Cabin Fever

 Yep, I've got it.

A full blown case of Cabin Fever...

There's various names for it all over, but in the Yukon that's what it's called.

During the Gold Rush of 1898 the Sourdoughs (they were the Southerners who came seeking the gold) weren't used to a Yukon winter, where the temperature can go to 40 below or more for weeks on end, and back then there was no entertainment, other than the dance halls... and if you were out on your claim, twenty or thirty miles out of town, looking at a dog team for transportation, well, by the end of February you had Cabin Fever.

You're restless, fidgety, cranky, and nothing can please you whatsoever, until you're ready to put your own self in the corner and come-out-when-you've-thought-about-it...

winter's gotta go and where the heck is Spring anyway????

a little retail therapy can sometimes help....

when we were in the city for one day of tests, we stopped off at the mall afterward to run a few errands...

Marc wanted coffee but I secretly wanted to to peruse the dish section at the Bay

so I fobbed him off with some excuse or other and a plan to meet at Starbucks when I was finished...

In my browsing I found this - a lovely, perfectly grey-blue cake pedestal with brown edges and a raised detail, the outward curves perfectly matching the shape of my every day dishes 

and it was 30% off!

as I came around the corner, headed straight for the checkout I came face to face with you know who...

busted!

"Whatta ya have there Missy" he says

so, clutching the box a little closer to me chest, I started with, 

"It's the perfect colour, and it will go perfectly with my dishes" and finished up with "and it's 30% off!"

  

he shook his head, looked it over and said,

"what will you do with it?"

and with wide-eyed seriousness I replied,

"put cupcakes on it"

a long pause, a little sigh and then....

"well, bring your treasure and let's get out of here then"

and so it followed me home

And No Drums Beat

Remembrance Day

A day originally created to remember the "War To End All Wars".

Seems we've had a few of those kind of wars.

History 12 spewed all sorts of and dates and names and numbers pertaining to offensives and battles and casualties. Numbers meant nothing really - when you live in a territory of less than 25,000 people how do you quantify 6,000,000 people? Or 20,000,000? Even the best imagination can't take you there.

But there we went in June of 2011. Some of you may remember this post I wrote of our visit to Omaha Beach...

 We went to many war cemeteries on our trip, but when we went to Omaha we were overwhelmed.

As we walked through the parking lot toward the Visitor Centre we passed a man and a woman who looked to be in their 60s - she was crying and he was trying to console her. Marc and I looked at each other and realized the images we had seen of Omaha on television over the years might just have been pretty accurate - a place for tears.

And it was.

I said it was the saddest place I had ever been and up until a few days later, that was the truth.

Then I went to a place sadder still.

This is a German cemetery, Neuville-St Vaast, near Arras, France.

This cemetery has more than 44,000 graves, four men per cross, their names etched on each side, back and front. The crosses are dark grey in colour, simple in design and the grass grows long and shaggy underfoot.

A stark contrast to the bright white of the crosses at Omaha, where the brilliant blue of the sea is a backdrop, and the whole of it is so meticulously maintained.

Neuville-St Vaast is a cemetery of World War 1, and is only tended by volunteers, of which there are not many.

It is truly a grave yard.

 As far as we could see, the grey crosses marched across the landscape, seemingly unending, in all directions. 

We didn't arrive there purposefully; we came upon it by happenstance and once realizing what it was, we stopped.

We were the only people there and judging by appearances, it was not a place often visited.

Some would say it fitting, given they were the aggressors, and ultimately, the defeated. 

I saw it differently.

When I was young I was full of righteous thoughts about wars; winners, and losers, about people thinking for themselves, and what it means to blindly follow ideals and beliefs without question.

The older me wonders about a world that existed before my time. When WW1 happened, WW2 hadn't yet. Duh.

But what I mean is, it's easy for us to look back, with all of history's experience, to say this was right, or that was wrong. It must have been a different thing to live it, without foreshadow's knowledge. 

I can't imagine what it would be like to send a child to war. 

Or a husband, or father, or wife or mother. I can't imagine what it would be like if they didn't come home, if their resting place was half a world away.

This post isn't about whether or not a war should have been fought, but rather, what it means when a country sends it's people to fight.

As a nation, and as people, we decide what we believe in, what we stand for, what we fight for and what we would die for. And that is true for all nations, and all people the world over. And we can decide that better for ourselves now, than any of our predecessors could - they were often bound up by duty and honour...

