Feeble attempt at an update

First, does anyone want to buy a 150 acre farm/estate just outside of Annapolis? The house was completely gutted and redone with new HVAC, kitchen, wiring, plumbing, etc. It’s on the water. It’s got outbuildings. It’s a long story, but if you’re interested, let me know.

The front of the house

The Atheneum

Looking down towards the water. Yes, there is a dock.

A very small section of the shop. Every shop needs a corkscrew, right?

The view down the driveway. Did I mention the current tenant grows turf?

In other news, Sweet Daughter has started field hockey and seems to be loving it. The schedule is kicking my butt.  I know, I know. Get used to it.

The local library is having an American Girl-themed tea party on Saturday. Sweet Daughter is going with her BFF, and they are encouraged to dress for it. Is it wrong that this is the first thing that popped into my head?

A handful are gathering in Stafford, VA, on Saturday to chew the fat and try to get in some range time. Sweet Daughter and I are going to try to make an appearance so that she can at least see how an indoor range functions. She can’t shoot there until she’s 7, but she should be able to at least take a look around.

More later …

In lieu of actual content ...

Stop those annoying abductions!

Discuss.

UPDATE: Just in case you are wondering, no, I've never made one, nor do I have plans to do so.

The most scared I’ve been on the road

JayG’s got a meme going. I’ve been hit head-on by a drunk, but I didn’t really have time to get scared even though I was on a bridge overpass. There was the time the cruise control wouldn’t turn off, Sweet Daughter was in the car, and the more I braked, the faster the car went to compensate. (I put the car in neutral, steered off the road and turned off the ignition. Waited a minute, and turned it back on. Reboot – it was all good.) This was a little different. This one scares me because of all of the “what ifs?”

It was in the somewhere around 1997, and a weekday as I left work in the DC area for a doctor’s appointment outside of Annapolis. I was driving a 1987 Mitsubishi Mighty Max pickup. It was a beautiful, sunny morning, and very few cars were on the road. Which is why I thought it was odd that I was being tailgated by a black sedan – there was plenty of room for him to pass. If slowed down, he slowed down. If I sped up, he sped up. I wasn’t terribly worried, I figured he was just being an ass. Then he pulled up next to me and made eye contact. And that’s when I realized that the situation was Not So Good. I was in a pretty rural area without any exits coming up. Mine was the next exit, but I had, oh, another 5 miles to go.

My mind raced ahead to think about the exit. Partway down the ramp, it divided. The left lane continued its curve (and to this day, I don’t remember where that left lane went), but the right lane cranked right, and then was a fairly straight downhill shot down to the other road.

So, I signaled and moved from the right lane to the left. He followed me. I waited until I was about a half mile from my exit, signaled right, and moved over. He followed right on my tail. I eased off the accelerator, signaled my turn, downshifted into 4th gear, and he tailgated me right on to the exit ramp.

At this point, I started picking up speed, and flipped my turn signal on to indicate I was staying in the left lane. I got going as fast as I thought I could go and not roll the truck, and at the last minute, cranked the wheel right and shot down the other lane of that exit ramp. He flew right past me.

Still being somewhat of a trusting soul naïve idiot, I figured it was just some jerk trying to intimidate me. At least until I looked in my rear view mirror and saw that he had stopped his car on the ramp, had gotten out, and was literally shaking his fist at me. And that’s when I got scared.*

Yeah. My blood pressure reading was a little high that visit.

*And to illustrate my former cluelessness further, it wasn't until years later when retelling the story that it dawned on me that he might have had duct tape, Hefty bags, a bow saw, and prior "trophies" in trunk of his. I'm a very lucky person, indeed.

Sweet Daughter guest blogs

On noon on Saturday, I finished another 18th century girls gown for Sweet Daughter's best friend. Her birthday party was at 2:00. Finished in plenty of time!

I looked at SD and said "Do you know what I'm sewing tomorrow?"

She looked at me expectantly and said "What, Mama?"

"NOTHING."

And so, on that note, I'm letting SD guest blog with a creative writing assignment she had in class. The assignment (1st grade) was to write 3 or more sentences about a leprechaun. Here it is, complete with creative spelling.

Once upon a time there was a leprechaun. He was very quite.* Once I saw him under a bush. I asked him for his gold he said to look under Scottland. I took an airplane to Scottland. I dug up Scottland and found no gold. The sneeky leprchaun tricked me. I dup up the whole Earth but I found no gold. So finaly I caut that leperchaun. He said his gold was not on Earth it was on Jupiter!** He burried his gold in Jupiter's red spot! I'll never find it I can't bleve you burried the gold in JUPITER! He said "OK! OK! OK! I will go get the gold. I'll be back in 100 days." "If you don't bring it to me I will crush you! Now GO!" So the leprechaun went to Jupiter. But all he brought me was the big red spot. I said I would crush him if he did not put the red spot back and get the gold! He said his friends would help the leprerchaun dig up Jupiter. He found the gold and I got the gold!

* quiet

** I thought this would have been a great opportunity to substitute Uranus, but I really don't want to contemplate a red spot on Uranus.

The Newbius Meme

 I met Newbius in Charlotte, NC, at the NRA convention, and had the honor of sitting next t him for a good part of the evening. In a room full of well-known names, Newbius took the time to make this  shy new blogger feel welcome. He was gracious and smart, and a wonderful example of how to welcome someone into the fold. In honor of Newbius, and all the wonderful things being said about him, I’d like to start a meme so that fellow-bloggers can hear those compliments first hand. I could go on and on about most of the people on my side-bar, but I’m only going to pick a couple. I’m not tagging anyone. Say something nice about another blogger if you like. Run with it or not.

