234 Candles

The 4th of July is coming!

The 4th of July is coming!

Oh, it's my favorite holiday... nothing but fun.  (except that time Tony lit a rocket and it fell over and shot straight  into my sister's thigh. Nothing puts a damper on pyromania like third degree burns).

These  rockets are cute and safe... they're metal, they don't have a fuse, and they  aren't accompanied by a 52-year-old juvenile delinquent with a lit punk. Hang a bundle on your door or stick some in a pot of red geraniums on your porch.

 Independence Day is the perfect time to get together with pals. Hey, I've got it!  

Have a Happy 234th Birthday America theme for July 4th.

 ( Any excuse for cake, you know)

Put this sign on your door to put your visitors in the party mood.

Then put this cute tin cake stand on your table. The neat metal cake slice boxes on top have no calories, or if you prefer something tastier than tin, buy some red, white and blue cupcakes from YUM Bakery next door and add 234 of our long red skinny candles or ok, maybe just one sparkler on top of each treat. (But I do believe that 234 candles would make a bigger visual statement).

And pinwheels!  The perfect cheap decoration! Stick a handful in some old pop bottles, and add whatever red, white and blue stuff you can get your hands on -- don't get all  matchy-matchy on me now; this is supposed to be fun, not stressful.  Red and white check dishes, blue polka-dot napkins,vintage gingham trays. An old quilt thrown over the picnic table. Red bowls of potato salad, blue bowls of potato chips, white bowls of strawberries.

 

Fun coozies. Bottled Orange Crush iced down in a striped tub. Starred-and-striped papergoods. Sparklers and punks stuck in galvanized buckets o' sand. Patriotic star-rimmed bowls piled full of party poppers and Black Cats.

Raid your closets for silly hats and flags to wave and red wagons to pull  and ponies to ride 'round the block in the neighborhood parade. (What, you don't keep ponies in your closet?)  Have a horseshoe tournament (we've got rubber ones so nobody gets clanged in the head)...a potato gun shoot-out... sit on the hot sidewalk and play jacks with the old ladies and little girls.

              Honest Abe -- it's the best day of summer.

Just don't forget the hotdogs.

JUNK A-COMIN'

Ok, we're coming down to the wire for JUNK SALE. Saturday is sneaking up fast.


Of course, being a last-minute kind of person, I'm scrambling and cleaning and thinking I should have bought more of those tin firecrackers and I meant to paint that picnic basket and where the heck did I put that sack full of old aprons? I've been getting to the shop early, early, early to switch everything around (because you know I CAN'T LEAVE WELL ENOUGH ALONE) and laying awake late, late, late, thinking about lemonade stands and old pickup trucks and where the heck I could have put those aprons.



One day to go.  Don's old Chevy pickup has been delivered and rolled down the mall to the front of the shop...I painted Sydney and Mary's lemonade stand tonight (yellow, of course)... the shop is pretty clean and sort-of dusted (thanks, Mom) and fairly bursting with fun summery stuff (just look at that clothesline in the window full of baby bikinis!). I still haven't found those dang aprons.


Kristi's home today, taking care of dozens of  last-minute details. She's my partner in JUNK SALE. She's made a zillion lists, had a jillion fun ideas and worked a million extra hours on this sale.  She's the idea-thinker-upper, the vendor-liner-upper, the table-putter-upper, Master of the Sewing Machine and Organizer Supreme.  Wonder if she knows where my aprons are.



YUM? Yup -- almost ready. Today we set an old white kitchen cabinet in front of the cafe; it's empty for the moment, but Saturday, Kelley and James will fill it with homemade crisps and cobblers and wonderful pies-for-one-in-a-jar. Come sit a spell at the farm table for YUM's JUNK SALE lunch (a big, fat turkey or ham sam, crispy chips, a cute little bag o' veggies and a fresh-baked cookie... all wrapped up in gingham!) and don't forget to grab some suppertime desserts. (Hint: Get 'em while the gettin' is good: if you're clever, you'll  call Kelley at 273-3844 to pre-order.)



