I forgot a couple

This is the quilt I did for my granddaughters, Bella and Caroline, for their room upstairs at my house. The painting is by Carthage artist, Nancy Waggoner—Fancy Paints. Check her out at https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100001082437880

This is a scrappy table runner in the Chevron pattern. I promise I'll find something to blog about this weekend that does not involve quilts.

Quilt Gallery

My 1970s tribute quilt

Dr. Amanda Stone's wedding quilt

Jason and Janice's Ginger Jar quilt

Garrett's T-shirt quilt

Anna Mary and Chad Meyers' quilt for Ben

Ashley Hicks Foresman's wedding quilt - Citris

Ashton Godbold's victory quilt - Citrus

Hayley's quilt - Citrus

Rhetta and Daniel Conn's quilt for Parker

Olivia's quilt Jan. 2011 Ohio Star and mustang and pottery applique

Sampler (first quilt) Oct. 2010

The adventures of Cash continue

Obedience lesson No. 2.

We practiced every day since our first lesson. At home, he was sitting by my side, doing sit/stay/ a reluctant down, stay/come, heeling, but still pulling.

We get to class and he is a mess. He hasn't been properly socialized because he is out of control! He wanted to check out every female dog there. He wasn't even really interested in treats.

So here we go into the exercises. He wouldn't sit, wouldn't lie down, did OK on the figures eights and circles, but pulled me around like a rag doll. In a lifetime of showing horses I've never had a horse drag me around like that.

A recent trip to the vet showed his weight at 84 pounds. "He'll mature at 100," my vet said. I better hurry and get him under control before he weights as much as I do. (Not that I weigh 100)

Today my back hurts, my wrist hurts, my neck is sore. Is is worth it? You bet.

Daddy's last mare found in ideal setting

I had such a great surprise yesterday. I took my 16-month, 80-pound Labrador, Cash the Dog in Black, to a basic obedience class in Hernando at Critter Camp. When I drove up the tree-lined land, I noticed a pasture of Appaloosa horses.

When I met Sandra L. Selph-Gooch, the owner of Critter Camp, I told her my father had been one of the first breeders of Appaloosa Horses in this area. After his death in 1998, I sold his last mare, Poco Snowbird. I told her I’d sold her to a guy from Hernando but couldn’t remember his name.

She said, “Was it Eric Beene’ of Journey’s End?” I said, “Yes.” She told me that Eric was her son who had given me directions earlier. The property was now called Southern Winds Ranch. Then she also said, “Your mare is probably out there in the pasture with that pretty filly by her side.”

I almost cried.

Snowbird was Daddy’s (Hayley Dandridge, Senatobia) last horse. He died in 1998 and was buried on his 85th birthday. He was past his riding days, but he loved feeding Snowbird everyday, just putting his hands on her, and got to see her broken to ride.

She was the culmination of his lifelong breeding of Appaloosa Horses and Quarter Horses. In her pedigree were some of his own mares and stallions. Others included Prince Shannon, Colida’s Bill Hancock (twice), Red Angel, Chief Waggoner, Miss Pie Fuller, Tahawus Trapper, Tahawus Sissy Hancock, his stallion High Spots Pride, and even to his old favorite Quarter mare Penny.

He would be so proud of the home she has and the beautiful offspring she has produced. I miss him everyday. Just when I’m ready to let go, something pops up and brings with it a smile and a tear.

For the love of quilts

I said when I retired that I was going to learn to quilt. That's an understatement. First I need to tell you about how I fell in love with quilts. One rainy afternoon my Daddy and I were up in my grandmama's attic and found an old quilt in a chest.

"Can I have it," I said. He agreed. It was a friendship quilt. Made by members of the Looxahoma, Thyatira and Barr communities in eastern Tate County. It was made by my relative Lucy Cathey Dandridge (double kin) in 1934. It used the Grandma's Fan pattern and was done by hand. Each square was done by a lady in the community and signed.

It contains the names of my grandmother "Ollie" or Miss Ollie, as she was called—Ollie May Dupuy Dandridge, and her sister Neelie Dupuy and countless others. The names as well as the memories of those dear ladies are fading.

But it was years later when I moved to Holly Springs and was living in Cedarhurst, the home of noted female writer Sherwood Bonner, that I fell in love with the quilt. I had a terrible case of flu. Lying there underneath this quilt, I counted the names, looked at the different fabric swatches, and felt I had been transported to another time.

Bonner had been a forward-thinking female writer in her time and secretary to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. She had come back to Cedarhurst to be with her family during the yellow fever epidemic. When financial hardship hit, lore has it that Longfellow paid the taxes on the mansion and saved the home.

She thrived on the literary criticisms offered by editors that rejected her early work and was brash enough to prevail upon the renowned poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. It is a credit to Bonner’s social grace and personality that within one hour’s audience with Longfellow, she secured a lifelong patronage; he provided both financial support and professional encouragement. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katherine_Sherwood_Bonner_McDowell

So here I lie, covered by this vintage quilt in the home of Bonner (upstairs apartment), a photo of her on the dresser......was it the atmosphere, the sentimentality of my family's quilt, or the 104 fever? Whatever it was, I'm glad this experience inspired me to learn to quilt.

Pics of my attempts to come later.

