More Maybell, more Marvel

Sometimes in the telling of a story, the narrator must dig a tunnel going backward in time. The tunnel eventually swings forward, loops around or can doubleback on itself. The tunnel that Maybell was in was a real one, and tunnels were the abodes of Moles and Rats... it was dark and creepy. She searched her mind for the memory of her Mother telling her about this place. She had a clear Memory of the description of the door to the Baggaraggs, and the directions to get there, but there was no memory of a dark and creepy tunnel to traverse. She would have remembered that part of the directions, for sure. There was nothing left do do but to creep forward. She had to speak with Mrs. Tenderstitch.
Maybell felt a little angry with her Mother, and would have told her Mother so if she still lived. Her Mother Marvel, had made so many things look easy that were not so easy. Maybe this is the thought of many children who love their parents, I don't know. But Maybell knew that Marvel had left this part of the story out...left out the part of the creepy tunnel.Did she know that the knowledge of this place would put her off this quest? Many mice faced with a fearful place will turn around and go back. Retreat, retrace their steps. Some get frozen to the spot and wait for someone else to rescue them: their rigid bodies are toted off like statues in need of sunlight, and some cheese wine.
Maybell sniffed the air, and smelled the wormy loam smell of rich earth. Her tiny whiskers twitched with anxiety and fear. This would never do. "One paw in front of the other." And reaching forward blindly, she felt what seemed to be a thread on the floor of the darkness. She grasped it, and tugged. It felt secure. And so, paw over paw, she followed its narrow length through the tunnel.
To settle herself into this task, she thought of the long stories that her Mother would tell her about Mrs. Tenderstitch. "She has the love for all creatures," her Mother would say. "She has tended us when we are sick, fed us when there was nothing to eat and taught us to push threads, to make our clothing. Most importantly, she has what the animal world calls the 'EAR.' "It is something wonderous to speak to a Human, and Mrs. Tenderstitch felt that it was indeed a wonderous gift to speak with us."
These were the thoughts that provided the courage that Maybell needed as she followed the thread through the gloom.

Maybell Mouse

Maybell Mouse has a story and like many in the long History of Stories, she is the Messenger. The one who comes with the Warning. Maybell was born in a place called Over the Hill. This was not a village of Elderly People gone past their prime. (It use to be "Up over the Hill" but that is another story.) Over the Hill was a location in the 60 acres that surrounded the Baggaraggs. It was a place like the Branch, or the Cliffs, or the Wineberry Patch. The Baggaraggs was hidden deeply in a Forest that lost its leaves in the Fall and found them again in the Spring. The Baggaraggs was the home of the Tenderstitch family.

Maybell Mouse was born on a Sunday in May. The Church bells were tolling the Sunday meeting when her Mother, Marvel, looked at her tiny form for the First time. She was neither a good child nor a wicked one. She was medium, I would guess and knew that both of these opposites, like the sunshine and the shadow, were woven together in her tiny soul. Maybell possessed the kind of curiosity that could lend itself to either situation. She could find things to do that would at times lead to a little trouble, or be helpful with the sewing, gathering of wood for the fire, or telling of the stories. She mostly liked to play alone and dress up the Toads for the Toad Circus.

Maybell also liked to listen to her Mother tell stories about her long friendship with the Tenderstitch family. The Tenderstitch family had one unusual Gift. They could speak to animals and the animals could speak to them.

It will start with a mouse.

All stories have a beginning and this one will start with a mouse, I think. The studio is almost back to its formally messy self. I am ready to go again. Tonight I will begin to tell the Story of the Baggaraggs. I can't wait for the adventure to start. Come with me...

