My last post referenced my love of interior design, and it's true that over the years, I have found many beautiful things with which to decorate my home. However, there's one iron-clad rule in this household relative to decor: Comfort first, function second, and beauty last.
Oh, and price. I love bargains! This first installment of "Things I Love" fit all four requirements.
For as long as I can remember, I have loved quilts. There's just something super-comforting about cuddling up underneath one. I'd put it up against chicken noodle soup any old day, and that's saying a lot because I make good homemade chicken noodle soup. And, I've yet to find a quilt that I didn't think was beautiful.
Both of my grandmothers made gorgeous homemade quilts. For our wedding, my Gram quilted Dwayne and I a lovely "Grandmother's Fan," which was very appropriate because I was and still am a big fan of my Gram, may she rest in peace. My Grandma Remke also used to quilt and I have a to-die-for embroidered quilt handmade by her. Both of my children have Grandma Remke quilts, as well - Jade's "Holly Hobby" quilt hangs on her wall and Jared carried his "Teddy Bear" quilt around as a baby until I finally extricated it from him (as it was beginning to fray terribly!) Jared had a habit of carrying his blankies around like Linus of "Peanuts" fame.
I have long been in love with French provencial "boutis" quilts. There's just something about them that speaks to me. From afar, they always looked super-soft. Although my body ached to find out what it was like to curl up in one, they were always outside my budget.
My absolute favorite place to shop for high-end linens at a price I can afford is Tuesday Morning. If you decide to go, wear comfortable clothing you don't mind crawling around in, because you sometimes have to dig to find the treasures. It was on just such a digging adventure that I found the precious gem pictured above. My sister and I were shopping for new bedding for her bedroom when I moved a comforter set and there it was.
My blood stood cold in my veins for a moment. Could it be? A real, French provencial boutis quilt? My fingers trembled as I pulled back the zipper and felt the fabric. It was buttery soft. I checked the label, which said "Blanc d'Ivoire for Monic Fischer." I nearly fainted. I held in my hands a real, live French boutis quilt. Then, I checked the price, which I was sure would be outside my price range. It was $39.99!
Really.
Needless to say, this little gem came home with me - after I performed an exhaustive sweep of the entire store for any others that might have been needing a home. The quilt is a very light taupe color with an ivory floral pattern all over, scallop-edged, and reverses to a taupe ticking stripe. It's what I call a "triple threat" - comfortable, useful, and easy on the eye. When it's not in use, it graces the back of my armchair.
This is the quilt I go for when I'm sick, when I've had a bad day, or when I am cold and don't want to put on more clothes. It is one of those fine linens I'm looking forward to handing down to my children.
Most art projects that unwittingly find their way to me end up in one of two places: the trash bin or closeted away because the mere sight of their hideousness is repugnant to me.
I don't sew. I'm not crafty. I do not draw. I definitely don't knit, crochet, or cross-stitch. I am not my mother's daughter in the area of home arts. She could do all of those things and do them well. There are two things into which I channel my creativity: writing and cooking - and little else.
Interior design has always fascinated me. You can tell so much about a person from the inside of a home. Because of this obsession with interiors, I've watched hour after hour of HGTV and purchased numerous books on the subject, staring for hours at photographs of rooms that speak to me, recreating the elements I like in my own home, while editing out those I don't care for. Again, my mother had a knack for interior design which I did not inherit. She made beautiful curtains (complete with pinch pleats!), painted walls and furniture in beautiful colors, and created wall hangings out of macrame, counted cross-stitch, and quillwork. I had a lot to live up to!
So a few weeks ago, when I got a wild hair up my butt and decided to repaint and reupholster a chair, I thought for a moment that I needed to have my head examined. Would this project go terribly wrong like the others? Was I offering up yet another sacrifice to the city dump or the domestic violence shelter resale shop? Perhaps; but undeterred, I moved forward with my plan.
