I try


My house is loaded with quilts.  Some I made, some I purchased, some were made by friends, some were made by women far across the sea.  Some are on beds; some are draped across chairs or couches; some are used as table coverings; some are hanging in various ways, in various rooms.  A few are strictly for the use of Sheiky…the dog.  And then, there are numerous UFOs – the quilting term for those projects that made it to a certain point, and reside there, possibly forever – UnFinished Objects.

I am an enthusiastic quilter, as my fabric stash demonstrates.  I have made incredibly complex patterns, and turned simple patterns into something complex due to my fabric choices.

I’m good at choosing fabric and stitching the quilt tops.  At least, I was, prior to a brain problem during the stem cell transplant in 2013, and the TIA last summer.  What I am not good at is putting the top together with the batting and the backing – called the quilt sandwich, and then stitching it all together – called the quilting.

Truthfully, when it comes to the actual quilting………………I suck.

Once or twice, I have taken my quilt top and backing to a quilt shop, and had them quilt it for me, on a machine called a longarm.  And I foresee this happening more frequently, although it is a pricey option, because:

I still want to quilt.

I’m not good at one major part of the process.  But the parts that I can do make me happy, most of the time.  Notice that I said “most” of the time.  I have been working on a monthly sew-along.  The pattern is extremely complex, and sometimes my brain just can’t figure it out.  Then, quilting doesn’t make me happy.

Sometimes I need to take a break, and pick up a totally different craft.  Most of those I do with an amateurish outcome.

Nevertheless, she persisted.


Time Changes

I hear, or read of, people who have had some life-threatening experience – be it illness or accident or natural disaster – who then see time completely differently.  I confess.  I am one of them…sorta.

I am married to an ardent amateur astronomer.  I gave birth to a daughter whose Bachelor DegreeS were in Astronomy, Physics, and Astrophysics.  Both of them are good teachers.  But I just cannot understand (insert deep male echo chamber voice):


I frequently fall asleep to the bedroom television tuned to the Science Channel, only to wake in the middle of the night to some world-class astronomer talking about some facet of (spooky voice again):


It’s not space.  It’s not time.  It’s both.  At the same time.  Or neither.  Or, or, or…

Or my alarm clock.

Mine died several months ago, and Bob bought one for me from K Mart.  From the first time we plugged it in, the time it displayed was inexplicable.  Hours fast, then slow.  Changing by tens of minutes one way or another, then back to hours.  Other than when we first set it, it has never maintained the correct time.

The obvious solution would have been to take it back for a new one.  Nope.  I have decided that my alarm clock actually exists in some other dimension, and the time it displays is actually (voice):


While Bob and Clair would discuss something scientific, Bob3 (son – I’ll explain another time) and I would invent fantasies or poetry.  Allegory and metaphor.  It was, and continues to be, the only way he and I could make sense of the science and math.

So “September Song”, whose lyrics name this blog.  (And please excuse the commercial at the beginning of the video.  I’m just learning this stuff – oh, Sophie!  Where are you when I need your 6-year-old computer expertise?)

I have always found it poignant.  More so, since the cancer.  But, is it a “long, long time” or do the “days dwindle down”?

As snobby as it sounds, time is just a human construct.  Otherwise, we would keep time based on sunrise and sunset – without segmenting the seasonal differences.  Parts of my life speed on.  I was told the average survival for my type of cancer was 5 years, and the average survival for the stem cell transplant was 4 years.  I am beyond both deadlines, and still here.  On the other hand, worries about my family, my country, the planet seem to go on and on, endlessly.  My life is fading fast and ploddingly slow at one and the same time.



…these few precious days

“…that’s just the way it is with the new normal.”

What the heck does that mean?

There is a current television commercial for a Detroit hospital, featuring a woman fully made up, with a lovely head of long-ish hair.  The commercial says that the hospital found “her” cancer.  In fact, it is not “her” cancer.  Rather, “she” is cancer’s.  Even after treatment is declared a success, she will always be cancer’s.  That’s just the way it is with the new normal.  And not to put too depressing a spin on it, but facing one’s mortality changes a person.  Am I frightened of the future?  NO!  But I do understand that there are fewer days to my future than there once were.  There are things I need to document.  Hence, this blog.