Once upon a time

Over the last few days, I've been doing a bit of a clean-up around the house. When I say cleaning-up, I mean in the sense reminiscing. That's the sort of tidying where one looks at lots of things, says ahhh .... I remember ... those were the days and puts everything back in the very same spot. Faux cleaning.

So far, I've cleaned up my childhood swap card collection, a large pile of fabric, my old university assignments and some baby clothes.

Now I have moved on to my high school artwork.



I studied art until the end of high school - there was a little bit of art history and lots of practical work. My finals involved submitting a folio for assessment. I chose to sketch and - disappointingly, but not surprisingly - the mark was quite ordinary.



Perhaps the examiners were thinking Art in the sense creativity and individuality, while I was thinking Art in the sense whew-that-was-a-narrow-escape-from-the-hard-work-of-physics. My kind of art was never going to set the world on fire.



But as I examine my folio pieces now, I do feel a bit wistful. I wish I still possessed some of the drawing skills I had back then. Its been a long time.



Looking at each piece is a little like looking a holiday photograph: I clearly remember being there; it was a happy time; but I might never make it back to such a faraway place.



But maybe ... with some hard work? (When I say hard work, I do mean in the sense sitting-on-the-couch-and-thinking-about-it.)

My creative space

I am joining in with Thursday's My Creative Space at Kootoyoo.

This week's space is filled with Burda World of Fashion magazines. I am looking for the right project to take to my dressmaking class, which resumes next Tuesday evening.

I would like something challenging this term. I've never sewn a collar on a stand or plackets before, so a coat or shirt would fit the bill.

Of course my grand plans have the potential to be derailed before I even get started. The magazine prints all its patterns one on top of the other and there are no seam or hem allowances. Let's see if I can get my pattern pieces ready before the end of term ...

Thank you very much Kirsty for hosting My Creative Space. Its great fun seeing what everyone is doing. To see who else is showing their creative space (or to join in), head over here.

The treasure

Something special has come to live at my place.



Her shiny surfaces gleam; gold decals, glint.

She smells pleasingly of machine oil. Her body is heavy and cool to touch.



She is functional, beautiful and has great sentimental value.



I remember her from my childhood; and my mother from hers.



Her serial number - EB409975 - reveals she was manufactured in 1937 at Singer's Killbowie factory in Clydebank, Scotland.

The hand-written note from my mum to me explains she was a gift from my grandad to my nan in 1938.



The simple lockstitch functionality belies her history. My nan - who was a wonderful seamstress - used this Singer 99K to sew everything from fairytale wedding dresses, delicate lingerie and couture-finished garments through to car seat covers and upholstery.

The machine has been in mum's possession since I was a child; used to make plenty of curtains and running repairs. I have always loved the smell of the machine oil, the curiosity of the knee press and the prettiness of the gold decals.

I hope I can continue to write her history.

Australia Day

This was view from my garden at 9:45pm this evening.



Fireworks are held nearby each year, to celebrate Australia Day.



They are so close, they look like our own private display.



The spectacle lasts about 10 minutes.



We are so lucky! I can't think of a more perfect end to the day.

Crack

Such disappointment. The heirloom Black Russians are not quite right.

Every one of them: soft, dimpled and curvaceous with a crack right up middle.

Only I could try for tomatoes and end up with ... bottoms.

Viva la rummage

For the purposes of this story my face has been pixelated and my voice modulated. You see, I am about to espouse civil disobedience.

Roll up, roll up! Its clearance time again: appliances, toys, building supplies, glassware, furniture and more. The January hard garbage collection has commenced in my municipality.

This twice yearly event, allows households to dispose of 6 cubic metres of waste per annum. By my rough calculation, our 59,000 households could fill 142 Olympic swimming pools. That's a lot of rubbish. Of course the reality is that the waste contractor will mulch, scrap and recycle parts of the refuse. I am sure that they will even make a little something on the side by on-selling things like metal.