It was a chilly night as nights go in the Land of Baggaraggs. The night Watchman, a weasel named Ernie, dozed at his post at the Garden gate being lulled by the scent of lavender and rosemary. The wind blew a nasturium leaf, turning it inside out like an umbrella in a bad storm. It was difficult for her not to pause and dine on a nasturium flower. Its radishy taste of pepper perfume was one of her favorites, and her belly was empty. But she hurried by him and the delicious flowers. The night was full of danger, and she paused to once again glance over her shoulder nervously to see if she was followed here. No one. Ernie did not wake. On she scurried, searching for the tiny door that would lead her to safety, away from the Hoots of the Owls and free from those who might have pursued her. Her slightly bulging eyes spied the tiny knob of the hidden door. It was a beautiful sight and Welcome to her. She had no time to admire its dotted exterior. Without hesitation she is through it into the Land of Baggaraggs. Her name is Maybell Mouse.

I have been organizing in the studio all day. It is so hard for me to throw things away. I am a horder. I have been organizing my 2009 too and these are my thoughts about That subject. I am going to iron outside this year when it is lovely, like in spring before it becomes so meltingly humid. I am going to swim in the pool naked at night. I am going to sew outside too, on the porch. That's why God made extension cords. I am going to call my sisters more. I am going to take more pictures looking up. God is everywhere and I think that the clouds at times may caress HIS wonderous Feet. I am going to think about how to get out of my own way when making things. Then I am going to try to move myself out of the way. I am also going to express my thankfulness more often. I am Thankful. Here is a first picture looking up. And a second picture looking up through the pool cage. I want to make some whimsy.

Florida Christmas scene

I have visited many beautiful blogs from my friends on Etsy and on Blogger. The photos of the snowy scenes are quintessially Christmas, cold and and frozen outside, warm and cozy inside. Here is the current view from my back door. Looking out. I am clothed in Pothos and Philodendron. Their leaves peer in my kitchen window and watch with curiosity the life inside. I wish you all a Happy and a Hopeful New Year. I hope it is prosperous and has many moments of the cognizance of true contentment. I hope it has Lots of moments Of the NOW. Go make. Go make and create.

Christmas

Christmas is complicated. As are some people. I think I might be one of them, having lived alot of my life with an intensity and at times a recklessness that frightened alot of people, and left some in heaps at the side of the road. My family I think, believes me to be a bit left of center. I am not sure I ever knew where center was. Maybe that's not true, a lie...but a little one. Maybe it was always my choice not to be centered.
Christmas is complicated. I am not able to make and to be present. It is the very Making that allows me to be in the NOW. In the present time. There are no complicated strings to unravel in the NOW. There is no mourning the loss of anyone in the NOW, and there are no regrets over my hideous mistakes in the NOW. There is the Gesalt of Making and that makes me present in this Moment. I feel the closest to God in the NOW.
Christmas is complicated. With the studio under seige and the fingers loose like this, it is hard to stay Present. Yesterday I cast my net into the Past and remembered something that filled me with a terrible longing to see my Parents again. My sister asked me if I could write about something about my Dad that was a good memory. I would like to say that I would have loved my Dad if he had been an axe murderer, ditto my Mom. But the thing about growing up is accepting that we are all flawed. Even my Dad who I adored. He had a temper. I cast the net and it brought up an ugly, sad fish. Sometimes before you cast it back you have to hold it, and see what its about. Then you can throw it back.
Tomorrow, I am going to work on the Studio, getting it back in shape and organized, so I can begin again.

