Whew.
That is just what I say when I am just so, so tired. All I want to do is lay here with the dog and kick up my feet. I finally got my sewing machine up and running again, so I finished a couple projects that had been nagging at me. I replanted some of my containers, we had a random frost when I was out of the country (or so I was told) so I am getting some of my plants nurtured and loved again.
I love to be busy, you know the old saying about idle hands....I like to put my hands to work, I love to create and have my mind constantly working. But sometimes, I work too much.
I have always kept myself busy with work. Since I was able to have a job, I have worked. This wasnt the case with my family, I never had both parents working. My dad worked alot, doing random jobs. He was more of an inventor, he made things. We always invaded his side of the basement with random games of hide and seek, made terrible use of his giant air compressor (it could have rivaled an air stream trailer in size...okay maybe to a five year old). We would try to scale the laundry chute and see what we could do to his homemade silk screener that looked like a giant art easel. Then he started back with his art, he did paintings and such. We didnt have much money, we could barely buy food, but he always made sure that we had a good dinner.
He would go down to the basement and start drawing on homemade paper. I can still remember the smell of the pulp and the raw edges it had. It was a grey color, from old newspapers, thick and heavy. He would take his thick leaded ebony pencil and draw wonderful pictures and comic strips of his character named Maddie. Then he would fashion them into boxes. When he was done, he would emerge from the basement with art in tow and start cooking. I would pull up my stool to the counter and help along. First came the french fries, cut from fresh potatoes, baked in the oven. The hamburgers would be made with my little hands, a couple of spices and some magic ingrediants. The fries would later to be put into wax paper parcels, probably from the paper used to tie the ends under my curlers from my Ogilvie perms. Then the stove top hamburgers with sandwich bread buns, pickles for me and none for the brother.
When it was done, it was all put into the little box with the homemade comic strips on the side.
That is a real happy meal. Happy meals are made with love and care, not through a drive thru.
He was a great man.
He was.
That is just what I say when I am just so, so tired. All I want to do is lay here with the dog and kick up my feet. I finally got my sewing machine up and running again, so I finished a couple projects that had been nagging at me. I replanted some of my containers, we had a random frost when I was out of the country (or so I was told) so I am getting some of my plants nurtured and loved again.
I love to be busy, you know the old saying about idle hands....I like to put my hands to work, I love to create and have my mind constantly working. But sometimes, I work too much.
I have always kept myself busy with work. Since I was able to have a job, I have worked. This wasnt the case with my family, I never had both parents working. My dad worked alot, doing random jobs. He was more of an inventor, he made things. We always invaded his side of the basement with random games of hide and seek, made terrible use of his giant air compressor (it could have rivaled an air stream trailer in size...okay maybe to a five year old). We would try to scale the laundry chute and see what we could do to his homemade silk screener that looked like a giant art easel. Then he started back with his art, he did paintings and such. We didnt have much money, we could barely buy food, but he always made sure that we had a good dinner.
He would go down to the basement and start drawing on homemade paper. I can still remember the smell of the pulp and the raw edges it had. It was a grey color, from old newspapers, thick and heavy. He would take his thick leaded ebony pencil and draw wonderful pictures and comic strips of his character named Maddie. Then he would fashion them into boxes. When he was done, he would emerge from the basement with art in tow and start cooking. I would pull up my stool to the counter and help along. First came the french fries, cut from fresh potatoes, baked in the oven. The hamburgers would be made with my little hands, a couple of spices and some magic ingrediants. The fries would later to be put into wax paper parcels, probably from the paper used to tie the ends under my curlers from my Ogilvie perms. Then the stove top hamburgers with sandwich bread buns, pickles for me and none for the brother.
When it was done, it was all put into the little box with the homemade comic strips on the side.
That is a real happy meal. Happy meals are made with love and care, not through a drive thru.
He was a great man.
He was.
