Recently, someone who desires to become acquainted with her writings asked me which Jane Austen book to read first.
What a great question! I have been an Austen fan for many years, and have read most of her books more than once. Also, I am an avid collector and watcher of movies and videos made from Austen’s books. Here is my answer. Continue reading “Jane Austen Books and Videos”
Anthony Trollope lived during a time that produced several prolific writers. He and Charles Dickens shared similar traumatic, debt-ridden childhoods. However, striking differences in their environments guided their writing voices. Dickens came from humble stock of rural Portsmouth and Southampton areas, and Trollope was the son of a London barrister who was a very poor businessman. So, between the two, there is plenty of variety in stories of the times. Continue reading “Anthony Trollope”
worked for years to trace the Martin family genealogy backward to early 1630s immigrants to New York on the North American continent. She was persistent and determined, and overcame obstacles which had prevented others in her family from attaining her genealogical success.
Ultimately mother became a member of The Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR). She later questioned her judgment since the DAR political position veered toward the right of the political spectrum and hers inclined decidedly leftward. Continue reading “Martin Family Genealogy”
Our First Lady
and her stylishly crumpled green Zara jacket with a graffiti message painted on it did not make clear, at least not to me, what it is Melania Trump really doesn’t care about. It’s all well and good to paint a message on the back of your jacket and then board – or debark from – an aircraft, but if you are the First Lady of the United States, you gotta make darned sure anyone who reads your message knows what the heck you mean. I’m sorry. I just don’t get it. Continue reading “Melania’s Graffiti Message”
I must tell you more about my father who was a genius. No, really, my dad was an inventor and a genuine genius of the “what goes up must come down” school of thought. You know, a physicist. Daddy was a mathematician who saw beyond what ordinary men saw, sort of like Newton or Einstein. He had complicated equations swimming around in his conscious, his subconscious, and, I’m sure, even in his unconscious mind. He often talked of dreaming in math, or in music, which, when you break it down, is math integrated with sound. Continue reading “Father and the Fiat”
Similar to the Inkle Weave in its weaving process, another type of pickup weave, called Pebble Weave, gets its name from the look of its speckled background.
Believed to date back to the ancient cultures of the Andes, evidence of its use has been found in ruins of Aztec temples and in objects preserved in museums. Continue reading “Pebble Weave Described”
After leaving work on my birthday, I rode the ancient ferry back across Humboldt Bay. Standing at the aft of the vessel, a fresh breeze ruffled my hair and salted my lips.
Moored at the dock, the captain blew an extra long, ear-splitting blast on the horn. He waved his hand out the perpetually open wheelhouse window and shouted, “Happy Birthday, Judy!” I waved to him and smiled my sparkling twenty-one-year-old smile. Continue reading “Blue Velvet”
You can’t swing on a Warping Trapeze. If you’ve ever been a child, you most likely had an art class, or went to day camp, or if you were really lucky you spent a week at Scout camp. And, I’d be willing to bet (a very small sum, of course) you wove something. A potholder made of stretchy loops made on a six inch square metal loom. A lanyard of plastic strands woven with a clip to hold a whistle or your ID tag. A beaded bracelet woven on a little metal loom. Or maybe you even pounded a few brads into the end of a wooden thread spool and tried your hand at spool knitting. Am I right? Continue reading “Warping Trapeze”
The interview with the actress Abby Rose was off. She was a no-show. After her announcement, the receptionist turned and marched out of the room. Black anger swirled behind her.
It’s true that Ms Rose always arrived fashionably late. An hour’s wait for her was normal. If we were patient, we would be rewarded with an encore of her signature dramatic walk-in, the perfect photo-op. Continue reading “The Search for Abby Rose”