Swain, the Cat

Swain the cat had a sense of humor. With newcomers, he like to pretend that he could not speak and plainly had no language. He twitched his whiskers and eyed Maybell while licking his lips with relish. Maybell who had been frozen to the spot, felt a surge of anger go through her like an electric shock. She had realized with some sense of indignity, that Enough was Enough. This adventure had already turned into an ordeal. She barely had time to process the thought that she was going to be eaten, before she acted. "You Filthy Animal," she cried and leapt upon his nose. Her little yellowing incisors sank into the triangle of grey velvet that marked the top of Swain's nares. If she was going to be eaten, she would not be consumed by a cat with No Language without a fight.
Swain had dealt with a number of mice in his day. His position of intimidation over rodents had been something that he had secretly enjoyed, although he would have denied it if questioned. When he delivered them to Mrs. Tenderstitch, they had a tendenacy to arrive in shock...trembling and past fear.
Her behavior was therefore unanticipated.
His reaction to her attack was worthy of comment. "God's Teeth!" he cried out loud, and leaped backward into the air with Maybell's jaw clamped down in a rottweiler grip. "YOUCH!" he yelled and flailed Maybell back and forth like a tiny rodent flag, shaking his head while she waved about, in danger of loosing her hat and her drawers. "Get off! Turn Loose you crazy MOuse!"
Hearing his voice at last over the adrenaline surge that now pounded blood into her ears and a lightness in her chest, Maybell released her grip upon his nose and sprang, with a last dig for leverage of her hindclaws into his bottom lip, to the floor.
" You, you cad!," she cried. " You're not a cat, but a CAD!, " she repeated with an indignant snort. She felt the urge to bite him again surge through her little veins.
Recognizing that he was again in danger, Swain did something he had never done before in the presence of a Mouse, but seemed
wise under these circumstances. He took a step Back. TThere were several beads of blood that popped up on the grey velvet triangleabove his nostrils. He gingerly acknowledged his injury by twitching his nose. It throbbed. He wondered what kind of recent innoculation he had recieved that would protect him from rabit animals.....................................................................................
"Well, Welcome Madam, to the Baggaraggs!" This was all he could think of to say.

Peg-Leg the Pie Rat

This is Peg-Leg the Pie rat. She has just come out of the oven...and still is a little crusty with a dusting of allspice. Peg-Leg sails upon a raft that has a pair of underdrawers for a sail. I guess I need to make these creatures before I can get on with the story. I kinda like her.

Myron Mole

I thought you might like to have a glimpse of Myron Mole.

Grace Tenderstitch

Meanwhile, Mrs. Tenderstitch sat in front of the Thread Pusher named Brother, and sewed. The Threader assisted her when the thread needed changing, and the bobbins needed winding. His eyes could see into the places that her eyes strained to see. The Spool Bearer helped as well, bringing the different colored spools at Mrs. Tenderstitch's direction. Flying up to the spool rack with her angel wings, and back again while Grace Tenderstitch waited. At feet was her constant companion, a dog , and not just any dog, but a Bouvier des Flanders. His name was Murray.
He was black and gray, and woolly and large and beautiful. She loved him pure and simple. Around and about them all was a small mountain of fabric, lace and Fiberfill batting. You could barely glimpse the top of her graying head, as she sat in her favorite wooden chair.
As the Holiday sewing was over, and with it the terrible rush of the Making, Grace Tenderstitch fell to making some things for herself. She needed a new Studio apron and trousers. Most of her things including her new Pajamas were spattered with paint. She wore these garments anyway, and if the paint was a badge of Honor for her artistic endeavors then so be it...it would most likely be the only honors she was likely to receive. These were only a few of the negative thoughts that plagued her. Grace was unfortunately given to ruminating, thinking and rethinking. She was unaware of the Tiny visitor that confronted her cat, Swain, at the Baseboard entrance to her home in the Baggaraggs. She was unaware of the Message of danger that Maybell was to deliver, or the changes that were to take place in the Baggaraggs. She was unaware that right this very moment, the Loch that bordered the lands of Over the Hill was being invaded by a band of Blood thirsty PIE-Rats!

The Door to the Baggaraggs

Here is the Door to the Baggaraggs. I thought you might like to see it. Many friends have entered here, and dwell peacefully in its confines. It sits leaning against the Brother Threader Pusher. It has a vintage Button for a doorknob, and several old spools for hinges that have been attached to it with wool thread (in magenta...i so love that word MAGENTA) It has been made of Muslin, stuffed with fiberfill, painted, sewn upon and collaged with paper, and finished in Modge Podge. I frankly couldn't think of another thing to do to it. It has a painted cross made from a schefellera stick. It may soon be for sale on my Etsy site or in my Christmas shop called the Small Asylum. I haven't decided...who ever buys it will gain entrance to the Baggaraggs...

Maybell Waits

Maybell Mouse waits patiently at the Door to the Baggaraggs for the Story to continue. The Narrator has been busy in the Studio, Pushing some Threads through the Fabrics, and wet coloring some things with the hairy ends of sticks. Please stay tuned...

Meeting Myron

One great fear about being in a dark and enclosed place is the thought that you will not get out.That you will simply wander until your mind runs off with your senses and leaves your body to itself. The other is that something will get you. Some horrible creature will consume you with great big teeth and slimy long fingers...This second fear materialized in the form of a paw on Maybell's arm. She shrieked and jumped backward. Her heart jumped into her throat, and she was about to flee in terror when she heard the voice of Myron Mole offering this in the darkness; "Its okay, you be alright, I ain't going to hurt you...take my paw...this way. I is the Mole, the leader-in. The greeter-in, Myron, I is Myron." Myron waited patiently for her to speak, knowing she had suffered a jolt, some other creatures had run off, dropped the Thread and fled screaming when he had touched them in this total darkness. He grinned to himself with the memory of one Warrior Mouse who had run all the way back to the very door of the Baggaraggs in terror. Maybell could not speak for a moment. She had a sudden impulse to smack the Mole in the snout for frightening her. She gave it some serious consideration. She felt she may have swallowed her tongue in fright. Her under drawers were damp, for goodness sake.
Maybell stated with some recovered composure,"You could've warned me that you were there."
Myron replied, "Don't make no difference Miss, you'd have peed yourself any old way. Happens most times...you bain't be the first to act thatda way. Come on now. No harm...I take ya on in to the houst." " I spect you'd wanna speak to Mrs. Tenderstitch."
Maybell nodded in the dark. She followed him along, tempted to grab him by his stubby tail and give it a good yank.
There were noises up ahead and a bright light. VERY BRIGHT. Blinding.
Myron said,"There ya go Miss. Far as I go."
Maybell had to shield her eyes from the sunlight that streamed into the room. She was standing in a small opening in a baseboard under a kitchen cabinet. Her hat was askew, and draped with a cobweb. Her drawers were wet. Her belly was empty. Her dress was certainly soiled and she felt sure that she had transported a spider on her shoulder when she crawled through that wretched tunnel. As she collected these wrongs, listing them indignantly in her mind for telling later ( to whom she did not know, but she felt certain that she was due a little sympathy), she realized that she was looking into the eyes of a large grey cat.

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.