Zero Waste Sewing Lessons - Registration Open

Learn to sew Useful Things from abandoned or reclaimed fabric and notions!

Shopping bag from t-shirt; gift bag; reusable, freehand-embroidered name tag; tea towels, napkins

Work on your own project at your own speed

Unlearn bad habits
Unravel the mystery of grain

Especially suited to beginners, the daunted and the overwhelmed

Make environmentally friendly items, including:

Reusable sandwich wrappers
Food bowl covers (no more plastic wrap!)
Bulk food bags
Gift bags in various sizes

Make-up remover pads
Zippered mesh laundry bags

Baby items: nursing pads, burp cloths, diapers, crib sheets, etc.
Patchwork pillows, pillowcases, duvet covers

T-shirts (copy your favourite!)

Toiles for fitting patterns

Or whatever you would like to sew!

Taught by Leah Price, Master Recycler, Bachelor of Education (UBC), Certificate in Fashion Arts (VCC), Board Member Our Social Fabric, former student of couturier, Blossom Jenab

Learn:

• Correct basic machine and hand sewing skills
• Serging, basting, French seams, elastic application, zipper application, piping, turning corners, darning holes, sewing on buttons, hemming, etc.
• How to make friends with your machine!

2-4 students: $45/hour
Private lessons: $60/hr
No extra material costs
2 hours minimum

39th and Trafalgar
Contact for particulars: enoughstuffblog@gmail.com

Photo Gallery:

Patchwork pillow case zips off for cleaning

Copy your favourite t-shirt, and embellish

Design and sew a bag from denim pocket samples and old jeans

Freehand machine embroidery; repurposed denim; felting; couture sewing methods; embroidery, beading

Design and sew doll clothes with a pattern or by draping

Learn to copy garments and make a pattern

French seams, French darts, embellishment, bias cuts

Garments from repurposed fabrics: poncho from mohair scarves, vest from seat cushion
jacket from vintage polyester double-knit , freehand machine embroidered embellished top

Also from repurposed or waste fabrics: dog pocket nightie, candy wrapper collar, patchwork pop-over, origami top

Embroidered collar from medical waste

Appliqué wall hanging from discarded textiles

Testimonials:

"Leah is meticulous in her work, she is thorough and detail oriented. She is innovative and her work is first class. In all my 60 years of teaching, I have to yet meet another person who is as capable as Leah." (Blossom Jenab, Couturier)

"When I found out she was willing to give sewing lessons to complete beginners I made sure I was in. ... She keeps the lessons positive and fun. ... She has such a huge fund of great ideas that she shares willingly." (CZarina Lobo)

"Leah is open and supportive as a teacher. We can ALL sew almost anything is her attitude. She is never judgemental. She ... indirectly gave us lessons on reducing our impact on the environment by reusing fabric being "thrown away" and making fabric re-useable bags for sandwiches and presents, etc. She inspired her students... to continue sewing beyond the class..." (K. Shah)

"...Leah calmly and confidently explained how the best way to hem the pants would be. She proceeded to iron, baste and sew (them) with such clarity that it was easy to follow, and easy to remember. I was touched by the full attention and time she gave so willingly." (Martha Reilander)

"Leah is a passionate advocate of recycling and her vision is reflected in every aspect of her life. This influences the entire community around her. Her students make projects with materials that have been diverted from the landfill. In July 2016, Leah’s students, their parents and the Vancouver public benefitted from a solo art exhibition of her creations made entirely from normal household waste. Objects discarded are turned into objects of desire and value in the hands of Leah Price." (Erika MacVicar)

"Leah was excellent with the children, engaging them in a warm, professional, efficient manner.   Her passion for sewing and crafting was evident and this joy spilled over to the kids and parents and was very contagious.  Leah runs her classes with enthusiasm.  At the same time, she is efficient, productive and very safe, as the kids are working with various machines that could inflict pain!  Leah is a natural and calm leader.  The kids look up to her, feel safe with her and are inspired to learn and do their best.  They are asked to think creatively and to work hard.   They bloom in this environment and are very motivated." (Christiane Collin)