The chair in question was purchased in 1997 on an antiquing excursion Dwayne and I took, oddly enough, to Claremore. We had just moved into our home in Owasso where I had recently painted my kitchen green. I saw the green floral chairs in a shop that's no longer in business. I purchased the set of two chairs for $50.
I began my reupholstering adventure by removing the seat from the chair first, which was actually quite easy given the fact that Jared had wiggled around in it so much it was hanging onto the frame by a wing and a prayer (and one lowly screw). Then, I started removing the upholstery tacks and trim from the back of the chair, and then removed all the upholstery nails that held the fabric and padding in place. Once the chair was picked free of all adornment, I set it on a piece of newspaper and set about painting the frame with black high-gloss paint. I had to let it dry overnight and the next day, reapplied paint to the areas I missed.
I found some beautiful Waverly fabric in a black and white toile pattern at JoAnn's in Tulsa and some new black trim and upholstery tacks at Wal-Mart. I set about cutting replacement pieces using the fabric I had just taken off of the chair as patterns.
Then, I got out the staple gun, which nearly put Dwayne into a tizzy, as he loves a woman wielding power tools. Here, I followed a lesson I learned from Martha Stewart about padding the chair seat, centering the design and stapling each side while pulling tautly to make a smooth seating surface. Next, I secured all the corners and screwed the seat onto the chair. It looked great! So far, so good!
The worst part of this project was tacking the padded back onto the chair. Again, I used the staple gun for this task and the same principles of pulling the fabric taut to secure it. This wasn't as easily done as the seat and there was a fair amount of cussing involved. Thank goodness the kids were in bed!
After I got it all secured, I put the trim on using the upholstery tacks. This little job wasn't easy, either, but I was able to get it done in about 45 minutes (and some more cussing). I was then able to step back and admire my handiwork, which I had to admit isn't bad.
Of course, I know where all the mistakes are, but I'm not telling you!
Mere days after this arts and crafts coup of mine, the newly refurbished chair was requisitioned for the kitchen computer station. Somehow, over the weekend while I was away at a children's church storytelling workshop, Cheeto dust found its way onto my masterpiece. I tried to remove the offending orange stains, but to no avail. The seat must now be recovered. Thanks, Jaderbug! Glad I bought some extra fabric!
Here's the before and after of the chair:
Last Sunday, this article and photograph appeared in the Claremore Daily Progress. I was asked to write it by Bailey Dabney, publisher of the Progress, who also has a son with an autism spectrum disorder. The intent of the article was to draw attention to Asperger's and to help demystify it. But I had another motive: to honor Jared in the telling of the story. This motivation added greatly to the difficulty of writing the piece, because I had to balance a desire to tell our story with this honoring of a human being who also deserves his privacy. It is my hope that I succeeded in this quest.
Here is the article in its entirety:
As a young girl, I dreamed of having a family. I would meet a wonderful man and marry. I would have a son and later, a daughter. I would love my children and be the best Mom I could be.
I got what I wanted, but I was thrown a curve ball I wasn't expecting. I am the mother of a special needs child. My son, Jared, has Asperger's Syndrome, or high-functioning autism.
Jared was born in January 1999. Dwayne and I fell in love with him instantly. What had we done to deserve such a beautiful and perfect baby? we thought.
Since Jared was our first child, we had no idea what to expect. We didn't read the books on child development or how to raise a child. We just did what we intuitively thought was best for him and made the world work for him. Perhaps if we had been better educated on child development, we would have noticed the issues Jared was having as he grew. For instance, Jared did not speak until he was well over one-year-old. It was clear that he understood what we were saying, but he would not speak. It was as if he were absorbing the language. Then, one day he just started speaking in full sentences. Other clues included Jared's inability to identify common human emotions, his lack of eye contact, and having meltdowns if we changed simple routines, like brushing his teeth before brushing his hair.