Winter Story

Baggaraggian Memory: It is deep winter. Our street dead ends with a paved lane, leading to a neat brick house behind a white gate. I thought that house was pretty, but it wasn't our house. Our lane and the way to our house could easily be missed, and its only sentinels were the mailboxes huddled together under a roof of snow. The way home is on the right, and leads through a tunnel of trees into the darkness of the night. I am 8 years old. I can feel the snowflakes falling on my face as I look upward into the winter night. The moon is full and casts its light upon the naked forms of the tallest of the trees. They have reached their bony fingers into the sky to be gloved in white. Down the lane, for the first part from this end was a descent, there are places where the moonlight has leaked through the branches, bruising the ground with purple shadows. I am with my Father and my sisters, bringing home the groceries. The car will be left at the top of the lane, it cannot pass the snowy way.
I am looking at my Father's boots. They are unbuckled, black and rubber. He wears them carelessly upon feet that should belong to a giant. The snow spills in but my Father is impervious to cold. I long to reach over and buckle them them up, as if by doing so I will also buckle up his volatility, and anger. And secure stability in his mood.
The sense of expectation hangs in the hoary night. We pull our sleds free from the snowbank and load ourselves with cautionary words from him, not to spill off, to be careful, to go slowly. The sled creaks, and I am upon it with the grocery bag between my knees. The mesh net handle of the unripened oranges flags my face. I want to do well and fly down this rocky slope without a tumble. I so long not to be the source of his anger.
Off we go. The wind cuts my eyes and I cannot see. I see the darkness and the flying of sparks where the metal runners collide with the rocks in the lane. I am going fast. Then, I am spilled off in a tumble, my grocery bag spilled into the night, oranges flying into the darkness, and my Father spilling curses into the shadows. I am glad the darkness hides his face, I have only to endure his voice. That is enough. We make our way home.
I am with my Father at the fireplace. Kneeling beside him to get the fire going. Kneeling beside him like the penitent one. Sorry, so sorry. There is the blowing and cajoling of the flame, not enough tinder. I gently offer my twigs of contrition. Trying hard to help. I watch as the flames begin to lick the dirty bark of the hard wood. It catches. The smoke rises straight and fast and as it rises I feel it take my Father's anger with it into the winter night.

My Latest Disaster

Here is the Tale of the FLOOD. It is less that a week or so before Christmas and I am up to take Albert for his walk. I should have know it was going to be a fairly bad day, because when I put my bare foot into my favorite mary-jane croc, it was full of cat ...shall we say PEE. Oh well, I rinse and am on my merry way, and walk into a surging wave of water that seems to be flowing across the Porcelain tile floor from the Guest bath. It has flowed under the door from that more distant part of the house into the family room and is rapidly advancing (like a blitzkreig) (sp but who cares at this point?) toward the kitchen of the house. Now I know what this means and my stomach sinks to my sagging knees. I am off like a flash, slashing through what seem like the breakers at Myrtle Beach, to wrench the handle on the toilet back to where it should have been some 12 hours before. This is not GOOD. Here is the end of the story. Water is great for plants, gardens and hot baths. It is beautiful at the beach with sand clean and white as an apron for lounge chairs. The water that is in my studio and guest room that has made the carpet float is a Little Dismaying. We are in the restoration phase now. The fans are blowing like they are trying to tear the drapes down and we are baking, so toasty with those de-humidifiers blazing away like it is summer in the Mojave desert. The content of my studio is now mostly in the dining room. I won't take a picture. My Christmas is...not broken. It is not pretty, tidy, or injured. My Christmas will happen. It will happen in my heart and in my family and in my Spirit like it always does. Praise God.

My Elf: Evelyn

Please. someone out here. This Elf needs a home. She has attached herself to my pine tree and won't go away. She has a little sign on her head that says "Once upon a time." Keeps trying to tell me stories.

Hurry

Faster and faster. The time is flying forward and I am caught in such a forward moving sensation of Hurrying that I have bounced off of most of the furniture, doorways and walls of the house. CHRISTMAS IS COMING. I confess that I do not have a tree decorated. I confess that I have eaten a third of the pan of fudge that I have made for those who come calling...Like who for instance? I confess that I have not wrapped a single present, or sent out my gifts, or worn any Christmas clothing, or my reindeer antlers. I have secluded myself in the studio, and I have been Making and making. I can't seem to stop myself. I think I might need some help. Its like being consumed by the sewing BORG or something. Yikes that's a strange thought. I am being sucked into the Thread Universe. Well, maybe not. Here is the tree I made. tell me what you think. I'll try to lay off the Fudge, my heart beats irregularly on that stuff. Its laced with crack or something.