Kitchen Gallery?  Check--ready to roll. Julie's got a full slate of summery samples ready to serve on Saturday: Watermelon Smoothies.Pineapple Coleslaw.Uncle Sunny's Gourmet BBQ Sauce. (There's  much more, but my mind has gone blank from dreaming of Watermelon Smoothies.)



Note to self: find a plug-in  for the cooler full of samples from Iwig Dairy. Note to self: leave a little tummy room for Iwig chocolate milk samples. June is National Diary Month and Iwig's will join us at FARM FRESH JUNK SALE to celebrate. Note to self:   use that as The Perfect Excuse to hog multiple chocolate milk samples.



The construction guys are still hammering away at SWEET!, the new Cake & Candy Supply shop in the mall, but Cindy and Susan will be on hand Saturday to meet and greet and show and tell. I saw them in the mall today, contemplating their empty tables and plotting their display. I hear they'll be doing something clever and button-ish with antique chocolate molds... are you curious? Be sure to slow down, chat 'em up and peep in their windows while you're running from JUNK booth to JUNK booth.



Friday night, our vendors arrive to set up.  Bunches of 'em: Angela. Carrie, Gladys, Ed & Mark. Kristi. Peggy. Janelle. Debbie. Marilyn, Linda, Wendy & Jennifer. Don & Suzie. Fern. Susan. Ila. Cindy. Lori. Chuck & Peggy. Neal. Mary & Don. Maggie & Kim. Jacquie. Coralee & Lisa. We've drawn floorplans, scribbled over them, dragged their tables up and down and up and down  the mall and finally think we've figured out how to get these  JUNK dealers and their stuff in here and keep the Fire Marshall happy.



Then Saturday's the day:  
JUNK SALE!  June 12th.. 9 am sharp 'til 3 pm
inside Fairlawn Plaza Mall.
So much stuff:  Spinning wheel. Jug lamps. Old sleds. Kitchen Cabinets. Farm table.Wagons. Vintage doors. Benches. Church pew. Birdhouses. Retro kitchen stuff. Soldered charms. Handmade jewelry. Chairs. Boxes. Tins. Clocks. Bottles. Banners. Patriotic goodies. Primitives of all sorts. Vintage baby clothes. There's more, I'm sure, that I can't recall (darn those Watermelon Smoothies!) so I'll be as surprised as you are at some of the spectacular stuff at JUNK SALE.


Let me know if you find my bag of old aprons.

My Fellas

I'm a dog person. 

These are my fellas:

Jimmy.

Otherwise known as

 Poppy. JimmyPop. Potpie. Peapie. Clicketyclick. Lovie.  James P Weinerschnitzel.

Tony refers to him as Walter or Brubaker or sometimes even Walter J  Brubaker. 

No wonder he doesn't come when we holler for him.

He doesn't mind us.  He bites and throws temper tantrums.

He pees on the floor and then dares us to say anything about it. Master of the Death Stare.

We're all afraid of him.

Chews rocks. Never bothers the trash because it would be beneath him to eat garbage.

Took him to the groomer once and he was so bad, she had to call her husband from work to help her hold him on the table. She doesn't answer her phone anymore when I call.

 We have to give him Doggie Downers when he goes to the vet because he can bite through a muzzle. 

  Jack Russell and Yorkie with a little bit of Satan mixed in.

 My little dog. I love him beyond all reason.

Gilbert.
We got Bertie at Helping Hands last Fall.  I feel sorry for whoever lost him because he's One Good Fella.
When we first saw him, a family with a little boy was in the "Get Acquainted" room at the shelter with him; I
paced up and down the hall in front of the room 42 times, beaming in "DON'T TAKE HIM DON'T TAKE HIM DON'T TAKE HIM"  mental warnings through the glass door. And they didn't. They were stupid. And we were lucky.

He's fairly swift but clumsy. Trips over his own long legs regularly. Doesn't apply his feet to the stairs when he goes down, simply spins his legs like wheels -- think Road Runner cartoons.  Drags the cats around by their legs or heads. ... but gently. He wants to sit on somebody/anybody's lap. He's the happiest of dogs. Big heart, maybe a small brain -- but so what?
He's my little dog.  I love him beyond all reason.

Calvin.