What I am struggling with is that the men that lie in this cemetery fought on behalf of their country, rightly, or wrongly, doing their duty as good citizens did.

And no drums beat for them.

And the flowers are all gone.

"Can We Talk?"

It seems everywhere, quilts are talking. 

Words are being incorporated either in the fabric designs, or in the quilt pattern itself: words of family, words of joy, French words, baby talk, and on and on it goes....

I was thinking it would be fun to come up with my own wordy quilt, and I tried to think of a word I would like to immortalize in fabric.... "Family", "Love", "Simplicity", "Joy"...all great words that I have seen on quilts lately but not for me. Well, not that I don't "get" them, they just weren't me.

But I think this one is...

 

This will be a fun little wall-hanging for the holidays - plain and simple.

And to satisfy everyone's taste, I'm making another version in bright and cheery red, green, blue and gold Christmas fabrics

 

this brown/taupe version says "me" better

 

and yes, the fabric in the "e" is upside down.... whoopsidoodle!

Whimsicals has a book out called "If Quilts Could Talk" and some of the letters above came from Teri's designs but not all ('cause Jingle's my word).  To fill in the gaps, I turned once again to my dear daughter, who although she believes she isn't crafty, can do lettering like nobody's business.

I'll do a nice dark brown blanket stitch around the letters and then figure out something interesting for the border.

I can just hear those bells a-ring-jing-jingling now...

Overwhelmed

 Overwhelmed....

A good word for today as that's how I'm feeling right about now.... and not just in a bad way either...

A few months back I posted about our little girl-cat, Miss Josie, and how she was suffering from renal failure... today I am happy to say that diagnosis just may have been wrong. The blood work certainly showed her kidneys weren't working properly but two months later, after a whole lot of pampering, she is a completely different cat.

Miss Josy-phine has gained almost a whole pound! And judging by the photo below, doing so seems to have worn her out...

Thank you to all of you who wished her well - so far so good!

A month or so ago Angela from The English Romantic did a post about some little pouches she was making for an upcoming workshop. I thought they were adorable and told her so and she generously offered to send me one.... and this is what she sent me!

A bundle of little packages, all tied up with pretty blue lace and flowers....

 

and inside one was this...

this is the inside of the flap - the most charming couched flower, all a-sparkle with hints of gold metallic thread... simple beautiful, in all it's simplicity....

and she also included some of her hand-dyed, hand-cut silk ribbons

adorned on the front of the card with a beautiful flower and beads

 

a lavender scented silk hear, complete with a velvet rose

and a package of these velvety hydrangea blossoms, perfect for my own crafting pleasure

If you've never been to Angela's blog, you must visit soon!

And finally, I am feeling overwhelmed because once again, yet again, as usual, I have taken on far too much. I don't seem to ever learn, not even the hard way... and as a result of my own folly, I have had almost no creative time in the past two months - I hardly know what the inside of my sewing room looks like anymore and have no idea where anything is as it's been so long since I looked. But out of every bad thing, comes something good - and this is no exception...

at least it's neat!

Memory Lane Monday

Bonjour!

Donna at Brynwood Needleworks said we have until Monday June 6 to link up for Memory Lane Mondays and that's when I decided to do this post after all.

 I say after all, because I had thought perhaps I was posting about war too much - but, after reading her post, I thought perhaps I should - especially because her Memory post references Memorial Day...

June 6 is an important day in world history - June 6, 1944.

D Day

We have spent the last few days reflecting heavily on Operation Overlord, the "Debarquement" and it has been a sad reflection indeed. But also a proud one.

We have seen Juno Beach, Utah and Pointe du Hoc...

Today we went to Omaha.

A diplomat from the British Foreign Office once told me Juno Beach (the Canadian landing site in Normandy) was a peaceful place, where the memorial and the beach connect, and the town of Courseilles-Sur-Mer is steps away. 

An unassuming place, where the way to the beach is as you would have found it even before the war, and the museum rises out of the dunes just behind it, respectful, very Canadian. He was right.

He said Omaha is sad.

The cemetery is on the beachhead, high above the sand and crashing surf. 

It is the most meticulously cared for cemetery and memorial I have ever seen, and it is by far the saddest.

We came up the stairs from the Information Centre, turned the corner and stopped - everyone did. That first sight of the crosses is overwhelming, staggering.