Friends

It is the kindness of other fabulous Etsy Artist that leaves me kind of Breathless. I have mentioned the great work of my friend Jennie at Raggedraven..to go to her shop click here. We have swapped work, bought each other's work and shared Alot of emails. I have sought her valuable advice. And have recieved honesty and kindness. I have made another friend in Debra of Monniebean's Folkart. To go to her shop click here. She is another Talented Folkartist with a Whimsical flare. I think that she and I are the only two Folkartist on Etsy that make bugs. I admitt that hers are better than mine. To go to her Etsy shop and see her work click here. Its not too late for some last minute shopping. Convo me first with this message (First Noel) and I will happily give you a 25% discount on any of my Merchandise at my Etsy shop. To go there now click here. I hope your Christmas season is peaceful and full of JOY. Blessings, Robin of the Baggaraggs. P.S. Here is another picture of my beautiful Grandchild being held by his grateful Grandma. He is YUMMY.

Rowan is the Most beautiful Baby

I tried to steal my grandbaby...I couldn't help it. I held him through dinner...he snuggled right up, and cried when I put him on the bed for a minute to get his new Christmas Jammies for his Mom. I am in Love.

Up agAinst IT

I have posted another photo of my studio somewhere earlier...it was messy then but not as bad as now. When I was taking the photos of Brebis, I looked down and saw these two doll legs tangled up and looking like a crime scene. I suppose there should be yellow tape. Well, I am up against it today. My friend at Monniebean Folkart has a beautiful photo of her studio with everything laid out so neatly. It looks so nicely organized. i am wading through a fabric blowup here. It rather looks like Joannes vomited in the studio..and Michaels set off a bomb.

The Lost Sheep

Good Morning. Its is a cleaning day here. I have someone who is supposed to come and look at my home for a cleaning estimate and I have to clean first. I know. I know. anyway. things must be tidy and beautiful as I am able to make them for the Coming of the Christ Child. I thought you might like to see a few photos of somethings I have recently posted on the Etsy. I do love the Parable of the Lost Sheep. I think I have spent most of my Life leaving the 99 to find the One who got Lost. Here is Brebis Galeuse. Her face is quite ...nice. Focused. Have a fabo, and Blessed day.

It is noon in the land Of the Baggaraggs. I am in the studio and have reached for the walkman to turn off the music...no IPOD. There is no walkman there, it has been lost in a pile of fabric, buttons, and doll limbs, so the music is just playing in my head ...the sound track from Momma Mia. I cannot turn it off. Yikes. I am in my new Nick and Nora Jammies that I have promised my Hub that I WILL NOT paint in...(HEH-HEH), working feverishly on a mousey that now requires some twigs for legs and arms...I can see it working out in my little brainy gray cells. Armed with my trusty wire cutters, I launch myself up and out into the yard in my Jammies...The landscape shrinks back...I can feel the bushes trembling at the site of those trusted wire cutters....ah, the Eugenia Compacta...(SP?) Off with a few perfect branches...it is angry now...and saying "what the hell?" With my little branches in hand I fly back into the house before the postman coming down the street can glimpse my unharnessed boobs flailing about in my Jambos. I close the door, which richoches nicely off the front of my left croc and smacks me squarely in the left temple. It hurts so bad that I pee myself in my new lovely jammies. This is the world of the Baggaraggs. Amen.

My Friend

Here is a doll I made for my long lost twin in the cyber prim world, Jennie. She has a shop on Etsy too: RaggedRaven. Her stuff is just beautiful. Very primitive and beautifully made. Alot of her things have a simple Quaker look to them. We are very different. I am thankful for her friendship and the friendship of others on Etsy.

Puffer Man

Ok here he is ...coming along. Not done yet but I am liking him. Whatta ya think?

Its getting late and my Jammies are flying around solo in the dryer so I can wear them to bed. I did want to give you a preview of the Baggaraggian Pufferfish...which will go to Gan onto the top of a small wooden decoupaged box with a tiny tag that says "Sir Ictyus Spinalot" I think that's it anyway. Please feel free to make suggestions for names...as I said , its late and the caffeine is wearing a little thinesh. He is swimming into the studio to get a paint job.

your Christmas List

Ok , its that time...make your Christmas list, bake your cookies, gather the wild grape for the wreaths and sew, sew, sew. What do you want for Christmas? I would like to know what I can make that others would like to have. Kindly post your Baggaraggian Christmas wishes RIGHT NOW. It is getting closer by the Minute! Yes, this means YOU.