"...We customized the class to make it zero waste by using only discarded material, and the items made were aimed to make a zero waste lifestyle easier. ... Leah challenged me to come up with my own goals and targets by having me choose what items to make and in what time frame. She listened to my hopes and provided constructive criticism when necessary. She really helped keep my mind set realistic. ... I was an absolute beginner ... and Leah was very patient, explaining in detail how to apply which technique and why... repeating the instructions or helping us fixing our mistakes. Before each class she made the item herself, sometimes with different patterns, so we could choose which one we prefer and see what the finished project will look like at the end. This practice helped to motivate us and encouraged me to keep going, even when struggling. It was a pleasure taking my first steps into sewing with Leah. I would not hesitate to take on another session with her and would definitely recommend her to others." (Celine Lopez)

Press

Vancouver Arts Colloquium: Upcycling Series 2: Leah's Story

Rowland, Curtis: "Recycling Life's Cast-Offs as Wearable Art", the Tyee, September 1, 2016

Kurucz, John: "From waste to redemption through socks, underwear and lint", The Vancouver
Courier, Cover Story July 27, 2016

Lau, Lucy: "Local upcycler showcases excess of household waste in quirky exhibit", The
Georgia Straight, July 26, 2016

Seamwork Radio: the Opposite of Creative Block, with Leah Price, December 3, 2015

"An Interview with Leah Price: Changing Communities One Backyard at a Time", The Colloquium, May 6, 2017

October 3 Sale Specials

1 Sale Down, 3 to Go

Our last sale was one of the best we've had to date - pre-loved and factory left-over fabrics and notions flooded out of our little store! When all the customers had left we took a look around and noticed barely a dent was made on what we still have!

HELP! We have got to clear out as much stock as possible before we leave our location at the end of October!

Special for the next sale:

Patterns - FREE!

Zippers - FREE!

Vacuum Bags of 3m lengths of fabric - FREE!

Notions - $2 or less!

Rolls of fabric in the green bins: $2 each, any size

Fabric on bolts - $5 ea

See you there! 

Saturday, October 3

10-1

Vacuum Bags of 3m lengths - now FREE

Most notions $2/bag

Boxes and boxes of free stuff outside

Green bins of rolled fabric - $2 any roll

House 1 : Beaumont

Wikipedia informs me the Beaumont was produced by GM for the Canadian market between 1962 and 1969. Survivors are now collector cars, as most "succumbed" to the harsh Canadian winter.

This beautifully corroded car badge was already affixed to the inside of the cobweb-filled garage when we moved in. It was put there, I am fairly certain, by Mr. A. Renwick, house painter and second owner of our home, two before us. A fellow who grew up in the house across the lane  confirmed my suspicions: Mr. Renwick* owned a Beaumont in the '60s. A brown one.
*The fellow pronounced it "Rennick"

I'll show you mine if you show me yours

The lick of drab, peach-coloured paint under that badge matches the under-sides of the shelves in the linen closet - which comprised about 20% of the total closet space when we moved in. How did people stay organized with so little storage?! Surely they didn't have any less stuff than I have... 

It's not a particularly efficient closet, either: it's shallow and the shelves are poorly spaced. What did the Renwicks keep in there? Not their broom; a broom won't fit. Linen, folded just the right way so the door can close? A dismantled vacuum cleaner, a large box of rags, assorted headlamps, swim goggles, light bulbs, bandaids, syringes, needles*, alcohol swabs, and a spare sharps container?
*Did you know syringes and needles are two different things? Neither did I!

I get a kick out of the weird paraphernalia of my existence - items I'd never heard of, let alone imagined I'd ever own or need: Lycra body socks, Therabands and Chewellery* for intense proprioceptive input. Visual schedules for front-loading and transitions; a cheat sheet on my fridge in case of my own dysregulation; and a checklist on the bulletin board - "30 Good Things About ADHD" - to remind me.
*later replaced by parkour classes

A visual schedule; it's key

The side of my fridge. The grey thing is a juicer key, for all the apples in July.

My son insisted I add the paraphrasing, lower left.

But the weirdest to me is the sharps containers. There is one in the kitchen, one in the bathroom, sometimes one on my dresser, a spare or two in the hall closet. Though the novelty of giving my daughter her nightly shot has long worn off, I still marvel at the presence of the yellow boxes of medical waste that decorate my rooms, and at the fact that my superpower turns out to be the ability to give a one-handed injection, in the dark, to a sleeping child - without waking her up. (That, and I'm pretty good at parallel parking.)