But what about that perfectly good lamp shape that's been put out down the street? Or the nice little plastic kiddy car and basketball ring around the corner? They have landfill stamped all over them. And no matter how good they are, no one is supposed to rescue them. Its an offense; breaking of council by-law.

The council even have a dob-in-a-rummager hotline.

This kind of nonsense can only lead to lift-and-shift subterfuge. Personally I'd recommend going out at dawn or dusk. Wear a backpack. Or a trench coat with deep pockets. Maybe go walking with an empty pram. Or bring a van in the dead of night. If you'd like to be really safe, protect your identity by wearing ladies' pantyhose over your head (though not the ones you found in the hard garbage, because they probably belonged to Gladys down the street and she's a bit incontinent).

And remember: move on quickly if you see lace curtains moving or a porch light switch on. You don't want to be hearing back away from vintage Tupperware and put your hands in the air.

License

Being around children gives you license.

To wave to strangers travelling on trams.

To stare at the blokes who are resurfacing the road.

To do colouring-in with waxy crayons.

To play dress-ups.

To ride on the little train that operates at the shopping mall during school holidays.

And to muck around with glow sticks.

Tip: keep glow sticks in the freezer (this slows the reaction between the hydrogen peroxide and phenol, extending their life) so you can get a proper turn after the kids have gone to bed.

A visit to Hazel Green

The phone call came in December. There's a new shop in town, said my sister. I think you will like it. As she described it, I somehow knew I would indeed like it. Very much.

Then came the tantalising month's wait until my holiday in Hamilton.



I finally visited last week. Jackie's gorgeous retail space and workshop, Hazel Green, in regional Victoria is beautiful. So spacious and serene.

At one end are her divine handmade clothes, bags, quilts, cushions and dolls. At the other, the most delicious selection of yarn by Jo Sharp.

In between there's a nice big table where craft nights are held.



If you are in Hamilton, you really must drop in (be sure to look on the counter at the lovely vintage buttons).

Or perhaps you could pop by her new blog and say hi. Keep an eye out .... there are good things happening over there.



Hazel Green
73 Thompson Street
Hamilton, Victoria
Australia
Phone +61(3)55722278

www.hazelgreen.com.au

Summer holidays

We're home from our holiday*. We visited my sister in the beautiful Western District. It was lovely: a slow holiday with simple pleasures.

Pancakes for breakfast. A spot of kite flying. Trips to the playground. Dinner with delightful friends.

And making wishes at the wishing well (should I worry that one boy wished for ice cream, while his younger brother wished for money?)



Then there was a bit of strawberry picking (... we didn't eat any out in the field ... cross my heart).



And Mr HB joined us later in the week. We drove to a beautiful white sandy beach ....



... and made lots and lots and lots of sand castles (Mr Hoppo Bumpo worked like a man possessed .... do we think its connected to his childhood? He grew up by a shingle beach.)



On the last day we went to a little wool museum.

There was all manner of shearing paraphernalia to admire. I liked this middle shearing comb called the 'Moffat Virtue Trimmer' (.... its reassuring to know that there is a way of taming those embarrassing unruly virtues)



We tried a little hand spinning (my joy at thinking we had a future yarn artist in the family was dispelled when I noticed that there was actually a little reverse engineering going on).



And I mustn't forget my purchase from a gorgeous new place in town (more on Hazel Green next time).



Sadly all holidays come to an end.

We had such a lovely time. I must thank my sister who made us feel so welcome. Its not easy to have house guests who rise at 6.00am, spill food on the floor and think flatulence is hilarious. (But I do promise to be better behaved next time).



* The four hour drive there went swimmingly. I didn't make any wrong turns into pine plantations.

The ghosts of road trips past

This week I am taking Argy and Bargy on a road trip. We'll be packing the car and driving four hours west to a lovely regional town. But sans Mr Hoppo Bumpo.

Now I have to say that the children and I drive about frequently without Mr HB. We need to drive to get to the kindergarten. We sometimes drive to see friends on the other side of town. And often we have to drive to the supermarket to do the grocery shopping.

And every trip in recollection has been without incident.

