The Owl, The Pussycat, and The Great Big Bag of Coffee.

I have long loved Edward Lear's poem The Owl and The Pussycat. Apart from the mismatched lovers themselves, the most captivating element of the story in my mind has always been the items that the two packed as they set out for a strange new world: Honey, and a "great big bag of money". Something about that packing list feels so complete, so assuring, leading any reader to believe that their seemingly scandalous affair and subsequent elopement is something that we can all get behind with confidence that it will all work out for the best, cheering them on from the shores as they row away. I was a little skeptical about the guitar, having once survived a long cold 4th grade winter with a boyfriend of my mothers who also had a guitar on which he could play exactly ONE SONG. Over and over and over again. I would tell you which one it was but then it will be stuck playing in both of our minds all day. I hoped for the Pussycat's sake that the Owl's repertoire was more varied and that the guitar wasn't thrown in the boat at the last minute, with the Owls explanation being something like: "This will be the perfect opportunity to finally learn how to play this guitar", because Sister, I have BEEN there.  The honey and the money though? that seemed really promising to me. How wonderful would it be to only require what we could fit in the bottom of a pea green boat?

Anyway, I recently found myself developing some Owl and The Pussycat artwork for a client, and I really expected it to be a pretty easy task, since I already knew the characters quite well. The process was a lot more trying. My first sketch was a bit too sweet, But I did like the way Pussycat comes accross as being in charge of directions:

Something about this felt a little... un-relatable to me. I was trying to find a personal experience that might lend a bit of inspiration, and I was reminded of my father in law telling me about his youthful summers on Lake Michigan, which (he agreed with me on this) sound a whole lot like that Kid Rock video. And yes, this link will actually lead you to a Kid Rock video. My father in law and I have this in common: we are both, deep down, fans of canned beer and Kid Rock. So I took a moment and made him this sketch, which imagines the Owl and The Pussycat with an outboard motor and a sixer of tall boys.

I did another dozen sketches, none of which are worth showing anybody. They all looked a little forced, like I was trying to re-tell somebody else's story and I wasn't remembering the punch lines or as if I hadn't met the characters first-hand, and was getting very frustrated. This is when I did something for the first time in a very long time: I drank a cup of espresso in the mid-afternoon. And this is what I drew next.

Yes, the Pussycat is squeeze-guzzling honey straight from the bear. And the Owl is rocking out. I loved it, but it wasn't exactly a sustainable amount of energy for any of us. Our fearless duo would be out of honey and energy very soon at this rate and we would all be crashing and dismal before dusk. I needed to tone it down.

And still, I had lost something along the way that was making it hard to tell this story in the way that I remembered being able to see it as a child.

I decided to keep the honey bear though,  and managed to scratch out this slightly sugary version:

Which, in turn, led to the group below. I'm sorry I can't tell you what this is all for yet, but if all goes well you will be seeing them all again...

Spending a week with the Owl and The Pussycat has also led to another seemingly permanent development in my life. I'm now officially an afternoon coffee drinker. The addiction was instant, within a few days of my first mid-day cup I was crawling into the kitchen with a splitting headache a half hour after what my brain had already decided was Coffee Time. Oh, the anchor of dependency.

Maybe that's why I struggle to relate as well to The Owl and The Pussycat now as I did as a child, because with every convenience, every luxury, every habit that becomes a part of my life I know that I am further away from a ife that allows for spontaneous adventure, or at the very least saddled with a much longer packing list.

Maybe if I just stop accumulating things now, I can still manage it. I can see myself pushing off from that dock someday in my own pea green boat and rowing off to lands unknown, accompanied not just by a big bag of money and a squeeze top honey bear, but also a formidable amount of coffee beans, pre-ground. Its calming to imagine my tall, handsome percolator sitting across from me, gleaming with the promise of a productive afternoon. I hope he doesn't try to bring a guitar.

Book Review: Hand Stitched Felt by Kata Golda

While a new baby remains blissfully unaware of that little sweater that you made for him (or the dozens of evenings knitting and re-knitting plus the case of wine and dedicated management of netflix to keep oneself occupied during said endless knitting), toddlers are considerably more selective. A certain five year old that I know has already requested "No more clothes Heather, because I really don't like clothes and you keep giving me more and I have enough of them and my closet is full". I'm not naming any names, but I think that parents should know that even a childless friend can tell when Mommy has been doing a little bit of coaching in the gift communication department. And admittedly, that it is actually appreciated.