Not the elegant, 2-in-1 solution I had envisioned

Whenever I find myself startled at the sight of the severe-looking plastic box with the red biohazard symbol, it crosses my mind that there must be some better way to incorporate it into my decor. But how? It was a eureka moment when I hit upon the idea to disguise it with a toilet roll doll, thereby also solving the perplexing puzzle of how to give one of those seriously useless - but bizarrely appealing - dolls some legitimate function in life. Let's face it, hiding toilet paper doesn't count as useful.

Sadly, the doll won't stand up straight in the wide hole of the sharps box, and it's a pain to lift her dress to get the needle in. Ah well... another idea will surely come. Meanwhile, the box in my kitchen works great for holding garlic.

Just-picked garlic, curing

I would love to invite them for tea - the Renwicks and anybody else who's ever lived here. I'd sort out exactly who sat in my living room, watching Elvis from the waist up, or swooning over the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. I want to know about the clothes in the insufficient closets: were there flour sack dresses, followed by utility clothing, then crinolines, then A-line mini dresses and boots made for walking? We can commiserate about our socks, snagged on that nail* in the hallway that keeps poking back up.
*That nail, by the way, is responsible for the demise of many a Phentex slipper, explaining why you will rarely find me in a proper, matching pair - my signature look

They will know to duck going down the basement stairs, and not to park under the tulip trees in summer*. I will thank them for leaving the various, painted nails in the living room - perfectly positioned for birthday streamers, Christmas stockings, and front door wreaths.
*aphid poop

I'll ask what weird things they accumulated, what surprising skills they acquired. I'll learn how Mr. Renwick's Beaumont came to be separated from its badge and how that swipe of closet paint found its way to the wall of the garage. I'll find out where they kept their stuff.

Before the garage collapses completely,
I will extract the Beaumont badge.
I'm thinking chain saw...

July 2015

Garden 11: Japanese Maple Tree and Sedum (?)

Evil Penguin - a Duncan garage sale freebie - lives at the base of the Japanese maple tree, a birthday gift from my mother, purchased at Costco about a year after my son was born. Plant lust* had taken root, but there was no time for the luxury of gardening - or for perusing actual garden shops. I planted it near my kitchen window so I could watch it; now it's almost all I can see. It is exquisite all year round, but especially so when the leaves are just opening. Or dropping off. Or when it gets those dangly, helicopter seed-pods that twirl when they drop. My daughter is unable to explain the origin of Evil Penguin's name.
*Thing 3, 3rd paragraph

This stuff! This stuff is great! It came, one or two orphans at a time, from various local gardens. It transplants without fuss; magically reproduces to fill in bare spots; is easily controlled; survives shade, irregular watering and accidental trampling; and sends up a delicate cloud of hovering, white-ish, tiny flowers each spring. I've looked the name up a few times, but keep forgetting...a kind of sedum*? I'll definitely take some when I go.
*It's saxifrage London Pride, otherwise known as Look Up and Kiss Me. Thanks, Peter!

A view of the garage, which I can (sort of) see from my kitchen window, through the maple tree. The saxifrage is in full, misty bloom. The metal dragonfly edging came from my friend, Sheila. I don't remember who looked after my infant daughter so I could take my son to a parent-and-child pottery class. He made numerous camouflage-coloured objects, a dinosaur with volcanoes, and a rocket ship; I made a Please Pick the Weeds hanging and plaques of my children's footprints.

Garden 14:  Harvest
Garden 13: Abandoned Stuff, Things of Beauty
Garden 12: Death and Potential
Garden 11: Japanese Maple Tree and Sedum (?)
Garden 10: Foxglove and Weed Digger
Garden 9: Veggies and Sweet Pea 
Garden 8: Gnomes and Slugs
Garden 7: The Lady Next Door
Garden 6: Euphorbia and Rusted, Metal Things
Garden 5: Cement Bench and Wallflower
Garden 4: Maryjane
Garden 3: Family Portrait
Garden 2: The Neighbours'
Garden 1: Lilac Bush and Abandoned Cans

Garden 7: The Lady Next Door

Curlicue from my ex-neighbour's front steps railing

You'd think it would be hard to remain dignified while being escorted from one's home wearing a too-large, hooded, Tyvec onesie, duct-taped at the wrists and ankles, like a walking bio hazard - but my neighbour managed it.