You've just spent the past sixty minutes reading plaques and watching movies, all telling tales of heroism and sacrifice, brotherhood and patriotism, and you are feeling full of pride and glory and victory.

And reality comes at you swiftly, cutting you down, you fall to your knees and suddenly you can't catch your breath.

So many.

Row upon row upon row of white crosses, and when you think you must surely be coming to the end you realize you are but half way.

The rows of white crosses continue still.

I'm not sure how long we walked among the rows, looking at the names here and there, turning at this point, walking that way, in a daze, with no rhyme or reason to our meandering. 

But then Omaha defies rhyme and reason.

He was right again.

Sorrow and pride are big emotions, the biggest really. And they fill that cemetery to bursting, all 172 acres of it.

The cemetery at Omaha Beach is among the most beautiful; the men and women that were laid to rest there fought for freedom, certainly, but they also fought for more than that.

They fought for a world where people could live without fear, and in their fight they showed us that great things can be achieved by many, 

by a few,

and sometimes even by one.

We Will Remember.

Walking in Our Own Footsteps

As much as this has been a trip about food and wine, and scenery and souvenirs, it has also been about history.
A small taste of the history of man…

We have been to the caves of Neolithic Man in Peche Merles and stared in awe at cave paintings that were done 25,000 years ago

Walked among the standing stones of the Megalithic Period in Brittany

Traipsed through the ruins of a Roman town in Vaisons Romaines

Climbed the battlements of a Chateau of the 13th century

Touched the timbers of a medieval village

Sat quietly in a church of the ages

Stood in awed silence at a monument of The Great War

and sat in saddened silence on the beaches of WWII




We have seen art and architecture; creations of man through time and been awed and inspired at every turn; I have the seen the best of man, and I have seen the worst.

When I read history books or walk through interpretive centres and museums I listen and read with interest the information that is presented. Archaeologists and scholars put much effort into deciphering the things of the past, interpreting and assigning meaning, endeavouring to give us insight into past lives and previous cultures. I listen with interest and am enthralled with what I see but I take it sometimes with a grain a salt.

I do that because all we really know of the past is what it chose to leave behind.

How Do We Get There?

When we travel together, Marc and I, we quickly fall into a routine:
how we pack the car is figured out and then done the same each day - him
a snack bag is established - him
who will carry the cork screw and open the wine - me and me
who drives - him
and who navigates - me

It all works really well, with the exception, sometimes, of the navigating...

I am usually working from at least one map, but sometimes two while he likes to drive by the sun.
None of which always work, especially when you throw in French traffic circles.
I can't quite figure out the signage for them either… sometimes it all works lickety-split, map and signs in tandem and we zip along at great speed, chatting and enjoying the countryside.

But every once in awhile it all goes awry…

Today presented a totally new scenario, which we are still puzzling over…

We were making our way to Locoronan in Brittany

a particularly lovely medieval village, preceded by Douarnenez on Highway D7. As we approached Douarnenez, the first circle presented no options that were obvious, and by default we always then choose "Direction Centre Ville", believing the signs will lead us in and then right back out again.
Thanks to a great deal of road work, we were taken off the beaten path and landed in a maze of narrow, cobbled streets, seemingly going nowhere. Out of the corner of my eye I spied the water (it's at the seaside) so I suggested we head in that direction - most cities on water have a lovely road that wends it's way along the water's edge that will usually provide directions at some point.
No go, we landed at the port.

We did eventually find the lovely road but it was one way and not ours.
We turned right and then left, thinking we would work our way in the direction we wanted to go but the road kept getting narrower and narrower. I was no longer watching for signs as we were now driving down a street that had high buildings on each side and barely a foot of clearance on each side of the car, with a brick wall at the end. Nowhere to go but forward and hope for a turn - which thankfully there was - a perfect right angle. A slow careful turn later, and we were about to sigh with relief when we saw a lady seated on a chair, her back to us. As Marc tried to avoid her I saw the steps of a building to the left, "You've got stairs!" I shouted.

 

We managed to avoid both and finally came to an intersection… where all three of the other streets had "Do Not Enter" signs!

We sat there for almost a full minute trying to take in what we were seeing.
We had just run the gauntlet of driving in France and it's all "Do Not Enter"???

We did eventually get out of there, and laughed for quite a time about how three steps in front of a building can become an obstacle.

I'm not feeling so bad about it all though -

I am thinking Douarnenez could even confound GPS!