But somehow, when I start thinking about the four hour bit I get just a little spooked. The ghosts of previous journeys - especially ones where I was the sole driver - haunt me.

So I've had my fair share of small passengers with their head in a bucket. Not so bad I guess - we've all been there.

Likewise, I guess most of us would have at some point driven 75km east instead of north. An easy mistake.

And haven't we all accidentally driven into a pine plantation and had to do a 43 point turn to get out ... with a trailer? Yes, I thought so.

But here I think my driving stories start to deviate.

Not so many people would have developed food poisoning ... whilst driving 200km on their own.

Or stopped their rental car for a nanna nap only to find that they didn't know how to get the car into reverse. (Its always handy to find the car manual before resorting to driving forward through a manicured garden bed).

And I guess even fewer would have found themselves on a busy English motorway, in a rental car that has the sunroof stuck in the open position. With rain pouring in. (Oh how I cried).

Yes, its a little hard to forget those trips. But this one should be different; better; tamer. Its a road traversed many times. And the same car that we take on the kindergarten run: one without a sunroof and where I have an excellent command of reverse.

And then there are the passengers - the same 3 and 4 year old that I travel with everywhere.

What could possibly go wrong?

See you again soon (unless we are lost in a pine plantation).

But darling, it will save us a fortune

Its Saturday evening and I am standing over my biggest stockpot. The apricots are bubbling, hissing and frothing furiously. The stone fruit is starting to sag and collapse, but no matter how far it reduces there's no doubting that there is going to be a sizable quantity of puree. Loads of apricot jam.

Mr Hoppo Bumpo has been surveying the situation from afar. I think I have detected an air of approval. The sort that might come, say, with thinking that making jam at home was saving us money.

Ahem.

Come closer. Lean in. I need to ask you something, but its imperative that Mr Hoppo Bumpo doesn't get wind of what we're talking about.

Is it just me or is the whole handmade/homegrown thing not always that economical?

For example, a cost comparison of a recent batch of homemade sauce resulted in parity with supermarket brands. Hmmpph. All that effort without a saving.

But worse, a look around reveals potential losses. The sums show that my meagre tomato crop has worked out at approximately $143.60 per kilogram. And that homemade cards cost about $37.20 each. Let's not even think about the clothes I have been sewing.

Its becoming evident that I need to find some kind of easy, well-paid employment to fund my homemade/homegrown drive ... and keep the pretence of making a saving.

I'll tell Mr Hoppo Bumpo its money for jam.

Lids and alerts and other innovations

I like dreaming up design ideas. You know, those little wouldn't-it-be-great-if thoughts - a fantasy building or engineering project.

Like the umbrella that attaches to the pram handle. Mumbrella: guaranteed to keep you and your bub dry, until that bus drives past and splashes a dirty great puddle on you. Or the rain alert. Danger, danger Will Robinson. Your washing is about to get wet. Or the lid for a cot. Watch him try and climb out now: mwha-haa-haa-haaa

The trouble with these ideas, is they are just that. Concepts. I've been blessed with little skill in the constructing-stuff-that-would-actually-work department.

So thankfully when I revealed my latest idea for a useful craft aide, Mr Hoppo Bumpo quickly stepped in and took over. He knows that my knowledge of electronics would fill little more than the back of a postage stamp.

You see, despite studying physics at school, I am inclined to think a circuit is something small children do of the house. Or a battery is something that occurs when my smalls get involved in a bit of biffo. And that watts are the relentless questions asked by three year olds.

So as Mr HB toils with the soldering iron and a small hacksaw and says exciting things like let's cannibalise the parts from this lamp, (more on this later) I am once again free to dream up new ideas.

Danger, danger Wil Robinson. Bus approaching. Put up an umbrella and put the lid on that pram.

Where did you come from?

Found in the park. My own little treasure.

A tiny piece of ceramic.
Rounded edge.
Blue and white glaze on both sides.

I wonder what it was?

Wanted: something that really sucks

Dear Messers Hoover, Wertheim, Dyson and Miele,

I wish to bring an important issue to your attention.