Toys have longed seemed the answer to this dilema. But while I have an impressive craft book library, I have not, until Hand Stitched Felt, had a single one that includes such a wonderful assortment of toys and accessories. There has been a need for a book like this for quite some time, and Kata Gold was the perfect person to write it.

From Hand Sitched Felt by Kata GoldaI have been aware of Kata Golda for some time, having first bumped into one of her little framed portraits of a dapper little mouse dressed in striped cover-alls in a shop in California years ago. What struck me then and what strikes me now about her work is the expressiveness of the simple faces on her felt animals conveyed with  literally a few simple lines. Her toys and embellishments are so full of personality and life that they are sure to become well loved members of the family. Melanie just finished this little guy, who I think is especially dear. And maybe its my imagination, but I see Kata in his little face as much as I see Melanie, and I think I even see a trace of Melanies real-life dog.

Melanie Falick's Dog, from Hand Stitched Felt by Kata Golda

So simple, right? But so totally pee-your pants cute that the entire New York City Craft world has been crazy over them since they arrived in town a few weeks ago, even inspiring an extremely cute little stop action film. You can even win a free copy of Hand Stitched felt by leaving a comment about the video.

See more images and projects from Hand Stitched Felt here, on the STC blog, or learn more about it here at STC Craft.

Shut UP, no WAY!

That's what my niece said to me four or five years ago when I told her that Miley Cyrus would be wearing Munki Munki pajamas - the yoga print - on the Hannah Montana show. When the image later became a part of the shows opening credits I was, in the eyes of my then middle school niece and her elementary school aged sister, SOMEBODY.

But, as Hannahs sparkly little star began to fade, I feared for my own public image in the eyes of my tween nieces. The girls are older now, and harder to impress. And I am older, and finding it harder to be hip, at least in the eyes of the young. You can imagine my glee, then, at the news that one of the many Hannah Montana dolls on the market currently is proudly donning a pair of yoga print Munki Munki pajamas, which has created nice little bump on my "hip" meter over at my sisters house.

Actually, lets be honest, nobody thinks I'm hip, including me. Which is (Stephen) the real reason why I haven't moved to Brooklyn yet. Its too hip for me. We tried, we went and looked at an apartment in Williamsburg, Brooklyn that a friend of our had described as "amazing". Williamsburg is the type of neighborhood that has a bar whose specialty is throwing rock and roll birthday parties for toddlers. I was there having lunch once when a seven year old Kate Moss in motorcycle boots and a tutu pulled over her low slung New Religion jeans climbed up on a bar stool and ordered something called a "Pet Peeve". And people smoke in public there, too, without the furtive and shameful expressions seen on the faces of doorway and alcove smokers all over Manhattan. And breakfast is not served until 11 o'clock. We know this because we arrived for our appointment early and starving. We did find a place that was sort of open at 10:30, but the waiter left us alone with our thoughts until 11. My thoughts, which I was happy to share out loud with TC, included: "This place is cold. Does this place feel cold to you?" and "The music in here is too loud. Don't you think the music in here is too loud?". Also, in reference to our waiter, "How many tattoos does one need, exactly?" and, once our food had arrived: "my eggs are cold. Are your eggs cold?" When we finally did see the apartment, which was an expensive, dark cave that came with some ferocious looking cats (bonus rodent control), TC didn't even bother to evaluate the place with me because, as he put it, "You are 85 years old in Williamsburg."

We settled on the Financial District, in lower Manhattan, where we can afford a real kitchen. Its a bit like having moved to Chicago: everyone is polite and average looking (thank God, I always felt like such an ogre among the beautiful people in our old neighborhood) and it is extremely windy. We don't have a Bloomingdales in this neighborhood, we have a Benetton.

I like it here because it is, undeniably, unhip. I even appeared publicly (with my dog) this morning wearing my Munki Munki pajamas. Just like Hanna Montana.