Memos to God

Last winter I started writing in a journal, something I hadn’t done since I was a teenager. This one was much different from my teenage journal.
I was having a few missed heartbeats and a little anxiety. So I decided to start a prayer journal. Having recently read Kathryn Stockett’s “The Help,” I was inspired by the character Aibileen who wrote her prayers in a book. Her friends seemed to think she had a more direct line to God by writing her prayers down.
I have a friend who does that. There’s nothing magical about writing down your prayers, but there is something special about taking time to think about your needs and the needs of others.
So, I started this journal. I must admit, as an administrator in an educational setting, my written prayers looked, at first, like memos. I started with a list of people for whom I wanted to pray. No details, just a list. I started with myself, of course, I need this, and I need that, and then I moved on to the other people and their needs—more like a status report.
A few times, I even sent up a memo/request for physical things—more like a budget.
Of all people, I need patience. Some of my memo-prayers might as well have said, “If you will recall my journal entry of Jan. 20, I requested patience. I am requesting that virtue once again.” We all know what happens when we pray for patience.
My business-like prayers were more in line with a long-range planning request—telling God what I thought I’d need in the future.
As the long winter months passed, I noticed that my prayers were changing. They were not so memo-like. They evolved from the simple lists to paragraphs. The emphasis shifted from me to my children, co-workers, my husband and others.
God worked through my selfish needs to let me see the needs of those around me. You know, I’ve never had much trouble with some of the commandments such as: “You shall not murder” and “You shall not steal.”
But the verse that give me trouble is found in Psalms 46:10, “Be still, and know that I am God;” Being still is something I struggle with. This verse in the Hebrew probably means “Enough” or “Stop”. No matter how you look at it He is telling us to slow down and recognize him.
That’s what this journal has done for me. I challenge you to take as little as five minutes a day to think about your blessings, the needs of your loved ones, and to give thanks for what God has already done for you.
You can even confess out loud and in writing some of your weaknesses. You can’t fix something you can’t acknowledge, and God won’t tell.
The stillness is coming easier all the time.

Retirement—Adventure Begins

Look at my picture. Do you see me smiling? I never knew I could have so much fun. Talk about mixed blessings. I worked in a place and at a job that I dearly loved. Health issues forced me to come home. I'm having so much fun I don't have time to feel bad!

Today I went back for the second day to a dog show with one of my dearest friends. You have to understand, as a former equestrienne and horse show person, it is a little dangerous for me to be around people competing with animals. I love looking at the over-priced wares of the vendors. (I bought a pair of Silky terrier earrings!) My husband said it was a little strange to have little yappy dog heads hanging from my ears. I love all the dog equipment and gadgets.

I loved looking at the different breeds and watching the techniques of the handlers and owners. I will go to as many dog shows as I can. Better than horse shows, not so hot, no dust, no hauling a trailer. Dogs could bite you, but they can't step on your foot or knock you over or throw you or make you wonder why you are in this expensive, frustrating, business in the first place.

But I still feel a twinge of wanting one. Anyway, back to the retirement fun.This week holds the promise of dinner with friends, a quilting lesson, another dog adventure, lunch in a tea room in a small rural community and not setting my alarm clock.

A Mother's Legacy, a non-mushy Mother's Day tribute

This is not one of those mushy mother’s day columns. Even if you have recently lost your
mother, bear with me. For those of us who have lost mothers, sitting through Sunday Mother’s Day services at church and seeing the Mother’s Day cards everywhere can be bittersweet.

I challenge you all, if you fall into that category, to dig deep for the good memories. My mother has been gone now for 16 years. It’s hard to believe. But the good side of this is that all the bad or sad memories begin to fade, leaving sweet and funny ones in their place.

It has taken 16 years for the little aggravating things she did to become sweet and endearing—like taking back to the store every pair of shoes she ever bought—sometimes a month later. I can see my little teenaged self, rolling my eyes at the thought. And when she did find a pair she liked she bought six pair in different colors. Ugh.

We all catch ourselves saying things that sound like our mothers. Sometimes those phrases, such as “When I was your age…..” come out of my mouth and I could swear she is speaking through me.
She used to give me this disapproving look over her bifocals. It strikes fear in me still, just thinking about it. I was accused lately by a co-worker, of giving her that look. I can’t believe it.

I’ve already started embarrassing my children. It seems I addicted to lipstick and they constantly pick up drinking glasses and say, “Well, we know whose glass this is. It has Amber Suede on it.” I’m told I also do not drink out of a straw the right way and that I drive too slow. It’s only going to get worse.

In a way, that is a tribute. When I really miss my mother I try to be the kind of mother she was to me, with a few amendments. She showed me unconditional love. That happens when a woman waits 13 years for a baby only to have it die only days later. I was born 11 months later. The semi-smothering began.

Now that I’m over 50, I still want my mama when I’m sick. Still have the urge to call her at 10 each morning when I made my daily check-in call. Instead I call one of my children. Mothers of only children have a special calling—dealing with the little special ones and letting them go graciously.

But then, no less is the task of mothers of boys. Bless their hearts. I have a son and a grandson, a step-grandson and a son-in-law. A few years ago when my grandson was about five I took him to a college rodeo. Being a horse person, when that pretty girl came running in the arena at full speed on that black horse with the American flag flying, I got chill bumps. My grandson stood up, without being told, put his little hand over his heart . My heart soared. As soon as the national anthem was over, he removed his hand from his heart, spread his legs and spat. Need I say more?

And for the mothers of girls—oh my goodness—let’s bless those little girls’ conniving and devious hearts. They hook you from the moment they are born with their heavy-lashed little eyes—the same ones they bat when they are teenagers and lying to your face.

Thanks goodness most of them come around. All I can say, is that my mother made me a better mother, grandmother, and friend. She whispers in my ear and gives me courage. She had brass and spunk, attributes I sometimes lack. I’m still trying.

The compliment that could be paid a grandmother is that 16 years after my mother’s death, my children are still giving each other photos of her and quoting her when the situation bring to mind a Nanny-like saying.

We can all pay tribute to our mothers this May by letting them live on through our relationships with our friends, children and grandchildren, even if they are not here to see.
But you won’t catch in a pair of shoes that has six cousins in my closet.

Published by DeSoto Magazine