I understand the cyclone tunnel, upright barrel, cordless central backpack vacuum with nine foot hosed telescopic crevice wand is probably state-of-the-art.

After all it does pick up bowling balls without losing suction, should I happen to spill a bag of them on my floor.

But what of the simple things? How about thread?

I would like to see a vacuum that sweeps and beats without being lassoed and strangled. One that avoids the high pitched mechanical whine so synonymous with motor burnout. Something that avoids regular and somewhat unsavoury topsy-turvy surgery using a stitch unpicker.

We sewers need something that allows us to suck with confidence.

Yours sincerely,
Hoppo Bumpo

Eleventh night

Please complete the following statement.

"Christmas decorations should be ... "

(a) removed post haste on Boxing Day
(b) packed away around about New Year's Day
(c) taken down by Twelfth Night (5 January) to avoid bad luck
(d) left to the elements to see what stays up until next December
(e) banned

Frocking up

Making a frock: nervous, a bit.
The fabric is stretchy: a denim knit.
My pattern's a Butterick - 5206.
The bodice needs changing; a bit of a fix.
I've planned some darts, but will remove the zip.
(If I can't put it on, I'll feel a right drip!)
I'm making the waist somewhat thicker.
(Was it the chocolates and all that liquor?)
Now the time has come to cut and sew,
But I'm kind of hesitating, you know.
The good scissors were misused; no longer sharp
And the overlocker ... well, I don't mean to harp.
OK I'll admit it - I'm deliberately stalling.
My procrastination is really appalling.
Its just this you see: I've never made my own dress
And what if all those changes create a big mess?

Butterick 5206
Misses' dress, mid-knee length, has close-fitting mock wrap bodice, flared skirt, contrast binding, side zipper, sleeve variations and tie belt. Suitable for moderate stretch knits. (Available in sizes 8 - 24).
Pictured above with black denim-look knit and black and white gingham for contrast binding.

Making some adjustments

Warning: Puerile references to bosoms follow. (Writing of similar calibre to previous post on undies expected herewith.)

I'm not really one for new year's resolutions, but I always like to have a few goals to work toward. For example, I have a small checklist of sewing skills I'd like to acquire this year.
Let's see: there's sewing a collar on a stand. And constructing sleeve plackets. And maybe even setting lapped zippers into trousers.

But sitting prominently at the top of the list is "alter patterns to fit and flatter my body shape". My measurements are all over the place, meaning sewing straight from a pattern is about as futile as trying to buy off the rack. Alterations are not only desirable, but sadly necessary.

It appears that one of the most important techniques I need to learn is the Full Bust Adjustment (FBA). This allows you to select the size pattern that best fits your shoulders and upper chest and then alter the pattern around the bust-line.

The trouble is I am having trouble focusing on this alteration without a little blush and snicker. I don't feel I can discuss it in polite company. Its the terminology that gets me. All those high busts and apexes and the like. It sounds like we're dealing with mountain peaks ... which I guess is sort of the case when you are doing an FBA. Tee hee hee.

But can I come up with anything much better?

Chest Adjustment? No, no ... far too androgynous.

Bodice Augmentation? Too much like plastic surgery ... as in, I am just about to do a Pamela Anderson between my side seam and centre front.

How about Large Bosom Alteration? Hmm, no ... too matronly. It implies the sort of figure where a lace hanky might be poked down your ample cleavage.

And frankly Putting-In-A-Dart-To-Account-For-Your-Big-Norks is not really saying bespoke tailoring to me. No, no indeed ... that just sounds uncouth. Strike that one from the record.

So I guess its back to the FBA for now. I shall just have to have the occasional titter. Oooh, titter .... get it .... tee hee hee .... excuse me while I wipe my eyes with the lace hanky I just have handy here ...

At the end of the day

Brand new day. Brand new year. Brand new decade.
New goals and resolves. Changes afoot.
Bigger, better, brighter.

Pity the sun didn't know.
It set in the same old spot as yesterday.