Nom de Plume

and how could I possibly forget this, also by Nicki?

Our neighbor, Nicki Hitz Edson, creates some of the most beautiful fiber art I’ve ever seen, including wall hangings and kimonos. A lot of her work has the same aesthetics found in Japanese prints–and so I love them. Alas, I can’t afford anything she does, although I really want to buy one of the kimonos for my mother. Perhaps one of these days … But in the meantime, I must content myself with posting some of her work.

See more at her web site.

Having flowers around the house always makes one feel good. I usually have to buy my own (ahem), but these mammoth lilies are from the garden.

The dog’s asleep on my feet, my plants are thriving now that I’ve poisoned all the slugs that were munching all the green, and I FINALLY (after nine months) have a room of my own.

At least that’s what Steve keeps telling me.

The story boggles the imagination.

1) Jennifer Wilbanks has a lavish wedding planned to a loving, caring man (who, granted, seems a little clingy).

2) She disappears right before the wedding, leaving family and fiancee utterly frantic. Her community combs the area fearing the worst; her family offers a reward. They spend sleepless nights.

3) Riiiing. Riiing. “Hi Mom? Dad? I’m in New Mexico. Oh, and by the way, a Hispanic male may have abducted me.”

4) Her fiancee blathers on about how he made his commitment to her the day he put a ring on her finger. Oh the mounting pressure: he still wants to marry her. “DARN!”

5) “Well, maybe a Hispanic male DIDN’T abduct me. Why are there people camped out on the lawn with placards?”

6) She denies having wedding jitters, instead citing various problems she needs to work through. “I’m running from myself,” she says.

7) Her community wants her to apologize and pay them back for the search.

“Oh, but I have problems!”

9) Apparently shoplifting is one of them.

10) She checks in to a treatment center. We’re still not really sure what her problems are. But we know one thing for sure: her wedding is on hold.

Steve showed up Friday evening with a beer making kit. He carted in two large buckets, malt, some mix, a siphon, tubing, and 300 bottlecaps.

“Didn’t you buy the bottles?” I asked.

“No, I’m recycling,” he said proudly. And then brought in two cases of beer.

I finally returned this to the library, albeit reluctantly. I dream of making my own cold-process soap. I’ve checked this out twice in the past year, and resolve I’m going to do it. And then I imagine slopping lye all over myself. Sigh.

Arlene and Paul Tobler give up teaching to run the Tobler family farm after Paul’s father dies. Now in their fifties, Arlene is accustomed to the silence of their marriage and of the careful frugality of a family farm that exists from crop to crop. But she is also aware of what she has given up.

In their circle of friends, who gather for cards and chitchat, Nancy and Burton are conducting a clandestine affair. Nancy’s husband Harvey confronts the lovers one night and pulls out a gun. Although the sin is Nancy’s and Burton’s, they don’t pay the price.

Full of uneasy silences, Wilson’s novel is haunting–especially the first part, told from Arlene’s point of view. This was a novella in and of itself.

But then it continued. I initially had reservations about the second section, which is told by Nancy. Completely different from Arlene–willfully blind, haplessly female, and completely uneducated–the continuation of the story takes off with Nancy and Burton married. Violence once again erupts; again they don’t pay the price. At least at first.

Recommend.

On a final note: Most of the time, you can tell when someone of the opposite sex has written from the other gender’s POV. Not in this case.

Look at Wayne’s garden. How do you beat that?