A Magic Bus of My Own

Photo by Jim Church, 1969My fondness for VW busses (or kombis, or wagons, or microbus, or whatever you prefer) is longstanding. A few years ago I contacted the VW corporate office in Germany about using the image of their bus in some fabric designs, wanting to know what the licensing fee was. I got a very nice letter in return from somebody with lots of consanants in their name saying, basically, that I didn't have to pay them anything (but I did need permission) but that they would very much like a few pairs of pajamas, "frei". 

The bus in the photo above belonged to my uncle Mike. He is the Mick-Jaggerish looking fellow (they even had the same birthday, and the same lips) with his arm around his girlfriend, her name was Alison. The couple on the ground? Thats my Mom and my Dad. This photo was taken by an old family friend, Jim Church. The story, accoding to Jim, is that he was waiting in line to get into Woodstock (yes, that Woodstock) and my uncle Mike pulled up in this bus with my parents and Kenny and Bob (The other young men in this photo) and said "Don't wait in this crazy line, come up to Vermont with us instead." and so he did. And a day or so later, he took this picture. A year later this particular bus met its unfortunate end on our dirt road, when my father accidentally rolled it down a hill. My mother, hugely pregnant with my sister and I, was ejected from her passenger seat and landed in the grass. Everybody, except the bus, was fine.

My very first car was a 73 Volkswagen Superbeetle that never, ever properly ran. My mother traded our piano for it, which was very thoughtful of her. She is still annoyed at me for not caring for it well enough - or even managing to keep - such a treasure, and she has a point. My Beetle required a pair of needle nose pliers rather than an ignition key and three hands to drive it (four if it was snowing) because of its fog-prone windshield. If you wanted to start it you had to push it down the road and jump in and, while holding the pliers in pace, pop the clutch. One night my friend Angie (we were maybe 16? Maybe not quite?) and I pushed it almost a mile in freezing weather (and flats and miniskirts, naturally), down a snowy road trying to get it started and finally decided to leave it in Mr. Sylvesters yard, without bothering to let him know. The rest of the story is just too embarassing to tell, but that was the beginning of the end.

I didn't own another volkswagen again until just a few years ago, when I bought a little convertible rabbit. I left it in Santa Cruz when I moved to New York, and get to drive it when I am visiting. Its the perfect little beach car, and always starts right up. I know it sounds silly, but it feels more like a pet than a car. It has this eagerness about it, this quick little responsiveness and cheerful little purr. I know that cars don't technically have personalities, but....

Photo by John Gruen, 2007
We even had a VW in our wedding, as more of a member of the bridal party than the getaway car that we intended it as. My dear friend Michael rescued this Karmann Ghia from the infamous Vermont used car lot known as the "Greensboro Garage", I think he paid $800 for it. He lovingly restored it, even adding his company's own signature color combo or turquioise and orange. The "Carter / Mondale" bumper sticker is original.

VW announced a few years ago that they were planning a new VW bus. The concept was much like that of the original, a perfect family wagon that morphs into a camping mobile when called upon. "Well that decides it," I told TC, "we're having kids." Sadly, VW scrapped those plans. It isn't even on their concept cars page anymore.

A canadian company called Verdier has developed this beauty (licensed?) but I think its a bit out of my budget. Its worth watching their videos, here and here.

OK, so why am I blathering on about VW? Because I'm ready to make the plunge again. This time I'm on the lookout for a bus, ideally a Camper. I have big big plans for the exterior and seat and wall coverings, so one that is in good mechanical shape but in desperate need of a paint job and re-furb would be ideal. I haven't quite pinpointed the perfect year and model yet, but have been perusing sites like The Samba and comparing old images and ads. I'm thinking that my bus must be capable of long drives, camping, book touring, mobile party-throwing, and limited refrigeration. I like the pop-ups, but the ones with attached tents are pretty fabulous too, yes? Here are some of my more inspiring finds thus far, all from The Samba..

Rainbow Toe Socks

Rainbow Toe Socks by Jamie ShelmanI am a collector of happy things. When I saw this on Etsy this morning I knew that I needed it. $25 for something that will improve the way I feel every time I see it?  $25 for something that holds the promise of peace (because who could ever argue with their husband or their mother in the presence of a cat proudly modeling his rainbow toe socks?) and harmony in my home? I hit the buy button so fast that I gave myself a little neck spasm.

Now if I can just convince Kokka to let me do a "rainbow toe sock" print.