My blog-father, JayG. He let me hijack his blog when I needed to ask about buying a pistol for a four-year-old. I didn’t know y’all very well yet, and had visions of someone calling the police. Instead I got a lot of advice and even more encouragement from JayG and his readers. JayG encouraged me to start blogging even though I didn’t have a clue as to what I’d write about that anyone would find interesting. He’s unfailingly polite, and generous to a fault. When asked, he’s given useful advice on everything from guns to model cars to kids. When I met him at the 2010 NRA convention, he greeted me like he’d known me half his life and introduced me around when I was feeling shy around all the cool kids. JayG has shown me that it’s okay to come out of my shell and join the party because, well, why not? It’s a party.

Breda. She befriended me at the blogger dinner in Charlotte, and allowed Sweet Daughter to monopolize a good part of her evening. Same thing in Pittsburgh. SD all but surgically attached herself to Breda’s hip for a good part of the afternoon, and  Breda was marvelous about it. She’s one of those rare people whom I won’t be in touch with for weeks, but when we do touch base we pick up right where we left off without any whining as to why I haven’t been in touch - don’t I like her any more?? She is a marvelous role model for SD who adores her, and one of those people I want to be like when I grow up. But taller.

Michael W., whom the reenacting world knows as Dr. Mike. I met Mike in 1994, and was invited to join his reenacting group 10 years ago. To this day, I’m still not sure why as I don’t do, or have any interest in, a medical impression. In addition to his encyclopedic knowledge about 18^th century medicine, dentistry, knotwork, ad infinitum, he’s a man of many talents – Cutler to the Stars®, gunsmith, horner, leather worker, firearms instructor, to name a few. He can also tell me what I may or may not want to hear what without pretense or pulling any punches. He’s not subtle, and occasionally he’s not tactful, but I can count on him to have my back at all times, and to give me the shirt off his if I need it.

Sweet Daughter (ahem) cooks

At MTA Sweet Daughter watched our cook prepare this amazing salmagundi.

I know, I know. Navel oranges hadn't been developed yet.

Later that day, she decided to make her own "salad". She took the redware pan we'd make the venison pasty in (with bit of crust still attached) and asked for contributions. There was a heel of cabbage, and a leftover carrot and parsnip. I pulled some onion slices out of the fire (a.k.a. trash pit) and the cook donated the top of a leek. There are a few red potato slices as well.

For the finishing touch, she added grapes. She then wanted it placed over the fire. Our cook graciously indulged her, and added water.

Chock full o' vitamins!

After a while, it was taken from the fire and allowed to cool. I was then asked to sample it. Uh ... I thought this was all "pretend", hence the vegetables salvaged from the fire pit.

"Try it, Mama!"

I tried to distract and redirect, to deflect, to otherwise figure out a way I could weasel out with my honor intact. It was impossible to even try. What self-respecting mom could say "no" to this?? Not I. So knowing the history of the grapes (washed before being added to the melange), I chose to impale myself on that particular sword, figuring that the whole thing had been heated pretty thoroughly, and I wasn't likely to die from a few grapes. Well, I'm typing this so I can affirm that I did not die, or even get ill, but those were some interesting grapes. They were still hot and completely infused with the flavor of onion. With a hint of venison.

For the event at Petersburg next month, I'm planning ahead. There will be kid-friendly food to prepare and if I have anything to do with it, grapes and onions never the twain shall meet.

Patching a shirt

So, our cook had an unfortunate incident at MTA last year. As he was bending over the cook fire, the fire went all Rice Crispies on him with a snap, crackle and pop. Fire do that all the time, right?

Well, “… man is born to trouble as surely as sparks fly upward.” As he was bending down, some sparks went up, which, from the cooks perspective was down his shirt. But he didn’t know it at the time. He stood up and felt something warm. He looked down and saw nothing. Then he felt hot. And saw his waistcoat smolder. From the inside out. He yelped for help, and I grabbed the hem of my gown and shoved it down inside his shirt between him and the ember and patted it out.

We now keep a linen rag in the buckets of water we keep by the fire.

Anyhow, the shirt needed help. In the 18^th century one didn’t sew a square of fabric over the hole and call it a day. Precious little remains of original utilitarian garments. They were used, repaired, repurposed and then sold to the rag man. Near as we can tell, holes were patched from the back in fabric that matched as closely as possible to the original, and done in a neat and workmanlike manner.

Sewing a rolled hem. Ugh - I should have worn my glasses - this is horribly uneven.

 

Since I made the shirt to begin with, I kept the remnants of the lovely cambric linen, so I was good there. I matched the damaged front edge to the undamaged edge to see how much had been burned away. I took a scrap of cambric and made a new hand-rolled edge and positioned it in the gap and stitched it in place.

Completed rolled edge.

Patch pinned in place.

Then I pinned the edges of the shirt on top of the remnant. I trimmed off the singed edges, turned the raw edges under and carefully stitched them to the patch. Then I turned the shirt over and trimmed the excess patch away, leaving no more than a quarter inch. Then I turned the edge of the patch under, and stitched to the shirt.

Partially sewn - from the front.

Done. And now that I look at it closely, I'm not that impressed. So much for "neat and workmanlike". Next time, less of a rush and I'll wear my reading glasses. *sigh* Note the slight difference in color? The linen will continue to bleach as it's washed and exposed to sunlight.