Pushing Threads

It is December in the Land of Baggaraggs. It has been cold here for a place that is zoned as sub-tropical. Baggaraggians can see their collective breaths at night while walking Albert. It makes my bones ache and this is most likely ridulous...since other people out in the temperate world are having snow and hail and nasty weather. I am trying hard to get my Holiday inventory out. i am having that feeling of not knowing how fast time is going and judging how much time is left to get something done. The Christmas music plays on the radio, and instead of enjoying it I feel this terrrible sense of urgency to hurry hurry up...I will remember this for next year, that the time after Christmas should be spent making things for next years Christmas. I don't think I will relax this whole season...and yet nothing seems to be flying out of the doors of the OOOdio. There is so much to be done and I feel all I want to do is just be in the OOdio. well, atleast I am not sticking to the floor of the Kitchen...although the cats are stuck in a few spots. Hmmm (shades of Nanny McPhee) Well, I am sewing and imagining and pushing threads as fast as I can.

New LIFE

There is a new baby born in the Land of the Baggaraggs. My grandson is here and I saw his birth. I am thankful to God that he has arrived safely. Our Thanksgiving will have special meaning this year. Isn't he beautiful?

Let Whimsy rule in the Small Asllyum! Here is the Pink-Dilly Bug. I wish I had a better picture of her. Please see her listed on Baggaraggs.etsy.com with her Friend the Jingle-Bug

My week of vacation is over and that means that I must leave the Small Asyllum of the Baggaraggs and go to the real one. I would like to stay in the Small Asyllum of my OOdio and leave the Hospital behind. One Day. Maybe. Meanwhile, I am focused on the abundance of my Life, and give thanks for all that I have, it is necessary that I have a job that takes me out of the Land of the Bag. We are well. and that is something to be thankful for. Baggaraggs will soon welcome its second Grandchild. I am excited to see that childs face and to hold him or her in my grandma arms.

Winter Comes

The Land of Baggaraggs has been visited early by winter. It has crept into the forest and beckons its leafless hand to come and walk in its depths. I will look for the Father Forest who is busier than most, making all the things that Children love. I am busy in my small asllyum too, finding inspiration in the memory of a Maryland winter woods so long ago. I find inspiration in my little walks with my Albert. The bits of nature that call to me from the ground, or suspended from the trees.

Awareness

I am starting at the beginning again. It is difficult to begin again and hard to learn lessons so late in life. I have hurried and have made mistakes. I will pay attention to what it means to slow down whe the sensation comes over me to Hurry Up. It always brings on some kind of disaster. I have now made to major mistakes in shipping, resulting in a bunch of broken Baggaraggian friends and some major money spent in the other mistake. Meanwhile the Land of Baggaraggs is not wanting to loose its grip on the Autumn and everything that it means. I know that I should be hearing the voices of Pilgrims and Elves. But I still have Witches in my Head. Here are some things that have had recent posts on Baggaraggs.Etsy.com

MIRA BIRDLY

I have burned my finger making Mira's flower. Now I feel like selling her for 1 million dollars. Right. She has been exceptionally labor intensive, and she really wanted alot of extras. I tried to explain to her that less is more and to try to keep things simple...but she wouldn't listen to me. I think that she may have found out that in the Land of Baggaraggs we call the Birdly family "Oiseau Tetes" ( bird heads). I didn't think that they understood any french but ...word does get around. I am thinking of making an owl family from a beautiful twiggy stick I found this morning while walking Albert. They can perch along its twisted shape.

Myna Birdly

Here is Myna. you can find her on Baggaraggs.etsy.com

Etsy :: Baggaraggs :: Baggaraggs

I was walking Albert this morning, up the back path that winds its way behind the homes of my neighbors. It is a path through trees that hang over a drainage ditch, that is frequently inhabited by Wood Storks and Ibis. this morning, the wild ipomea has grown its lavender trumpets upward and over the banks of this tiny river. I have startled Myna Birdly, from her perch in the Golden Rain tree. She flys over to tell me that the Autumn will be over soon, and the The Baggaraggs Winter will be arriving ahead of schedule this year.  Time to walk in the woods and collect the a "walk in the woods bag."

