quiltersmuse.com Blog

For a long time now, it seems, I have not felt like holding my tongue. I grew up in a “children should be seen but not heard” atmosphere, of sitting with hands folded in one’s lap while the grown-ups prattled on about seemingly nothing. My oldest brother would take every opportunity to tell me to “pipe down.” He liked to read and somehow, he thought I was too noisy, although I don’t remember being so.

Today, I am more apt than ever to speak out about injustice, about the irresponsibility of others, about politics, and even about religion – subjects about which the thoughts of others turn to mush or they refuse to have an opinion when asked.

I speak out for those who can’t, and for those who won’t … perhaps for fear of jeopardizing their “position” in life, as it were. Truth and justice shall always prevail, and people who are shams will prove themselves to be so, in no short order. The idea kind of reminds me of the TV commercial, “Where’s the Beef?” Some folks are like that. They have no substance.

Well, I’m going to tell you a little story. The parties involved directly are now all deceased. A woman wanted a lobster roll. She talked her husband into driving to the nearest town, as she didn’t drive, to buy one at a local stand. She marched up to the window and ordered one, took her number, and came back to the car to wait. When her number was called she retrieved the lobster roll and the other things her family had ordered.

Taking one look inside the hot dog roll, she announced that it was not a lobster roll after all. It was “a lobster ran through it roll.” She took it with her to the counter and asked the same man, who happened to own the business, if she could please have a little lobster in her roll, and repeated that it was, indeed, simply “a lobster ran through it roll.”

At this, the owner got furious. He took the roll and threw it in the nearby dump can. He said that he was taking down the license plate number of the car and that she was to leave immediately and never, ever come back. She did go on her way, after realizing the extent of the man’s anger and not wanting to be responsible for his heart attack, on top of the cancer he apparently already had.

Sometimes, there is a price to pay for being honest. Most people won’t say anything when confronted with someone who is being totally honest, but many of them are happy that someone had the nerve to mention the truth. And, that, my friend, is the situation I find myself in constantly. At times, I am confrontational because I, too, want to know “where’s the beef?”

I would like to see accountability especially from anyone who would attempt to share history about quilts and embroidery and textiles, and who, sadly enough, has not done sufficient homework. There are a lot of people who pretend to know more than they do. Unfortunately, they have no lobster in their lobster rolls. Just a word to the wise …

Patricia Cummings

I have a very active nightlife … after I go to bed … and especially before I wake up in the morning. My dreams remind me of James Joyce’s Ulysses or other novels that reflect the use of a stream of consciousness technique in their preparation. For the unknowing, let me say that this method of writing presents a person’s thought processes, as they are happening, in an attempt to reveal his character. Thoughts are often disjointed and seemingly unconnected.

I’m not sure what my dreams say about me. Here’s a run down of the latest (nightmare?). I was visiting my mother in an apartment. Her dog was drinking soapy water out of the bathtub where she was soaking a textile, so I drew some clean water for the dog, but she preferred the other. Then, I left and climbed down a mountain. I could see a large horse pen across the street, with black horses and white horses, both male and female. These were gorgeous animals who were parading down the street before being placed in vans … to be carried off somewhere.

I tried to go back to mother’s place on the side of the mountain, but in that short time, it had been blocked off and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get there. However, I could hear the voices of other family members who were with her. One of her granddaughters was showing her a model of Austria that she’d built, and was telling her she really should go there sometime as it is so beautiful!

Taking an alternate route up the mountain, I found a big screen TV and a few chairs. Next to me, was sitting a long-departed friend, eating a chocolate treat and complaining that it wasn’t frosted. Her friend joined us. Just as a movie came on, the mountain started spitting chunks of ice and I realized that an avalanche was in progress. Children and others were being swept down the mountain, as if sliding, while I sat off to the side, eating a chocolate bar and trying to decide if I should sit still, or be swept down the hill with the others. It was a decisive moment in which it was imperative to make a decision, yet, I was so paralyzed with fear, I couldn’t.

At that juncture, luckily I woke up. There may be some deep, psychological issues here, to decipher. I imagine if I had deep pockets, I could lie on some guru’s couch and have my dreams “interpreted.” For now, I think I’ll just wait for a book offer, or for the phone to ring with “Hollywood calling.” Who knows? With my dreams, maybe someday I could be as famous as James Joyce!

Patricia Cummings, http://www.quiltersmuse.com

For a week now, I knew that I was scheduled for an eye doctor appointment this morning. While I was not particularly looking forward to the event, I was mentally prepared. Last night, I exclaimed, “Well, that’s odd! I never received a reminder call about the appointment tomorrow at 9 a.m.” Jim said, “Yes, they usually call, don’t they?” I retrieved the appointment card and set it on the kitchen table, determined to call them as soon as the office opened to ask if the early morning “date” was still on.

I arose early, washed my hair, and was in the process of getting ready. Mind you, it is 3 degrees above zero. I was not exactly looking forward to trekking out into the cold, but duty called. As usual, on cold days, I was bound and determined to layer clothes for warmth. I was half dressed when the voice of my beloved called out in a strange tone … “Patricia! Patricia!” I knew it wasn’t time for breakfast yet, as his feet had barely hit the floor boards.

Gleefully waving my appointment card, he proved that my appointment is really scheduled for next month, not this one. How did I mistake January for February? All I can say is that I am so tired of the cold, it must have just been “wishful thinking.” At least, for now, that’s my excuse and I’m stickin’ to it!

Patricia Cummings

Toads are one of the most maligned and benign creatures on the planet. To some people, toads are ugly, or else, they are to be feared. Reportedly, they give people warts. On the other side of the equation, they are princes, waiting to come to life with just a kiss. Now, if I ever have a granddaughter, I don’t believe I’ll be telling her THAT story. Kids will try anything, and the idea of her kissing a toad to prove the fairytale real or fake is … unacceptable.

When I was three years old, my parents sold the three story tenement building we lived in. They decided to build a brand new house at the more exclusive and undeveloped “North End.” Well, the house was built alright and there was sandy soil all around it. Guess what showed up? Toads! Little toads, medium size toads, big toads. I loved them all. They became my playmates. I decided that I loved them so much, I wanted to “keep them” in a box.

Nobody told me that was not such a good idea. Somewhere, I came up with a box, and in it, I put some little dish, containing water, and began to add toads. My big brother, (seven years older), was outraged that I should have been allowed to do such a thing, and one evening, shortly thereafter, he freed all the toads.

I was heartbroken. Stevie unloosed all “my” toads. Who knows, in the box there might even have been a “Prince in Waiting!”

To this day, I still like toads. I have a large ceramic toad that previously served as a salt shaker. In the garden, I stumbled upon the most massive toad I’ve ever seen, nestled down among the yellow Dyer’s Chamomile plants, where it had burrowed into the dirt one late autumn.

After the toad incident of my youth, I picked up another habit of catching bumble bees inside a jar. That went “well,” until I was stung. Other people must have been told by their mothers to do this, too, as the practice is mentioned in a song – “catch a bumble bee, inside a jar …”

That is my Ode to Toads and though it is not the Bee’s Knees, it is a Nod to a Time Barely Recalled.

Patricia Cummings