Vin. Vinster. TheVinsterator. SpotDot.  A sweet old man with a smiling face.  Fat boy in the front, all skinny hips in the back.  Wobbly with arthritis, but in his glory days, man, could he run.  We've had to be extra-vigilant with Vin because the minute he got off his leash or outside the fence, he would dash off in a single-minded pursuit of SOMETHING only he could see.  He ran only in a straight line, never circled back home, so we would eventually find him in  the next county or living at Camp Daisy with the Girl Scouts or maybe in Brazil if he happened to be pointed to the south when he escaped. 

Now in his golden years, he loves to take a ride to the trashcans at the end of the driveway.

Mr. Softie Tony builds a fire in the workshop woodstove for Calvin when it's cold and he snoozes his days away on one of my raggedy quilts, soaking up the heat with his old bones and dreaming of trashcans and girl scouts and wet dogfood. Such a dear. I love him beyond all reason because he's my old dog.   

Now I want to hear about your dogs.   

JUNK

Ok, junkers -- you know who you are.

YOU DON'T SEE ANYTHING ODD ABOUT THIS PICTURE:

You have a pile of vintage refrigerator doors propped in your garage. Rust is your favorite color. You're not afraid of cobwebs or splinters or tables with missing legs.

You save little wheels off things and vintage doorknobs and keys and interesting jars and Great-Aunt Evelyn's hankies and that huge old dictionary that's missing geronimo through icicle because you MIGHT just need it someday to prop up a table with an absent leg.

If this is you, don't miss our
FARM FRESH JUNK SALE
Saturday, June 12
9 am til 3 pm
inside Fairlawn Plaza Mall


We've hand-picked about 25 of our fellow junkers and asked them to drag their favorite extra junk out for you to dig through... because really, there's not much that's more fun than that, is there?

But not just junk: there'll be cool jewelry from our stylish friend Wendy Watson... Betsy Ross wooden flags by Chuck and  Peggy Calhoon...Susan Dunnaway's lovely Kansas photography... neat jug lamps made by Jacquie Richards... and of course, as our pals at Brickhouse Antiques put it, they'll all be bringing "our kind of crap", too.  I've been reading through the vendors' lists, and I'm ready to do hand-to-hand combat over a number of their junk treasures: just watch me climb up and over the crowd to get to the small kitchen cabinet that Don and Susie are bringing!  Don't get between me and Debbie's old sled! This junkin' is SERIOUS BUSINESS.

There'll be no shortage of good things to eat that day: my sister Kelley from YUM Bakery and Cafe is planning a wonderful farm lunch, all wrapped up in a red gingham bandana... I hear her husband James (a.k.a." Mr. Pie" in our family) will be serving up homemade goodies... Julie from Kitchen Gallery is planning
bunches of Summer-fresh food samples (more about that later)... and our our new neighbors at the soon-to-open SWEET! Cake and Candy Supply will be doing a FUN demo with antique chocolate molds.  Can't wait to see what Cindy and Susan have dreamed up.

I'll be blogging more previews of the sale this week, so stay tuned... you'll want to scope out the goodies.

The Happy Book

Ok, I'm picturing myself on A HAPPY DAY: Barefoot. Tan. 110 pounds. Laying in green grass under a leafy tree on a hot, sunny afternoon. (No ants crawling out of the grass on me). Pink cotton candy in one hand, an icy can of Pibb Zero in the other. (No bees buzzing around the cotton candy). No phone. A pile of books stacked up beside me and all afternoon to read. A cool blue pool nearby. (No bugs floating in the pool). I can see my little dogs snoozing in a patch of dandelions and Tony casting a line from his canoe. Soon some lovely person will deliver a big plate of fresh pineapple and divinity to me for my supper, then my dapper husband and I will drive to town in our classic convertible for a movie, a round of Goofy Golf (no screaming kids on the course, of course), and a Cherry Limeade from Sonic.  Ah, the perfect day.

My 110-pound days are long gone, I'm afraid, and the closest my husband has ever been to dapper was on our wedding day in his white tux with the bell-bottom pants and blue ruffled shirt (hey, it was the 70s).  But the rest of my perfectly happy day is within reach.  I'm a firm believer in being happy. Maybe that's why I like The Happy Book so much.