...

She lived that way, it would seem, long before I arrived next door. Her shredded, water-stained curtains never parted; the shapes pushing them up against the windows did not change; and a cold waft of fusty air whacked me upside the head if ever I (rarely) knocked on her door: but it was only in the last few years that the extent of her situation became obvious to me. By then, proceedings had already begun to make her a ward of the province, have her hospitalized, and sell her house.

The place was a disaster, but in some ways a little cheering, too. The grass - which she cut herself, shoving and pulling that seemingly over-sized mower through the underbrush - was filled with bluebell and lily-of-the-valley. The back yard was a jumble of over-grown shrubs; an encroaching fig tree; treacherous, abandoned fence-post holes; a towering, out-of-place - but happy - Douglas fir; slugs; and - survey says - rodents (though I can't say I've noticed a decline since the house and garden were removed). OK, maybe the garden was not so cheering, but she planted it all herself in the more-than-40 years she lived there. That counts for something.

The topic of our odd, but beloved, neighbour came up frequently in the alley; we were vaguely concerned about her, but we let her do her thing. She mostly kept to herself, feigning invisibility unless someone spoke to her first, or she was faced with some task too big for her: break her into her house, or help with a flood and fire in her basement. If we met round the end of the fence she was warily generous, offering excellent, though bruised, Gravenstein windfalls that careened to earth from her never-pruned apple tree; tomato starts, discovered in her composter; Sweet William seeds in sealed, hand-labelled envelopes (no luck in my shady garden); and a miniature cup and saucer set for my daughter. Her comings and goings were announced by the sound of her gate, scraping along the ground between our houses, and, every night before garbage day, by the rattle and clink of the neighbourhood's empties, squeezing through it.

She participated in our annual garbage clean-ups, took canning classes at the community centre, and worked all the voting stations, film festivals, and Folk Fest. No doubt you've seen her around. She was engaged in her own timorous, slightly-crusty way, and she was fond of my kids. She was OK by me.

Hand-me-down hostas, sword fern and clematis; tidy, new neighbours, no trees.
Did she know I relied on her to remind me of garbage day?

After her release from hospital, she was moved into a condo across town. I am told someone checks on her to make sure she is not accumulating stuff. I saw her last, very briefly, at an Our Social Fabric sale, about two years ago. When I said hello she stopped not looking at me, and made an acknowledgement. Just like when we used to be neighbours.

I've been thinking: now that the shade is gone from my garden, I might buy some Sweet William seeds and see if they'll grow.

Garden 14:  Harvest
Garden 13: Abandoned Stuff, Things of Beauty
Garden 12: Death and Potential
Garden 11: Japanese Maple Tree and Sedum (?)
Garden 10: Foxglove and Weed Digger
Garden 9: Veggies and Sweet Pea 
Garden 8: Gnomes and Slugs
Garden 6: Euphorbia and Rusted, Metal Things
Garden 5: Cement Bench and Wallflower
Garden 4: Maryjane
Garden 3: Family Portrait
Garden 2: The Neighbours'
Garden 1: Lilac Bush and Abandoned Cans

Garden 4: Maryjane

A little smoothie, then a swing

Tonight, in the garden, watering with my new, awesome nozzle; my daughter swinging on her rusting, hand-me-down swing set: Mummy, did I come out of your belly, or your vagina?

Funny thing: though we have always referred to my son's privates by their proper name (never Doodie, Peter, Long-John Tiddlywacker nor Wee Willie Winkie), inexplicably, my husband and I have taken to calling our daughter's bits by the name my mother, her mother, my sister, my aunts and all my female cousins on my mother's side know it: Maryjane. Accent on the 1st syllable.

Don't worry: I'm not going to tell you I grew up thinking it was actually called a Maryjane; I was well aware the real name sounds a lot like a city in Saskatchewan. But I thought everybody else knew what a Maryjane was, too.