The diagnosis of Asperger's came in 2005, when Jared was in kindergarten. His teacher began reporting extremely strange behaviors in the classroom. What she was describing didn't sound at all like my child. We had him evaluated and received the diagnosis of Asperger's. The moment the word "autism" rolled off of the school psychometrist's lips, Dwayne and I were utterly devastated.
We came home and began researching Asperger's on the Internet. Hours later, completely cried out and horrified at what the future might hold for my child, I went to bed and stayed there for three days. Worst of all, I was six months pregnant with my daughter, Jade, and I prayed fervently that the child in my womb would not be affected by autism or by the overwhelming stress I was feeling.
On Day Three of my bed-ridden pity party, I had a strongly worded talk with myself about the situation. I'd been up against adversity before. It had never stopped me and I wasn't about to let it cripple me now. More importantly, Jared needed me now more than ever. I couldn't let him down. This forward focus has been the cornerstone of my approach to Jared's condition ever since.
There's great debate in the community about what causes autism. Some parents are convinced it is a reaction to chemicals and compounds in childhood immunizations, and they may be right. Some believe it is genetic, and they may be right. Some believe it can be controlled with diet or special behavioral therapies, and they may be right. I'm not writing this to espouse or refute any of those theories, because I simply don't know what causes it.
I believe Jared's entry into the world holds many keys to our personal puzzle. Jared was nearly two weeks past due when he was born.
At 9 lbs. 15 oz., his birth was extremely difficult, for both him and me. To make matters worse, he'd already had a bowel movement in utero, and he inhaled meconium when he took his first breath. The minutes following his blessed arrival were fraught with concern and worry.
I knew something was wrong. The NICU team arrived and worked on him. Jared was having trouble breathing. I held him for less than a minute and then, he and Dwayne were whisked away to the inner sanctum of the neonatal unit, where the sick babies go.
I learned later that we nearly lost him. His little body was deprived of oxygen for a period of time and he spent seven days in neonatal intensive care with his parents praying over him the whole time.
I have numerous friends with autistic children. In fact, recent statistics indicate that as many as 1 in 150 American children have autism spectrum disorders. Many of my friends get aggravated with me because I am not working hard to find a cause for my son's autism.
What they don't understand is that expending precious energy on finding a cause would take my focus off of Jared and helping him navigate and cope with the world around him. My job is to parent this child and it is a job I take very seriously. I leave the cause and the cure to the experts, who know far more than I do.
I have accepted my son's diagnosis. Most importantly, I have accepted Jared just as he is.
Jared is exceptionally intelligent, but socially hindered. He sees the world differently than anyone else I know. It is a privilege to observe how his mind works.
He is not anything like his peers, and probably is seen as weird by those who are too normal to embrace or appreciate the one-of-a-kind. Inside my son beats the heart of a kind, compassionate, and talented human being. He is a good friend, but other children rarely get beyond his weirdness to find that out. They have already begun making fun of him.
And while that makes me sad and even angry, I am aware that it is their loss. They are the ones who are missing out. Just like people who go to a museum and walk right past a beautiful and mysterious piece of art without taking a moment to appreciate its uniqueness, color, or lines, I wonder about them.
Now it falls to me to take this beautiful God-given masterpiece and educate him about the world around him - a world that will hurt him, misunderstand him, shun him, and in which he must inevitably learn to operate.
The purpose of this piece is not to elicit your pity. Do not feel sorry for me or my son. Instead, pity a world that cannot and will not accept anything that is different, unusual, unique, or outside the norm. That is something to pity.
I am grateful to God each day for my son and all that he has taught me. I have been given an incredible gift that helps me see the world in a totally different and mind-blowing way. Dwayne and I have known since his birth that Jared is destined to do something special. We're just waiting expectantly to see what it is.
*With special thanks to my friend, Tom Fink, a reporter for the Claremore Daily Progress, for the beautiful photograph. As always, Tom, you outdid yourself!