   

It celebrates what makes you glad. It teaches you with silly exercises to practice happiness so it gets easier to find.  You can scribble thoughts, make lists, doodle and dream of the big and little things that make you smile. Skip around in it;  there's no special order to it.  As the book says, "Pick it up when you feel crappy. If your day has been just ridiculously, stupidly awful, no need to write in the book -- just read it."  

 

One page instructs you to take $10 and spend it on something totally frivolous that makes you happy.  You know those giant playballs at the grocery store?  That's what I'd buy. I love those things.

Another page says, "Families are an intricate machine made of shared history, love, tradition, weirdness and comfort. Post your favorite family photos here." Weirdness, huh? Seems the perfect

place to post this odd-and-beloved  picture of  Tony.  It always makes me snort:

 

Being happy is good for you. 

The Happy Book is a good reminder of all the big and little things that are good in your life. 

 And we all need reminding.

Tell me in the comments what makes you happy.

Didn't you just do that?

Why, yes, I DID just rearrange.

Thank you for noticing.
 I like to shake it up now and then.

What? No, I can stop re-arranging anytime I want.

Rosie, don't look at me that way. Quit looking at me.

I can't help myself. I'm a compulsive re-arranger.

This week, I moved the counters. All by myself. When I wake up motivated to rearrange the heavy stuff, I can't wait for someone with testosterone to wander by.

So here's the new counter layout, viewed from the front doors:

Hmmm...

does that look messy or interesting? How about interestingly messy?

Check out the pile of Stuff behind the counter: I'm sorry to admit that IS a mess. Boxes to be unpacked, things I abandoned on the floor when I answered the phone and forgot to come back, little wheels off things and a teetering 412-pound stack of brochures. It's an ever-changing assortment that's ever-present, much to my ever-lasting shame. I've come to accept that The Banging of the Shins on Stuff back there is just an occupational hazard:

Oh, well.  Come on in and climb over. 

I've moved forty zillion napkins and paper plates and greeting cards.

The baby gifts have flip-flopped with the kitchen goods, the candles and the lotions have traded places with the invitations, and I can't recall where I put the fuzzy pink Easter ducks but it will come to me in the middle of the night.

So come see. Winter's moved out, Spring's moved in, and I've moved every single thing in the shop.

  I even dusted!

But better make it snappy -- I might move the counters again next week if my feet quit hurting.

87

I think you can tell by the eyes. Ornery.

Hardly a day goes by that somebody doesn't stop by the counter and remember something about my Dad. Usually something ornery. I can relate.

He was a great whistler, and he'd warble "Silver Threads and Golden Needles" repeatedly because he knew it drove me crazy. He teased mercilessly about boyfriends and cooties. He hugged the stuffing out of you and pounded you on the back as he squeezed. When I baked cookies, he'd take a bite and fall down on his back and kick his legs and play dead. Ornery.

He and his pack of old guy pals would sit out on the mall every afternoon and drink coffee; we'd hear them giggling like little girls. I don't know what they were laughing about and it's probably better that way. We had a gum machine in the shop for many years, and he kept a pocket-full of pennies for kids; he told little boys that the yellow gumballs made girls kiss them. He asked little girls if they were married. Ornery.

Ask his grandkids. He was famous for The Knee Trap: he'd catch you as you walked by his recliner, trap you between his knees and wouldn't let go until my mom hollered at him. Generations of children fell for, "Look here" and were rewarded with a gentle squirt of pool water in the face. Or he'd grin, extend his fist and invite you to, "Put your finger in here." And even though you knew it would hurt like the dickens, you would. (Even after I was a grown-up, I couldn't resist... I guess I liked to see him smirk). Ornery.

He'd smooth his eyebrow with his pinky and say, "Aren't I purty?" No matter what sort of mortal injury you had, he'd proclaim, "I've had worse places in my eye." He claimed everyday that, "Tomorrow's my birthday." Ornery.

Well, today IS his birthday. He'd be 87 ornery years old. He's been gone four years, and just before he died, he told me, "I've had a happy life. I'd like to do it all over again, every day of it."

Ornery, yeah... and happy. You can tell by the eyes.