and works away in a desperate bid to be let in the house. I won't be able to watch the funny way he jumps off my lap and runs to investigate the sudden water stream released by the bathroom pipe outlet. I won't see his intense and love-filled green eyes staring into mine. He was always smiling, always happy, always totally in the moment, always the clown, always loving. The most wonderful cat in the world is no longer with us.
Julie said they kept him for a few days while they waited for warm weather to bury his body. She didn't want to burn him. She hasn't yet found a good stone to mark his grave.
Why is it always the best ones that go? And why did it have to be by car? Mugsy always (I thought) stuck close to the house. He was terrified of cars. If one started up while he was in the vicinity, he would run. If you were holding him and a car went by on the road, he'd tense to flee. If it was in the driveway, you'd have a very tough job holding him as he scrambled desperately to escape. Bruno, his gentle brother, was the one who crossed the road. If either of them got hit, we thought it would be Bruno. In fact (ironically now) I always consoled myself that at least if we lost one, it would be Bruno (not that I didn't love him but I had a fiercer affection for Mugsy).
In the end it doesn't matter. Mugsy's gone, I hope he did not suffer and never knew what hit him. He will never adorn the farm anymore as its liveliest and lovingest denizen. Its smiling sunny fields and (to him) endless possibilities for amusement and play will be emptier and sadder now.
And I have lost a dear and wonderful friend.
I do hope cats get to heaven. Because if they do, the first one I want to see there is Mugsy.
Sometime in the last half-century (or more accurately probably, in the last decade), one of your number awoke from a lobotomy (or direct physical attack to the head, or alien abduction, or something equally drastic), and thought, "Low-waisted trousers! The next thing in fashion!"
And somehow, out of all the hare-brained and idiotic ideas which are perpetrated in fashion designers' heads and parade down runways thankfully never to be seen again in the world of humankind, this one survived. And made its way to every single tiny little clothing store on the planet, to become de rigeur for jeans and trousers of every cut. That is, if they are designed for anybody under fifty.
And now, thanks to this unknown genius, it is impossible to buy pants which have more than about two inches of waist. There is not only low, but ultra-low and super-low. And you have no choice but to succumb to this ridiculousness, if you want to buy trousers which are Not Dorky.
Standing up, they rest directly on what I believe are known as the pubic bones. Which is all very well and good. Until you attempt sitting down or bending over, upon which they slide down nicely to reveal about fifteen inches of skin, half of your underwear, and certain anatomical details I won't describe except to say they are commonly known by the same name as those lines that occur at regular intervals in the sidewalk.
Which may be fine for some people. I, however, subscribe to the old-fashioned theory that clothing is actually supposed to cover you. When I buy pants, I want them to be pants. Not leg covers. Anything less may be called Decorative Bits of Hanging for the Human Body, but not clothing. And I don't want to shell out my hard-earned money for it.
There must be other people in the world who find it ironic that trousers cover every single inch of your leg, but up top, where it really counts, they leave you hanging. Literally.
So: Messrs. and Mesdames Fashion Industry, a plea: please, please, by all the Fashion Power invested in you by goodness knows who, would you please come to your senses and determine that the next thing in fashion is going to be jeans with normal waistlines! That are actually cool! That are marketed to people younger than fifty! That cover you not only when you are standing upright but in every other possible contortion of the human body! I'm not talking about the above-the-belly-button styles that were popular up until the eighties, but it would be nice to come closer to that ideal.
Good sense, and irritated consumers everywhere, demand it of you.