I had plenty of dating nightmares in my day. Chief among them the time my father pulled the mirror off the car of a beau who made the mistake of bringing me home late and the time my baby brother asked to go to the movies with a date and I and Mom and Dad let him go. Needless to say, that was a short evening.
I've been out of the dating loop for nearly 15 years, so it's rare for me to hear the horror stories of the unattached. Then the following email crossed my desk.
Seems there was a man (apparently named Tad) in Portland, Oregon who went seeking companionship on Craigslist.com. Apparently, he found someone, they went out, and things went to "pot" (literally) from there. Undeterred, by the incident, he posted the following item on Craigslist, which is quite possibly one of the funniest things I've read in some time:
TO THE WOMAN THAT CRAPPED IN MY CAR... (NE PORTLAND)
We met on Craigslist so I am hoping that this post finds you. I know that it could quite possibly be the most humiliating first date that you have ever been on, but I am willing to look past that.
I thought we had chemistry sitting at McMenamins sharing that basket of Cajun Tots while drinking the Terminator Stout. I really felt like there was a connection there. I found you to be intelligent and witty and looked forward to further conversation with you.
At some point in life, everyone has gambled on a fart and lost. It just happened to be on a first date in the passenger seat of my car. Please don't feel bad. The package I sent you with Pepto the next day and the note that said, "First dates are always a crap shoot. Call me" was meant to be funny, not offensive.
I have gambled on a fart and lost on multiple occasions. The first time I did it was very memorable. It happened when I was five and sitting on my uncle's lap. I am lactose intolerant, but love cheese. I probably win 95% of the time, but I don't think anyone wins 100% of the time. That's why they call it "gambling." I'm the last person to judge you for crapping your pants. In fact, I am impressed by your boldness. The timing, on the other hand, could have been a tad bit better...like when you're not sitting on a heated leather seat...
What I am trying to say is that if you want to go out again, I would be more than happy to take you someplace where we can get a meal that is high in fiber and less taxing on the digestive tract.
I await your call,
Tad
P.S. - If you shat yourself on purpose to end the evening early...Touche...
Gwen, thank you for sending this my way. And best of luck, Tad - with finding Ms. Right and getting those leather seats clean.
In 1998, after nearly four years of marriage, Dwayne and I decided to start a family. I had been on birth control shots and oral contraceptives for most of those years, and we'd been told that it would take some time for those substances to make their way out of my system.
Not so.
Within mere weeks, I was pregnant. The lovely "pee-stick" said so. I called my sister, the medical guru of our family, told her the happy news and asked her which OBGYN I should consult about this situation. She directed me to Dr. Robert Aikman, who she had worked with in Labor and Delivery at Doctor's Hospital in Tulsa.
Dwayne and I loaded up in the car on the appointed day and drove to Dr. Aikman's office. After filling out mountains of paperwork, peeing in a cup, and waiting in one of those dignity-stealing paper examination gowns for what seemed hours, in walks a man dressed in street clothes, standing at least 7-foot-tall, I kid you not.
Without so much as an introduction, he strides over to the table I am perched on, lifts the paper gown and begins manipulating my breasts. I can see Dwayne sitting in the chair on the opposite wall and the look of pure shock on his face is priceless. I could see the question, "Who are you and why are you touching my wife's breasts?" all over his face.
Now, anyone who knows me knows that I am big-chested. Always have been, always will be, I suppose. I like to say that when God was making me, he let me get in the Boob Line twice. So, presented with my impressive mammarian region, Dr. Bob asks, and not the least bit jokingly, "I sure hope you're planning to breastfeed." Unable to contain himself any longer, Dwayne asks, "Are you Dr. Aikman?"
Next on the agenda was the examination of my pelvic area and Dr. Bob turns to Dwayne - who will be in full view of this situation - and says, "You might want to leave the room for this part." Dwayne happily obliged. He'd officially had enough.
Needless to say, Dwayne never came along on another OBGYN visit with me EVER again. There are just some things a man shouldn't see.