Etsy :: Baggaraggs :: Baggaraggs

Close up Eyeball Shot

I thought these close-ups would be exciting.

New Kids On the Block.

Here are some guys that seem to like this bunched up way of being photographed. I am not sure who is who, but I like the Yo-YO eyeball people. They have long hairs hanging from their eyebrows. At least they are not hanging from their chin like mine are. Don't worry, I won't post any pictures of my chin hairs...

Close your eyes, here is the Before picture. I'm not sure there will ever be an After...

September Morning

My Studio is blown up. Trying hard to get organized for the fall and winter creativity blast that is happening in my head. Not enough room. Not enough room for the creativity in my head and the stuff in my studio. I think I might actually have to throw some stuff out. Yikes, that's a scary thought. Maybe I can trade throwing away some stuff, for more creativity. I obviously haven't had enough coffee. I will take some before and after pictures.

Dr. Harold Squeally

Well, after a bit of a struggle, here is Dr. Harold Squeally. He is the inventor of The Secret and Silent Liberation Of Laboratory Animal Movement. (SSLLAM) Has his little rat in his pocket. I just listed him on Etsy.

Busy Bee

My pen has been stuck. My thoughts have been jammed up and I have locked myself in the studio, making things to send to my lovely child in California. The Land osf Baggaraggs is beginning to get its first cooler weather. Here the leaves don't fall as much as the Golden Rain tree drops its blossoms onto my car and dusts it yellow. It looks like it has been through a car wash of confetti. In the winter my favorite tree will eventually loose all its leaves and be a naked thing. I have made some interesting finds. Buttuglee.Etsy.com is a shop I have followed for a very long time. Check her out. All of her things are sweet and happy. I also Love the Good Wife of Washington County which can be found on Etsy as well. Well, I'm off to the Studio, or as my daughter calls it: the OOdio. Plese also check out The Ragged Raven on Etsy as well. Her inventory is down right now but her stuff Rocks Too!

Black Buttons and Morticia Mouse (the Thief)

I have posted these now Two finished Baggaraggians on my website at Etsy. Black buttons is the quintessial thing in the dark that is AFTER YOU. Morticia has turned out o be a little Pumpkin thief. How do you like them?

Some Inspiration:Albert

This is my DOG. He is my constant companion in the Studio. He watches over me, and makes sure I get frequent walks outside. His name is Albert Einstein.

This is the door to my studio, and the Entrance to the Land of Baggaraggs. And there is my work Table, crowded and disorganized.

Some friends In progress

These are some friends of mine who are working on me to become themselves. They know who they are, even if sometimes I have no real idea about who they are. The Hag is made from a cedar shingle, her face sculpted from paper clay. she has lovely long and scary arms. twin poison mushrooms shade her from the moonlight.

there is of course an infestation of mice at the baggaraggs. They are trying so hard to be defined and I am a clumsy creator. last. The mad Scientist: Dr. Harold Squeally. When finished they will be posted to my site on Etsy.

willard

This is Willard Pillar.

Horace Twigg the Threader

This is Horace Twigg the Threader. Its his job to Thread the Needle in the Land of Baggaraggs. He has very Large eyes for peering into tiny places. If you have told a tiny lie he will find it.

Welcome to the Land Of Baggaraggs

Good Morning,
the leaves are peering into my kitchen window. They are greeting me with their faces of interest, smelling coffee that leaks through the seams of the the Land of Baggaraggs. I love their faces, their company and their season. I am soon off to the studio, making,making ,making. I am happiest making dolls, sculpting faces, painting and creating. I am in the Land of Baggaraggs. The people there speak to me with their ideas, wishing to be made real. I will try to define them as they wish to be defined, and help them find their way out of the studio. They can be found on Baggaraggs.etsy.com. Peace and Blessings to you.