It baffled me: who, I used to wonder, would name their child Maryjane? And the shoes! Tee hee hee!

When I was 30-something I finally figured it out: they didn't laugh because they didn't know! All that time I'd been talking about my Maryjane, and folks had no clue...! That explained a lot.

What happened was, my sister and I were having a rare visit on a mall bench, when past us walked a young woman, midriff bared, wearing low-riding sweatpants imprinted across the backside with "Bum". You've see the ones.

"Should write "Maryjane" on the front," I snorted. To which my sister burst out, "Did you know no-one else calls it a "Maryjane?!!"

"What?!!!"

My world changed, forever separating events into one of two time periods: pre or post Maryjane. I commenced calling it what, these days, you're supposed to: the one that rhymes with Regina.

It was my husband who first transgressed, six years later, shortly after our daughter came home from hospital, at one month of age; he was changing her diaper and the word just came out. A look was exchanged, and the family tradition resumed - at least in private.

I don't feel so bad about it, now that she's proven she knows what it's really called. We don't seem to have done her a disservice, just as we don't seem to have done our son any huge favour by using only the medical term: he has, without our help, come up with a whole list of alternative names for his penis.

It's just another family word: we watch TV in the limner, eat peentybut cuuties, ask for our scot-bwot with a wat-cwot and make sure we wash our Maryjane. Silly words that only our family would use, that connect the generations together with a common, if not silly, bond.

Final note: in the BC mining village in which I grew up, there was a family with two kids, named - get this - Maryjane and Peter! My sister and I wondered what was wrong with their parents!

Garden 14:  Harvest
Garden 13: Abandoned Stuff, Things of Beauty
Garden 12: Death and Potential
Garden 11: Japanese Maple Tree and Sedum (?)
Garden 10: Foxglove and Weed Digger
Garden 9: Veggies and Sweet Pea 
Garden 8: Gnomes and Slugs
Garden 7: The Lady Next Door
Garden 6: Euphorbia and Rusted, Metal Things
Garden 5: Cement Bench and Wallflower
Garden 3: Family Portrait
Garden 2: The Neighbours'
Garden 1: Lilac Bush and Abandoned Cans

Garden 2: the Neighbours'

Mock orange, front door, welcome mat

"Life is demarcated by its transitory nature."

My neighbour said this to me one year ago, departing my house by the back door for the very last time. Ain't that the truth.

From a home to a health hazard, just like that

I know when they bought the house they intended to stay. The first time we met, on a playdate at the park, brokered by him (with whom in the alley, a day or two before, I had had a brief and cordial discussion about composting), she told me she wanted to be the kind of neighbour you could call up to borrow a cup of sugar. I liked her instantly. Not just sugar, either, but food colouring, ice, gin, wheelbarrow...

One last look at our house from their deck. Our shingles don't match...

We became friends and neighbours, not just friendly neighbours. Our youngest occasionally played ninjas together. Our oldest were usually civil. Good enough. They included us when they entertained. I watered their garden and fed their cat when they were away. We had each other's house keys, alarm codes, and - most coveted - sitter's contact information.

Morning glory

We were careful not to overstep each other's boundaries, but the gate to the back garden was always unlocked (she kept kale plants there, mostly for me) and the welcome mat at their sliding kitchen doors was always out. They were the kind of neighbours you could visit in your pyjamas. And he mixed a mean, well-edited selection of cocktails.

Carpet underlay should be felt and not seen

I'm not always great with life's transitory nature. Good or bad, I seem to need more than the standard amount of time to process change. So, demolition underway, I find myself drawn back to my ex-neighbours' ex-house, for one last look and a souvenir snapshot. I think they might appreciate an update and a picture of the mess.

Soon the diggers roll in

They are an important part of the history of that little purple house (blue, actually, but it was their house; they can call it what they like). They are its last family. That their leaving would likely mean the end for the house, too, must have made the decision doubly hard. Though they hoped to attract a family that would love it the way they did, the house is old, small, and quirky. Development was inevitable.

