TJ Hirst

As I have said in the past, my husband is my resident techie. His company’s web server hosts my website. Last week I was sympathizing with Ryan at RYSCOTT over tech issues and even offered Paul’s experience using WordPress on our server. (He still may be having them because I can’t get to his link at www.ryscott.net) If I only knew what would happen within hours to me!

On this day, while Paul was in Wisconsin with our son at scout camp, the new telephone/Internet company decided to move our service without telling anyone. Actually, what happened was they forgot to tell the old telephone/Internet company about a change in the company’s move date. (Oldham Hirst Design is moving into new offices in August.)

As a result, last Thursday I was cut off from the world. My website went down. My email stopped sending and receiving. And I loved it!

I took an unintended blogging break and went to the beach with my daughters and some of their friends. Minnesota is the land of more than 10,000 lakes and one of our favorite swimming beaches is on a small lake named Whipple Lake or Whipple Beach as we call it. Here we dug our feet in the sand and enjoyed life without all that technology.

I hate to admit this, but I did love two days without a website and wondered why I’m still keeping it going every day. Paul returned on Saturday and sorted through all the issues, which was not an easy task, and restored my connections. I’m not sure that my wonderings have been answered. But, I’ve come back a little more rested, a little wiser about my time spent writing, and a lot more grateful for Paul’s skills.

Picture a sobbing sewer, hunched over her machine, trying to lift the needle out of the fabric and unbunch the wad of threads that have become a tangled mess underneath. I call for help and whine through my explanation to whichever sewing mentor happens to be in my life at the time.

This scene and at least a hundred more just like them make up the sewing experiences of my life. I would love to say that this was sewing experience #10, but it wasn’t. It happened this weekend.

My first sewing mentor was my patient mother who reared seven children, still sewed prom dresses for us and encouraged us to develop the skill ourselves. I never really made it past the misshapen shorts I sewed to wear to camp. Inevitably, something  would always need to be unpicked and resewn. Whenever my current sewing project would exasparate me, I exclaimed that I would have to raise seven children to develop the patience to sew.

I believed I could enventually overcome the frustration I felt every time I sewed. So, I didn’t give up and tried to have at least one sewing project—pillows, aprons, or something else—per year to keep practicing. But time increased between projects and I eventually stalled, just as my son became a Cub Scout and had a real need for me to sew on his badges. This weekend I unwrapped his new Boy Scout shirt and he asked, “Mom, can you keep up with my badges this time?”

My sister-in-law, Tina, assured me I can do it. And others have reassured me that I can get the adhesive when I fail. With one last inspiration from Rebecca’s post on sewing at Thrilled by the Thought, I stuck my foot to the pedal and tried once again.

My opening sob story describes my results. Who would make a completely round badge to be placed centered over a pocket? Have you ever sewed on a round badge? How is that supposed to work?

Ironically, my daughter who learned to sew a skirt last year with no help from me, became my sewing mentor who held my hand, threaded my needle, wound my bobbin, and helped me pick out my mess. And when the needle continually became stuck in one badge, she kindly pointed out that the adhesive iron-on backing caused the needle to stick. WHAT????

We ironed out my weakness this time, but the question is, will there ever be a next?

My husband and I were reading in the evening. I would occasionally look up from my book and start an impromptu conversation with him over the day’s happenings. After one explanation of an exchange with someone that day, I wondered out loud over the meaning of the words in that conversation.

I looked over at him and realized he was just reading. Feeling a little silly just talking to myself, I stopped. He is probably uninterested, I thought. But still, I went searching for the reason why.

“Women talk about feelings,” I said. “Don’t men do that?”

“We do,” he said. “We just don’t give the play-by-play, blow-by-blow, minute-by-minute account.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Analyzing is a woman thing,” he said.

A few minutes elapsed. I looked up from my book, again, and on a different topic I randomly said, “Why does my body’s full sensor not register until an hour after I’ve overeaten?”

“I don’t know why,” he said.

Realizing I was setting myself up as an example of what he had just concluded, I said, “There I go analyzing something again. I didn’t mean you had to answer my question.”

“Why don’t you just say rwhy instead of why so I know you mean a rhetorical why?” he said.

Much has been said of late about patriotism in the news. As we celebrate our independence today, I reflect on these words that remind me that real strength is not just evidenced on days of prosperity where the grass is always green and the sunsets stunning.

. . . The year 1776 had been as dark a time as those devoted to the American cause has ever known—indeed, as dark a time as any in the history of the country. And suddenly, miraculously it seemed, that had changed because of a small band of determined men and their leader. . . The year 1776, celebrated as the birth year of the nation and for the signing of the Declaration of Independence, was for those who carried the fight for independence forward a year of all-too-few victories, of sustained suffering, disease, hunger, desertion, cowardice, disillusionment, defeat, terrible discouragement, and fear, as they would never forget, but also of phenomenal courage and bedrock devotion to country, and that, too, they would never forget.

David McCullough, 1776

In our nation today, some feel like we are a nation falling apart as we face economic hardship, political struggle, cultural conflict and natural disasters. These could destroy our hope and optimism for the future or instead, through the darkness we can discover our own courage and grow to develop characteristic American commitment to our families, communities and our nation.

My nine-year-old daughter, KH, has an artist’s eye. She see images of beauty in her mind that she wants to create, but the challenge comes in making those images real with paint and paper, a computer or just an ideal setting of physical surroundings.

I can relate to her quandary, not only in my creative world but in the practical one, too. That is why I don’t like to shop. I know what I want but I can never quite find what I am looking for.

When KH and I had to replace her nice dress shoes because the old ones were beat up and mysteriously missing, I felt that same perfectionist pressure rising in me. Time became tight and shoes she wanted were too. But, minutes before we had to leave the store for another outing, we tried the clearance racks and found shimmery gold flats in her size for $2.99. Ah, sometimes we do get perfection. Or at least satisfaction.