Unlike me, she had no issue with buttercup

Standing in the overgrown riot of raspberry, roses, weeds and rubble, my attention begins to focus. That is not just broken wainscoting; it is the orange-red trim from their kitchen. That's not just a mess of gutted cabinets, but the lazy Susan that once held their casserole dishes. There's the cupboard with tea, crackers and cat treats. I spent many hours in that kitchen, watching her decorate her secret-family-recipe Shortbread Nut Sticks with melted chocolate and a toothpick. I know it well. I'm not looking at any old half-demolished house; this is their half-demolished house.

She gave me this euphorbia 3 years ago.
I think his old bike will feel at home here.

I see him, flipper in hand, hovering near the BBQ on the back deck, Canadian flag hanging above him. I see her annual Christmas party spread: apple cider on the stove, a crockpot of meatballs on the table, platters of bacon-wrapped dates, chicken wings, cheese and home baking on the metal coffee table. I see the children in their Hallowe'en costumes, made of cardboard, imagination and love.

I glance past the piles of broken drywall, fibre-board and counter top, and notice the tangled, jungly remains of what used to be their vegetable garden. The morning glory, as she knew it would, has won. In three days the house, and the garden, will be gone. Soon enough another house - new, comfortable, efficient - will exist in its place. Wonder if the new neighbours will be the kind you can call up to borrow a cup of sugar.

Garden 14:  Harvest
Garden 13: Abandoned Stuff, Things of Beauty
Garden 12: Death and Potential
Garden 11: Japanese Maple Tree and Sedum (?)
Garden 10: Foxglove and Weed Digger
Garden 9: Veggies and Sweet Pea 
Garden 8: Gnomes and Slugs
Garden 7: The Lady Next Door
Garden 6: Euphorbia and Rusted, Metal Things
Garden 5: Cement Bench and Wallflower
Garden 4: Maryjane
Garden 3: Family Portrait
Garden 1: Lilac Bush and Abandoned Cans

Humatrope 6: Three Distractions

Three things that have my attention

Now that the jet-lag is over (more about 10 days in Tokyo with my 12 year-old son later), there are three things on my mind.

Thing One: finish the Humatrope Collar (I think that's what it calls itself)

This is the very most pressing, yet the most impossible of the projects. What's stopping me? A lesson with Blossom, which I can't manage, time-wise, until August, without the help of a whole village.

Still not sure what to do with these bits...

At Blossom's I will learn to make cords to lace up the back of the strictly couture-method, boned, embroidered, beaded corset I've been working on since the fall. It's been a fascinating labour of love, but I admit to being relieved that the end is in sight. A few more hours of beading (an excellent activity for waiting through parkour lessons), make the ties, then insert the lining, make the hand-worked eyelets (using a porcupine quill, no less!), make and attach two beaded tassels, and ta-da! Finished! Blossom says make the garment and the appropriate occasion to wear it will present itself. Maybe; I am happy enough just to make it - I'll learn anything Blossom wants me to know.

I will later apply these principles to make the closure of the collar. I envision two exquisite, beaded, be-tasselled ties hanging down the back, attached to the garment with buttons. This might be where the lavender and light green protective needle caps come in...

Butterfly buttons found in two different boxes of OSF donations. 
Thank you for saving these for me

The gorgeous, glass and metal, butterfly-entrapped buttons were acquired from two separate boxes of donations at Our Social Fabric. I didn't notice I had a pair until an intense sorting of my button boxes after my son left for military boarding school, and I turned his bedroom into a (temporary) sewing room. I learned to transform, with swift efficiency, a den of Lego, Nerf guns, and items needed to modify them, into a functional, airy, organized sewing room, complete with cutting table, ironing board, room for my serger, and a cork board. And vice versa. In the 10 months he was gone I made that transformation 4 times. 

Now I sew in the dining room. Or should I say, we occasionally eat in the sewing room. I gave away the dining room table, painted the bee balm red walls a creamy white (thanks, Erika for the paint), and put the dishes in the basement. My curtains are a dark pink, bobbled, early 70s, off-grain travesty. I have a hand-me-down clothes rack and piles of projects to be sewn. My sewing room is awesome.

So, no Humatrope collar for a month or two, but in the interim, there is

Thing Two: make a Perfect Nightie for my daughter

My daughter likes to twirl, wearing a long, full, swirly nightgown. Who doesn't? I think most people enjoyed it at some point in their lives, and I have a theory that the sexes will never be equal until we are all free to twirl, whenever, wearing whatever comfortable, swirly garment we choose.

Manly, yes, but I like it, too!

The best garment for twirling, according to my daughter, has the following characteristics:

• it has a full, long skirt, almost to the floor. A skirt that grazes the floor is the best, but for going upstairs, ankle-length is safer, even if you always remember to hold the skirt up with one hand and hold on to the banister with the other; 
• it has long sleeves, with elastic at the wrist to keep them from creeping up while sleeping; 
• there are no buttons, but there are ribbons, bows, cheetah print fleece fabric and definitely some dog-ish element. 

It will be a delight to create this dream-come-true for my daughter from the length of cotton, tie-dyed by her at Dunbar Summer Day Camp* last year. The hardest part will be figuring out how to make boxer dog pockets from cheetah print fleece...
*the best place in town for supported day camp, in my opinion

Components for Twirling Nightie Perfection

Thing Three is a real distraction. It is jumping up and down in front of me, waving its arms and shouting, "Yoohoo! Oh, yoohoo Mr. Kotter! Pick me! Pick me!" It's my garden, in need of attention, a good tidying up and a whole lot of loving. Or, more accurately, I need it.

Hand-me-down garden 

I have in mind a series of photos and short pieces about the various plants that have made their way to my garden (doesn't that sound exciting). A few of the plants were purchased, but most are orphans, abandoned, like most things I'm attracted to. Some came from seed collected in the neighbourhood on long walks, pushing a stroller, desperately attempting to lull a frantic, crying baby to sleep. This is when my love of gardening really began. I started noticing flowers and plants that had never registered before: euphorbia, hellebore, grape hyacinth and snowdrops preceding rhododendrons, preceding the crazy, huge, blue mophead hydrangeas that blew my mind when I moved to Vancouver in 1985 to attend UBC.

It was August when I came, just in time for a week or two of fun before school (and the rain) began. The audacity of the massive blue flowers stunned and delighted me. I knew I was home.

Sometime during my determined, distressed march through the seasons, I started noticing stirrings of plant lust within me. I began looking for my favourites in yards and alleys along my many routes. I anticipated their blooms*. As I trudged along, glassy eyed, trying to tune out the crying that only enough time in the stroller (or sometimes, the car) could relieve, I planned where I might put them in my own garden, if I should ever take my hands off the buggy long enough to pick up a shovel.
*The highlight was the smell of the daphne odorata in February. I hovered so long and so often outside the fence of a particular house, deep-breathing to the point of dizziness the crisp, lemon-lilac-lavender scent that reminded me of a wonderful friend I left in Japan, that the owner came out to check me out. I finally bought two of my own, and planted them in containers, anticipating a probable move that still hasn't happened. One of the daphne bloomed its last this spring. Alas

A tiny twig chair, found in a pile of trash behind a church
near Trimble Park, slowly returns to the earth.

Almost all of my plants have a story, or a memory associated with them, happy or sad. My garden has a personality. I visit it, like I would a friend, miss it when I can't. We chat. It tells me what it needs, and I try to listen. It responds to me when I do, leaving me little surprises, as delightful as love notes or miniature salt and pepper shakers my mother tucked into my lunch bag when I was a kid. When I make a mistake, it lets me know, then usually forgives me. It makes me feel like a capable and competent person, and it gives me hope and confidence when motherhood seems like a futile, incomprehensible, surreal undertaking I'm sure I didn't sign up for. I take care of my garden, so I can take care of my family.

So I think what I'll do in my spare time* is hang out in the garden, writing. And on any rainy day until Blossom's lesson I will sew part of a perfect, swirly nightgown. I'm going to have so much fun!
*i.e. instead of doing unnecessary housework. Thank you, Mother-in-Law, for your advice years ago: nobody ever went to her grave wishing she'd done more housework

Humatrope 1: Ingredients

Humatrope 2: Test Swatch and Scoliosis Brace

Humatrope 3: Foundation, More Brace

Humatrope 4: Lost for Words
Humatrope 5: Hello Little Girl in the Bullet-Proof Vest

Humatrope 6: Three Distractions
Humatrope 7: From the 13th Floor
Humatrope 8/Sewing Tip 8: Tassel Tutorial